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Nam Cao's Radical Sympathy and Pursuit of Happiness Are Still Relevant Even Today

2024-08-15T16:10:55+07:00

What messages would a young writer living in colonial times want to impart to the youth of the 21^st century?

Anyone who’s undergone public high school in Vietnam would find the name Nam Cao (1915–1951) familiar, as his short stories ‘Lão Hạc’ and ‘Chí Phèo’ are both official texts in the Literature syllabus. As a writer, Nam Cao is widely recognized for his deep sympathy for less fortunate members of society, like the farmers and poor intellectuals who were oppressed by the rich and French colonizers. Still, the more I explore his oeuvre, the more I realize that there’s more to Nam Cao than meets the eye.

Nam Cao didn’t merely provide commentary on poverty and class struggles, he transcended these patterns to depict a much more complex universe where institutions oppressed more than assisted. He also ruminated on the root causes of misery and the need to seek happiness even during life’s most turbulent times. These seemingly historical ailments have proven relevant to youths today who also struggle to find answers.

Nam Cao, the voice of young people in modern times

The French began their colonization of Vietnam at the end of the 19^th century. The colonial administration’s exploitations and transformations brought about rapid changes in the local society and economy, heightening the clash between the Europeanization movement and indigenous cultures, widening social inequality in rural areas, and depleting the people’s wealth via tariffs.

That murky historical landscape was the backdrop for Nam Cao’s formative years. He was raised in a middle-class Catholic family in Đại Hoàng Village, Hà Nam Province in northern Vietnam, where the majority of villagers were farmers. Growing up there, he witnessed first-hand the ruthlessness of colonialism and the insatiable exploitation of rural resources that led to the widespread suffering of young people in the countryside. The misery compelled him to craft vivid characters inspired by the real people he knew in Đại Hoàng.

Nam Cao’s personal life was just as grueling as his characters'. He lived with his grandma, a querulous woman who traumatized his wife to the point that she had to run away from home. His constitution was poor, so he was often sick; and he lived in poverty due to the stagnant economy exacerbated by World War II. These tribulations affected how he viewed the world, and dampened his spirits. Timid by nature, Nam Cao rarely shared his struggles with others but chose to express them on the page.

It’s crucial to note that Nam Cao was considered a young writer during this time; most of his works were written from age 20 to 36. Many of his stories revolve around people who are young adults.

'Chí Phèo' and 'Đời Thừa' — Two of Nam Cao's most iconic texts, as published in 1976 by Văn học Giải phóng Publishing House.

How do social confines shape our lived experiences?

There once were two prevailing schools of thought explaining the development of human personality: first, it was believed to form at random; then, people thought it could be the product of lifestyles. Nam Cao offered a different alternative: personalities and behaviors are affected by political, economic, societal, and traditional conditions.

According to French geographer Pierre Gourou, the seemingly bucolic exterior of northern village life in the early 20^th century obscured much livelier dynamics: power plays, wealth disparity, jealousy, and even calculatedness. Such village politics “institutionalized” the inhabitants, pushing them to blend in to survive amongst the unwritten rules, losing themselves in the process. It has never been easy to stay near the fire without getting singed. Nam Cao’s portrayals of two young fictional characters, whom I will discuss below, serve as shining examples of these machinations.

Slices of life in rural northern Vietnam in the late 19^th century and early 20^th century. Images via Flickr user manhhai.

The 27-year-old loan shark of Vũ Đại Village in the iconic short story ‘Chí Phèo’ epitomizes the degradation of humanity due to village politics. Nam Cao reminds readers early that the titular Chí Phèo was once a harmless peasant. Over time, he became obnoxious, quarrelsome, drunken, and even slashed his face to seek sympathy. These shenanigans weren’t expressions of his inherent villainy, but the results of his victimhood. Jealous power figures in the village made false against him to get him jailed and benefit from his misfortunes, while he had adapted to using violence. His behaviors also stemmed from the ostracization and evasive attitudes of other villagers, who sought to excommunicate him from their town by painting him as a demon in the eyes of others. “Perhaps even he wasn’t aware he’s become the demon of Vũ Đại Village, wreaking havoc on the villagers’ livelihood,” Nam Cao wrote.

