Klin Cheng
Sep 28, 2008
Sep 28, 2008
In my salad days when I was still studying psychology at National Chengchi University, I adored 白先勇 and 陳若曦 (but not 王文興), mainly because they were able to write realistic fiction with a vigorous language so charming in its simplicity. They were among only few Chinese writers whose memorable works had compelled my admiration. But, being ambitious, I didn’t think my stories should be as short as theirs. So, I devoured epics crafted by such literary icons like James Joyce, Henry James, Hermann Hesse, Victor Hugo, Roman Rolland, and, of course, Dostoevsky (finished reading English version of The Brothers Karamazov in a week), hoping I could somehow hitch my wagon to some of them. One year after 林懷民 came back Taiwan to launch his Cloudgate, I was on his English class as a freshman. But, it was two years later when I was a junior that I was able to attend his class for contemporary novels. During this stretch, we were told to read The Great Gatsby, The Sun Also Rises, Madame Bovary, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and some other thrilling short stories. I marveled at his ability to guide us for those elaborate works of art (It was the only literary instruction I received at school, as I never considered academicism to be a great help to my literary imagination). But the classics that enthralled me were The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the Words, and the Clown. I enjoyed Sartre very much—the rhythmic pattern of his short sentences moved me and empowered me, though the inner stuffings of his philosophy baffled me greatly. With a background different from theirs, I thought I could create something unique, but I just lacked the techniques to narrate my introspective mood and present my psychological and fictional universe in an artistic way. Once, I was flirting with surrealism, but the outcome was a disaster—it was neither fish nor fowl. So, for quite a while, I was a greenhorn seeking for the panache of great masters, always feeling frustrated. But, I wished I could be more an artist than simply a writer, as James Joyce’s decision to destroy all his earlier works spilled over into me. All the time, I kept my writings unpublished, knowing I would make an ass of myself if I dare to unveil them before they were duly scrutinized. Of course, you can make yourself known by touting yourself. But I was too intimidated to do that. Being a writer not worthy of the name, I prefer to make me known by showing people what I am made of. The problem was, every time I tried to reveal my true colors, I found my flaws. It’s something you can’t address in a short while. You can only resort to time (instead of turning to others) to learn if your efforts are worthwhile.
That’s why some of my works are more than 20 years in the making and still not finished. My own aesthetic required me to link my ideals to a standard high enough to satisfy Western criteria. So, I hate to see my shortcomings helplessly exposed. If I were to separate myself from any locally idiomatic school of Chinese or Taiwanese literature, I had to learn my craft independently and train myself more vigorously. That’s why I was always cautious about my creative writing. I know, to stay the course, I had to shed diversions—that’s no small feat for me, as I was constantly distracted by the need to juggle my various duties. But, with a mind to regain my identity as an intellectual aspiring for self-realization, I count all the odds that came to me as a blessing, because, no matter what had happened, the strain of my struggle continued to drive me, boosting my creativity. So, despite my obscurity, I soldier on—not as anything else, but as a writer seeking for self-redemption.
