the war. He could also have written about his childhood, which was both painful and happy.
He could have written: "I was born and grew up . . . My late parents . . ." and so on. And why not write of his fathers life and his generation? That was a generation both great and tragic, a generation bursting at the seams with ambitious Utopians, people of elegant spiritual and emotional qualities, sadly now long forgotten by Kien's generation.
But when thinking of his childhood or his father, Kien becomes depressed. He feels that as a son he had not sufficiently loved or respected his father. He had not understood his father's life and remembered almost nothing about his family tragedy. He still doesn't know why his parents separated and knows even less about his mother. So it is strange that he remembers his mother's second husband so clearly.
His mother's second husband was a prewar poet who had gone into hiding to escape the anti-intellectual atmosphere of the state ideologies that came with Communism.
Kien had visited him just once in an old house in the Hanoi suburb of Chem, on the edge of the Red River. There
was a small window facing the northern dike. Kien remembered the scene clearly. His real father had just died, five years after his mother, who had left him and married the poet who became his stepfather. Kien decided he should visit his stepfather to say farewell before going away with the army. He was seventeen at the time and the visit left an indelible impression.
The house was old and greyish, surrounded by a sad, unkempt winter garden which itself was ringed by wispy eucalyptus that rustled in the light breeze.
The entire scene reflected his stepfather's extreme poverty. On a dusty family altar his mother's photo rested in a frame with broken glass. The bed in the same room was limp and bedraggled. A writing table was a mess of books, papers, and glasses. The atmosphere was depressing. Yet in sharp contrast his stepfather lived in a style which belied his conditions. His thinning white hair was neatly combed back, disguising some scars, his beard was well shaven and tidy, and his clothes were clean and pressed.
He treated Kien warmly and politely and with the correct intimacy for the occasion, making him hot tea and inviting him to smoke and generally feel at home.
Kien noticed that his eyes were blurred and his scraggy and frail old hands trembled.
He looked over to Kien and said gently, "So, you're off to the war? Not that I can prevent you. I'm old, you are young. I couldn't stop you if I wanted to. I just want you to understand me when I say that a human being's duty on this earth is to live, not to kill." Then he said, "Taste all manner of life. Try everything. Be curious and inquire for yourself. Don't turn your back on life."
Kien was surprised by the integrity of his stepfather's words and he listened intently.
"I want you to guard against all those who demand that you die just to prove something. It is not that I advise
you to respect your life more than anything else, but not to die uselessly for the needs of others. You are all we have left, your mother, your father, and I. I hope you live through the war and return home to Hanoi, for you still have many years ahead of you. Many years of joy and happiness to experience. Who else but you can experience your life?"
Surprised, and far from agreeing with him, Kien nevertheless trusted his stepfather's words, feeling an affinity with his sentiments. He saw in the old man a wise, multifaceted intelligence with a warm, romantic heart that seemed to belong to another era, a sentimental era with all its sweet dreams and heightened awareness, alien to Kien but attractive nonetheless.
He understood then why his mother had left his father and come to live with this wise, kind-hearted man.
For the entire afternoon he sat with his stepfather in the room in which his mother had lived her last years, and where she had died. And that winter afternoon
He could have written: "I was born and grew up . . . My late parents . . ." and so on. And why not write of his fathers life and his generation? That was a generation both great and tragic, a generation bursting at the seams with ambitious Utopians, people of elegant spiritual and emotional qualities, sadly now long forgotten by Kien's generation.
But when thinking of his childhood or his father, Kien becomes depressed. He feels that as a son he had not sufficiently loved or respected his father. He had not understood his father's life and remembered almost nothing about his family tragedy. He still doesn't know why his parents separated and knows even less about his mother. So it is strange that he remembers his mother's second husband so clearly.
His mother's second husband was a prewar poet who had gone into hiding to escape the anti-intellectual atmosphere of the state ideologies that came with Communism.
Kien had visited him just once in an old house in the Hanoi suburb of Chem, on the edge of the Red River. There
was a small window facing the northern dike. Kien remembered the scene clearly. His real father had just died, five years after his mother, who had left him and married the poet who became his stepfather. Kien decided he should visit his stepfather to say farewell before going away with the army. He was seventeen at the time and the visit left an indelible impression.
The house was old and greyish, surrounded by a sad, unkempt winter garden which itself was ringed by wispy eucalyptus that rustled in the light breeze.
The entire scene reflected his stepfather's extreme poverty. On a dusty family altar his mother's photo rested in a frame with broken glass. The bed in the same room was limp and bedraggled. A writing table was a mess of books, papers, and glasses. The atmosphere was depressing. Yet in sharp contrast his stepfather lived in a style which belied his conditions. His thinning white hair was neatly combed back, disguising some scars, his beard was well shaven and tidy, and his clothes were clean and pressed.
He treated Kien warmly and politely and with the correct intimacy for the occasion, making him hot tea and inviting him to smoke and generally feel at home.
Kien noticed that his eyes were blurred and his scraggy and frail old hands trembled.
He looked over to Kien and said gently, "So, you're off to the war? Not that I can prevent you. I'm old, you are young. I couldn't stop you if I wanted to. I just want you to understand me when I say that a human being's duty on this earth is to live, not to kill." Then he said, "Taste all manner of life. Try everything. Be curious and inquire for yourself. Don't turn your back on life."
Kien was surprised by the integrity of his stepfather's words and he listened intently.
"I want you to guard against all those who demand that you die just to prove something. It is not that I advise
you to respect your life more than anything else, but not to die uselessly for the needs of others. You are all we have left, your mother, your father, and I. I hope you live through the war and return home to Hanoi, for you still have many years ahead of you. Many years of joy and happiness to experience. Who else but you can experience your life?"
Surprised, and far from agreeing with him, Kien nevertheless trusted his stepfather's words, feeling an affinity with his sentiments. He saw in the old man a wise, multifaceted intelligence with a warm, romantic heart that seemed to belong to another era, a sentimental era with all its sweet dreams and heightened awareness, alien to Kien but attractive nonetheless.
He understood then why his mother had left his father and come to live with this wise, kind-hearted man.
For the entire afternoon he sat with his stepfather in the room in which his mother had lived her last years, and where she had died. And that winter afternoon
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