Chí Phèo and Thị Nở, as depicted in a painting by Hoàng Minh Tường.

A similar example is Lộ from the short ‘Tư Cách Mõ,’ who had to survive in a label-hungry Catholic congregation that was all too eager to practice cancel culture. Lộ was an honest man, so he was assigned town crier (mõ làng) to help with errands for a decent wage and tax exemption. His position stoked the envy of his neighbors, who found ways to exclude him from community events and labeled him “unscrupulous” and “greedy.” Alas, Lộ eventually decides to embrace his notoriety to survive. Nam Cao ended the story on a note of realism:

Oh! As it turns out, our pity, respect can influence the character of others a lot; many know nothing of self-respect, merely because very few respect them; humiliating others is a wonderful way to turn people into a jerk.

The stories of Chí Phèo and Lộ beg the question: How many times have we decided to label someone negatively to remove them from our community?

Portrait of an anguished generation wallowing in a material world

“Amongst the young people living in poverty, woes often get replaced quickly by qualms.”

That was how Nam Cao depicted a generation of young Vietnamese forced to face two inevitabilities in life: anxiety and pain. The pain came from multiple sources: poverty, sickness, betrayal, condescension, and having to bear witness to the pain of loved ones. Lão Hạc was pained by poverty and worry for his son. Chuột in the short story ‘Nghèo’ was depressed because of diseases and debts. Chí Phèo was miserable because of poverty and hatred from the village. Hộ, writers who were the main characters in ‘Đời Thừa,’ and Điền in ‘Trăng Sáng’ were agonizing over their failure to follow their passion when their families were struggling. In contrast, Phúc from ‘Điếu Văn’ bore the pain of being cheated on by his wife. Hồng, the child character from ‘Bài Học Quét Nhà,’ was the target of her mother’s sharp tongue, which could pass for child abuse these days. Tragically, the first three in this list sought relief by attempting suicide.

'Mua Nhà' and 'Trăng Sáng' as printed in a collection of Nam Cao short stories from 1976.

Besides giving voice to the less fortunate, Nam Cao also showcased a society in which materialism was gaining influence rapidly. Community dynamics became self-centered because of the potential for personal benefits and financial gains. A good example of this shift to pragmatism is this sentence from the short story ‘Một Chuyện Xuvơnia’ (A Souvenir Story).

It was only then that Hàn realized, before even thinking about placing kisses on his lover's floral mouth, he should think of pouring rice into it first.

Another instance of society's reverence for material goods is observed in the actions of the impoverished father in ‘Một Đám Cưới’ (A Wedding), who made a secret agreement with his neighbor regarding the marriage between his daughter and her son. This “contract” only revolved around the sizable marital gifts without any concern for the young woman's happiness and agency. The overt reverence of material values in this era turned people into self-serving individuals who brushed aside the discontentment of others.

Humanity has always toiled with the desire for happiness while surviving in a treacherous world. Youths of all eras, born with a yearning for goodness, on a daily basis must face health problems, traumatizing relationships, cutthroat competition for jobs, as well as the general worsening of the economy and living environment. It’s no wonder that generations of readers feel like Nam Cao is speaking their truths even though his writing was published nearly a century ago. Still, he didn’t stop at simply depicting these social ailments, he also provided mentorship on how contemporary readers can seek solace amid life’s vicissitudes.

Guests wearing nón quai thao, a traditional headwear, at a Catholic wedding in Nam Định at the end of the 19th century. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

“I want to be a good person!”

That poignant exclamation from Chí Phèo is a striking starting point for us to dissect the pursuit of happiness. Could one follow one’s passion and live a contented life in a society rife with misdeeds, restrictions, and pragmatism? According to Nam Cao, the answer was yes. He believed that we can find our peace, and suggested three tools to seek it: acceptance, altruism, and love.

First and foremost, acceptance is the beginning of one's journey to discover happiness. If one is feeling shaky in their career, doing what they detest, or feeling exhausted by family conflicts, they need to stand up to face the hardships head-on. Điền, the writer character in ‘Trăng Sáng,' is believed to be the embodiment of Nam Cao, relishing the sight of a night of full moon outside the window, while his wife was nagging and his baby was crying inside. During trying times, it’s often in our nature to fight or flee. The more he ruminated on the matter, the larger his frustrations and denial grew. Eventually, Điền opted to immerse in his emotions, accept his fate, and even turned that into motivation to write.

Art need not be an illusory moon, art can just be those miserable cries, emitting from star-crossed fates, echoing strongly in Điền's mind. Điền didn't need to go anywhere. Điền didn't have to hide, Điền could just stand amid the suffering, opening his heart to welcome every echo of life...

Next, nurturing a sense of altruism will help mend hurts and appease pains. Nam Cao used the story of ‘Đời Thừa’ to reflect this message via the relationship between Hộ and Từ. Hộ, a struggling writer, hoped to produce meaningful works. He adored Từ and supported both her and her child. Nonetheless, he was prone to angry outbursts every time he felt creatively stuck. Once, he promised to treat the family to some roast pork but forgot and returned home drunk out of his mind. Every time, Hộ felt remorseful when he sobered up. Despite his questionable behaviors, Từ’s affection never wavered; she still loved him, understood him, and pacified him when he cried from his struggles. It was the generosity of Từ that kept the relationship together after all the friction.

Lastly, love is the savior of all, according to Nam Cao. The classic case of this was the romance between Chí Phèo and Thị Nở, both social pariahs. Chí Phèo, the outcast of Vũ Đại Village, received support, affection, and care from Thị Nở, a woman that the village deemed “so ugly that even fiends wouldn’t touch.” It was their love that awakened Chí Phèo’s humanity to reassess his identity and start bettering himself. He felt true happiness while with Thị Nở. Just like that, their connection was a shining example of the most basic factor in human happiness: unconditional love.

Reading the world through Nam Cao’s words

Today, Vietnamese readers are exposed to many Nam Cao works, not just within the confines of textbooks, but also in cinematic adaptations, like Làng Vũ Đại Ngày Ấy. The more one explores his oeuvre, the more his brilliance shines through. Nam Cao examined an ageless hurdle of the human condition: pains we face on the road to happiness. His works highlighted three main themes: how society affected human identity, anxiety and pain in a materialistic world, and the pursuit of happiness. Building off that, Nam Cao provided ways that his characters and readers can heal on their journey by practicing acceptance, nursing their kindness, and building the courage to love.

Làng Vũ Đại Ngày Ấy, a movie adaptation of the short story ‘Chí Phèo.’

Born into an anxiety-ridden world, young people are always susceptible to feelings of precarity and disconnection. Reading Nam Cao might not provide immediate relief, but one might find something that resonates with them, or gain a new outlook on life to rekindle their faith that joy does exist in life.

The Life, Death and Legacy of 7 Pillars of Vietnam's Quốc Ngữ Literary Wealth

2024-04-22T08:00:00+07:00

When I first started as a writer, I noticed that I couldn’t write in Vietnamese very well, despite the fact that I was born here. Most of my English vocabulary comes from books, so in order to improve my mother tongue, I began reading Vietnamese texts. The first one I chose was Hà Nội Băm Sáu Phố Phường, or The 36 Streets of Hanoi, by Thạch Lam. This book had been lying on my bookshelf for a long time, but that day was the first time I picked it up.

Before reading any sentence of Thạch Lam, the foreword written by Khái Hưng already made me cry — partly because of his excellent prose, which was concise yet profound. And I was touched also because they, whom I saw as writing colleagues, had laid out a literary path that I could follow for the rest of my life.

The logo of the Tự Lực Văn Đoàn collective.

A band of literary brothers

Thạch Lam and Khái Hưng were members of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn, or the Self-Reliant Literary Group. The writer collective was founded during the French colonial era with the purpose of "enriching our country's literary wealth.” As a reader loving their works, I was drawn to the story of Tự Lực. This was not just a story about writing and journalism, it was also about the destiny of a country — a story with tragedies that still resonate to this day.

Tự Lực Văn Đoàn's key members.

“The story of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn was a huge conflict of the Vietnamese society,” Nguyễn Đình Huynh tells me. Huynh has studied the Self-Reliant group for over 50 years; he was enraptured with their story because he was born in Cẩm Giàng, the same hometown as three group members — three siblings — Thạch Lam, Hoàng Đạo, and Nhất Linh.

“Around 1925, Vietnamese literature began to shift from the brush to the fountain pen," he explains. “At that time, all French government documents changed from Confucian script [chữ Nho] to Vietnamese script, so the literary world also moved from Chinese to quốc ngữ [modern Vietnamese]."

The newspaper's "Vui Cười" (Humor) section.

Although quốc ngữ has existed since the 17^th century, it was not until the time of Tự Lực that people used it to create literature. “Besides Tự Lực, there were other people writing with quốc ngữ, but they were doing it separately and lacked association. The Group, on the other hand, was the collection of seven people, the seven best writers of all literary genres. Nhất Linh assigned their roles, this one writing essays, that one poetry… Thus, when they published a newspaper, they could cover it all.”

The Group’s work first reached its audience through Phong Hoá — Vietnam’s first satirical newspaper. With an issue in hand, readers could pore over a chapter of Nhất Linh's novel, then move on to Hoàng Đạo's social commentary, stay curious through Thạch Lam's nightlife reportage, laugh along with Tú Mỡ's satirical poetry, criticize the ludicrous mistakes of other newspapers along with Khái Hưng, shiver at Thế Lữ's horror stories, and recite Xuân Diệu's romantic poems. And holding true to the satirical identity, the section “Vui Cười" (Humor) had the most writers, with submissions not only from the whole editorial team, but also the public.

“The Self-reliant Literary Group gained popularity in the 1930s,” said Martina Thục Nhi Nguyễn, an associate professor of history at Baruch College at City University of New York. “They were the first generation who studied completely under the new Franco-Vietnamese education system. Compared to the previous generations of intellectuals, they were completely different. The previous generation of Phạm Quỳnh or Nguyễn Văn Vĩnh, if they wanted to be in academia, they had to study Confucianism. But then the next generation, of Nhất Linh, Thạch Lam, Vũ Trọng Phụng…they all learned western studies.”

In the curriculum of the west, they read foreign literature. Martina continued: “The contribution of the Group to Vietnam’s literature was applying foreign genres to create works in quốc ngữ.” The first principle of the Group was:

“Write our own books of literary value, and not just translate foreign books, if these books are purely literary.”

Instead of translating Les Miserables like Phạm Quỳnh did, the Group read foreign books, then reflected among themselves and created their own works, for their fellow countrymen, in Vietnamese. Take Thế Lữ, for example: he wrote a series of short stories about Lê Phong, a reporter who specializes in solving mysterious cases with Sherlock Holmes’ deductive reasoning.

When it first started, the Group hired a printing house to publish their books and newspapers. After that, they bought printing machines to open Đời Nay, their own publishing house. To see how popular the Group's books were, one can just look at the numbers. In the years from 1925–1945, the average book had 1,000–2,000 copies printed. As for the Group's books, at least 5,000 copies of each title were printed, with some reaching 16,000. Khái Hưng was the best-selling author with a total volume of 87,000 copies.

And then there were none

A portrait of Thạch Lam. Image via Hà Nội Mới.

In 1942, the Group lost its first member, Thạch Lam, to tuberculosis. In his final moment, his brothers in the Group couldn’t be there. Hoàng Đạo and Khái Hưng were imprisoned in Hòa Bình, while Nhất Linh had to flee to China; they had been involved in anti-French activities.

Huynh says: “If the Group had not failed in the revolution, then they would have been praised greatly. But they got into trouble because they were anti-communist. Some people say Tự Lực Văn Đoàn ended in 1942 to avoid talking about what happened after.”

At that time, France was in an inferior position during World War II, and then Japan invaded Vietnam, making the colonial government even weaker. A series of secret organizations were formed with the aim of gaining independence. Thạch Lam, Tú Mỡ and Thế Lữ were not politically active, while Nhất Linh, Khái Hưng and Hoàng Đạo formed their own party. They later joined Việt Nam Quốc Dân Đảng, one of the non-communist parties.

From left to right: Nhất Linh, Khái Hưng, Hoàng Đạo.

Huynh said: “To tell you the truth, at that time the Vietnamese revolution was very complicated. Everybody said they were patriotic, but they were patriotic in their own way. All parties wanted to fight for independence, but this one wanted to crown a king, that one might want a prime minister, the other wanted a head of state, each had their own way.”

With their difference in ideals, the parties got so divided that eventually the Vietnamese not only fought the French, but also each other. In his last novel, Giòng Sông Thanh Thuỷ, Nhất Linh wrote about his revolutionary activities in Vietnam and China from 1944–1945, the time when tensions between Việt Quốc and the Việt Minh came to a murderous boiling point.

Photo via Quán Sách Gia Trinh.

This was also a time of decline for the Group. Phong Hoá had stopped publishing for several years after being accused of mocking the government. Ngày Nay, their "backup" newspaper in case Phong Hóa was suspended, originally focused on social issues, then became a propaganda tool for Việt Quốc. The Group’s time of writing freely had come to an end.

In 1945, the August Revolution succeeded. All the parties temporarily sat together to create the Government of Resistance Coalition, with Hồ Chí Minh at the top. Remembering this time, Tú Mỡ once wrote: “[In the new government], anh Tam [Nhất Linh] was the Minister of Foreign Affairs, anh Long [Hoàng Đạo] the Minister of the Economy. I was happy, Tự Lực Văn Đoàn may be together again. But I was wrong...”

It’s hard to know everything that happened. Not long afterward, Nhất Linh resigned and left for China. Khái Hưng was captured and executed by the Việt Minh after the Ôn Như Hầu incident. Hoàng Đạo died suddenly on a train in China, and his family is still unsure whether he was poisoned or not. Later on, Nhất Linh also drank poison and killed himself.

From left to right: Tú Mỡ, Thế Lữ, Xuân Diệu.

And so among the seven of Tự Lực, only Tú Mỡ, Thế Lữ, and Xuân Diệu lived until old age. The others were called traitors, and their descendants had to flee the country. That is why the tragedy still resonates to this day. Fortunately, the most valuable thing that Tự Lực created, their văn sản, or literary wealth, lives on.

Of the seven members of Tự Lực, only Xuân Diệu was honored with a street in Hanoi. Photos by Linh Phạm.

The book Hà Nội Băm Sáu Phố Phường is an anthology of all the newspaper pieces that Thạch Lam wrote, which were published one year after he was gone. The book has 22 chapters, among which 16 are about the cuisine of Hanoi. But Thạch Lam didn’t just simply write about food, he also described the affection that an opium addict harbors for a piece of giò, or the happiness of a cart driver sipping wine, or the way that the courtesans ate bún ốc: “The sour broth wrinkled the tired faces, the hot pepper burns the wilted lips, and sometimes makes them drop a tear that is more honest than any shed for love.”

Through food, Thạch Lam talked about the daily life of the Vietnamese. In the book's foreword, Khái Hưng writes:

“Thăng Long’s history is not just the rise and fall of dynasties…It is also the daily lives of the people, with all the customs and personalities, with all the unique characters, with all the fleeting joys and sorrows of the tiny souls living in dark corners, leaving behind no name, no legacy.”

When Thạch Lam wrote about “the tiny souls living in the dark,” he contributed to that which Khái Hưng called dã sử, or history written by the people. This part was what made me cry. I became a writer because I want to write down the things I see and hear. And from deep within my soul, I felt the longing to follow in their footsteps.

The headquarters of Tự Lực at 80 Quán Thánh was an imposing villa before, but is now obscured by shops and a bank.

Both Martina and Huynh asked why I cared about Tự Lực. I didn’t have a good answer then, but it is much clearer now. I tell their story to show my respect for the ones who built our quốc ngữ literary wealth, the ones who inspire me to keep on adding to the dã sử of this country.

This feature was first published in May 2022.

In Xuân Diệu's Tender Poetry, a Reminder to Love Honestly and Courageously

2023-06-22T11:00:00+07:00

“Tenderly, fondly, Xuân Diệu held on to my wrist, caressing it up and down. Our eyes locked in affection…Xuân Diệu loved me.”

This emotive sentence is an excerpt from writer Tô Hoài’s memoir Cát Bụi Chân Ai, published in 1992. Most well-known for the children’s book Diary of a Cricket, Hoài is one of Vietnam’s most prolific writers, with over 100 literary works in a range of genres. During the First Indochina War, Tô Hoài and Xuân Diệu were stationed in the remote border areas, where they formed a close bond that might have blossomed into something more, according to Hoài’s recollection in the memoir.

Xuân Diệu.

Across modern history, there are accounts and written records that show Tô Hoài wasn’t Xuân Diệu’s only romantic interest. He also has a relationship with poet Hoàng Cát. Through his tender stanzas, Diệu has professed his love for a number of male contemporaries, despite homosexuality being deemed a deviant illness by much of society at the time. Perhaps that’s a major factor why his poetry is drenched in longing and a hopeless sense of loneliness.

It has been almost four decades since Xuân Diệu passed away, and we can only learn of his life and relationships via poems and anecdotes. A significant portion of Xuân Diệu’s oeuvre belongs to the love poetry genre, so it’s natural that the fragments we can now glean from his life might help soothe a new generation of Vietnamese experiencing love the same way Diệu once did.

The king of love poetry

Ngô Xuân Diệu was born in 1916 in Bình Định. His literary talent flourished early. When he was 21 years old, he became the youngest member of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn, or the Self-Reliant Literary Group in English, a collective of distinguished writers in the mid-20^th century. Diệu was introduced to the public by earlier member Thế Lữ as a “wunderkind” with “a radiant and ardent soul living in gentle yet sensual, passionate yet impulsive verses.”

Xuân Diệu is the only member of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn who was honored with a street in Vietnam. Photos by Linh Phạm.

And what did that “radiant soul” imbue in his poetry? According to Associate Professor Trần Văn Toàn of the Modern Vietnam Literature department at the Hanoi National University of Education, there is ample evidence of same-sex romance in Xuân Diệu’s poems.

Toàn explains: “For example, in the poem ‘Với bàn tay ấy’ [lit: With that hand] dedicated to Huy Cận, the couplet ‘with your hand holding mine / the pain of my days subsides’ has the sentiments of a lover’s sweet nothings. An intimate atmosphere permeates the poem.”

He also quotes a handful of other doting lines such as “On a dark night, full of clouds / a tree seeks a flower, bending down / the flower seeks the grass, while the grass / leans on the moss, night enshrouds” — as if the entire universe is in love, folding in within itself. The passion reaches a crescendo in the last two lines: “Beneath the joyous moon, my gaze still seeking / the trace of that hand within mine.”

It is widely believed that Xuân Diệu (left) and Huy Cận (right) shared something more than friendship. Later on, Huy Cận married Ngô Xuân Như (middle), Diệu's sister.

Professor Toàn shares another example of Xuân Diệu, in the poem ‘Tương tư, chiều…’ [lit: Afternoon longing…], there are lines like:

I miss your face, your shape, your sound.
I miss you, so much! Darling!

One might easily interpret this as the love profession of a heterosexual relationship, but in Xuân Diệu’s first poetry collection Thơ thơ (Poésies), this poem is positioned right before ‘Với bàn tay ấy.’ The last line of ‘Tương tư, chiều…’ seems to have a smooth connection with the first line of ‘Với bàn tay ấy’:

Darling! Come closer! Give me your hand!
— 'Tương tư, chiều...'

With your hand holding mine
— 'Với bàn tay ấy'

Toàn believes that there could be a thematic progression that reflects a same-sex subtext quite clearly. When Thơ thơ was published in 1938, Xuân Diệu was also writing Chàng với chàng, or Man and Man. Unfortunately, this collection was never published.

When Thơ thơ was published in 1938, Xuân Diệu was also writing Chàng với chàng, or Man and Man. Unfortunately, this collection was never published.

However, these traces of same-sex affection were not mentioned when Xuân Diệu was alive. They were only recognized later on after stories of the poet’s private relationships were publicized. According to Professor Toàn, this obfuscation could be explained by the societal context of the time, as for an extended period of time the mindset of Vietnamese readers was entrenched in the depths of heteronormative culture.

A view from education

Each reader can form their own interpretation when faced with literary texts, but in the context of Vietnam’s public institutions, a “standardized” viewpoint is often imposed on students. That perspective can alienate some students who might not belong to the norm.

Trần Nhật Quang, an officer in charge of the LGBTI rights program at the Institute for Studies of Society, Economics and Environment (iSEE), says of his own experience learning about Xuân Diệu in school: “When we were taught his poetry, I heard talk that Xuân Diệu might not be straight. So when my teacher went through the lesson and mentioned how Xuân Diệu was into some lady, I felt a little annoyed inside. Because I thought that it was an incorrect literary interpretation, especially rendered through the teacher’s lens of male-female heterosexuality. Everyone was taught that love is just something between a man and a woman, but to me, love is so much more than that.”

In 2018, Quang collaborated with Hà Nội Queer, a group of young people passionate about changing the public perception of the LGBTQ community in Vietnam. Quang created scripts for the project’s informative videos on Vietnam’s queer history. He explains that after he could hear more stories about his community through history including that of Xuân Diệu, that childhood frustration turns into contentment.

Xuân Diệu (right) and Huy Cận (left).

“I was very happy to learn about such episodes of history, knowing that in actuality, there are many figures in the literature syllabus or elsewhere that were not as heterosexual as the teachers were saying,” Quang recalls. “I could somehow see myself in those lessons in class because they have always referred to heterosexual love when teaching about love, so I never felt myself in those lectures, I didn’t feel that I belonged to whatever was being taught.”

Regarding the vague discussion of Xuân Diệu’s orientation in a pedagogical setting, Professor Toàn says that he could understand the teachers’ reservation in alluding to same-sex love because it still generates polarizing views in the community. But personally, Toàn actively encourages his students to research and discuss this aspect of Xuân Diệu’s life when teaching his poetry.

“When I teach, I myself do mention it [Xuân Diệu’s same-sex relationships],” he shares. “Because I think it’s a factor that will help us gain a deeper understanding into the realm of emotions encapsulated in Xuân Diệu’s poetry.”

“Moreover, this discussion will also help students learn how to behave in an environment with diversity. How we treat people who are different from us defines our culture.”

From forbidden to accepted

During Xuân Diệu’s era, homosexual relationships were marginalized, even demonized. Phạm Khánh Bình, Hà Nội Queer’s co-founder, explains: “Before, the word ‘same sex’ didn’t exist, they [homosexual people] were referred to as ái nam, ái nữ [lit: hermaphrodite]. And it’s in my understanding that people view it as something unscrupulous, deviant, debauched, or even perverted. So there’s no doubt that LGBT people back then would feel suffocated, especially when your own identity is seen as something sick, something sinful.”

In the memoir Cát Bụi Chân Ai, Tô Hoài writes that, for two nights in a row, Xuân Diệu was disciplined for fraternization. He was heavily chastised, and not a single soul, not even his friends or alleged lovers, stood up for him. Xuân Diệu didn’t deny the charges, just “said through his tears 'that’s my man love… my man love…!' At once, he couldn’t speak anymore, tears filled his eyes, but he resolutely did not make any promise to stop.”

The villa at 24 Cột Cờ (now Điện Biên Phủ street) in Hanoi where Xuân Diệu and Huy Cận used to stay.

Perhaps, living through those hardships, to Xuân Diệu, “to love, is to die a little bit inside.” But even then, he continued to love, and to spread that love in his poetry. Such self-honesty turns his story into priceless materials for people like Quang and Bình to share with their community.

“When I learned that there are queer, non-conforming people in our books, in our history, I felt represented, and I realized that Vietnam is actually very diverse,” Quang says. “And when members of our community know that somewhere in our history, there are people who were like them, those who differed from the labels out there, people will feel that they belong — it’s a time-transcending connection.”