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Golden is the rubric for an ongoing series ofworks across video, sound, installation, net and live media. The project seeks to explorepossibilities for a critical aesthetics and poetics of place, and questions of nostalgia,aspiration, cultivation, and translation, indiaspora. Conceived during a three-month stay in Berkeley, California in ,Golden so far comprises Vistas, Songs, Years,Lessons, and now, Notes.
Vistas () was commissioned byBeaconsfield, London, for Lightsilver,featuring nine artists whose work, engagingfilm and landscape, rotated sequentially overeleven weeks and three screens. Focusing on San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge,an emblem of possibility and prosperity,yet also of despair (it is a renowned suicidelandmark), Vistas approaches this symbolicfrontier, both of diaspora and the West,from three perspectives: before, beside, andbeyond — over bay, strait, and ocean waters.Seen from an interior on the shore, thethreshold, gateway and portal appears bothconcrete and elusive, at turns shadowy and
solid. Shrouded by clouds or skimming sheet-metal waters, it recedes into a series of romantic skies. A boat trip in the bay brings the hard structural edges into view,which dissolve as the image doubles anddisappears. Beyond the bridge, the Pacific lies in wait, the placid waters seen from afardisplaced by crashing waves.
Songs (, ongoing), initiated duringElectric Greenhouse (an Artquest/B Mediadigital arts residency), accumulates sunginstances of the lyric ‘golden’, the rearrangedfragments becoming condensed auralinterludes, at turns plaintive, joyful and wistful. Developed in tandem, Vistas and Songswere envisaged as preludes to Years and Lessons(). Years is an alternating two-screenprojection incorporating footage shot in HongKong and London with regional archivalmaterial from the late fifties to mid-eighties,commissioned by Chinese Arts Centre,Manchester. Comprising fifty short sequences,ballrooms and allotments figure injuxtapositions that intimate encounters andcorrelations between gestures and spaces of
contact, cultivation, and leisure; between thestylised and the habitual; between locations and thresholds. Years is an attempt to weave an extended and interrupted metaphor for the ‘tending’ of identities, memories andterritories, subjective and cultural.
Lessons () was developed in dialoguewith Beaconsfield as a research residency,featuring a site-specific installation and aprogramme of live events, as well as existingworks. Lessons opened with Trialogue, conceivedas a conversation in English between threeartistic and curatorial perspectives: the speakers were Sonia Boyce (artist and AssociateLecturer, Central St Martins College,University of the Arts), Irit Rogoff (Professorof Visual Cultures, Goldsmiths College,University of London), and Naomi Siderfin(Associate Director, Beaconsfield). In parallel to the discussion was my simultaneous brokenCantonese Chinese translation, an attempt to intimate and enact something of theduplicity and difficulty of necessary cultural and linguistic manoeuvres. Joanne Morra(Reader in Art History & Theory, Central St
Notes (Golden)
S u s a n p u i s a n l o k
10 1 1
by mimi lok (‘Years’), Joanne Morra(‘Trialogue /Quintet’), Rob Stone (‘Just Give Me One Thing I Can Hold On To’)and Gilane Tawadros (‘Fragments’):experimental contributions from across andbetween the fields of art history, culturaltheory and contemporary fiction, that mirror, double, refract and multiply thenarratives, tactics and motifs traversingGolden. Invoking the movements and co-temporalities of languages, cultures,histories, and subjects in flux, subjects forwhom aspirations to ‘settle’ and ‘return’may not be contradictory, and for whom‘nostalgia’ may be understood in morecomplex terms than a ‘backward’ gaze, thesecollected, disparate ‘notes’ are necessarilyprovisional, always interim, but for keeping.
Martins College, University of the Arts) wasinvited to chair, and later collaboratively excerpt and annotate the resultant transcripts,to produce the text, ‘Trialogue/Quintet’.
Vistas and Songs were located in the venue’sLower Space, along with Chorus (), aminimal, chant-like, three-minute, five-partscore for live voices based on Songs,commissioned from Mat Davidson. Volunteeramateurs and strangers were then invited toform and perform a seemingly impromptu‘mobile chorus’, singing along on headphones to pre-recorded instrumental versions ofChorus. Directly inspired by the ‘mobileclubbing’ phenomenon, Mobile Chorus and thelater Mobile Ballroom at nearby Vauxhall Station— in which would-be ballroom dancers wereinvited to ‘dress up, show up and make theworld your ballroom’ — were intended asexperiments in engineered spontaneity.Years was reconfigured for the Arch Space,projected onto opposed tarpaulin screens and supplemented by the railway rumblings of the over-head trains. In the Upper Space,a temporary filter flooded the room in ‘rosy
amber’, while gold shimmer curtain hung from lighting rig to sloped floor. Voluminous,luminous and vertiginous, dominating the space yet occupying it lightly with incessantmovements, this was my base for a month.Playing my father’s collection of Westernballroom and early Chinese pop (to which my mother had added some Chinese opera),the Upper Space was also the site and scene of several DIY ballroom sessions, in whichdancers/choreographers Jenevieve Chang and Annie Pui Ling Lok were invited toimprovise (along the theme of ) instruction,referencing Alex Moore’s classic book,Ballroom Dancing (), as both manual andprop. The residency closed with a newaudiowork, Golden Hour (), broadcast on Resonance .FM as a non-stop,makeshift medley of ‘melodies for dancing and dreaming’, in which every track from the aforementioned collection was sampled to produce an idiosyncratic index of opening and closing bars.
Notes documents and extends Goldenwith several original commissioned texts,
12 13
14 15
16 17
How did nostalgia come to mean a longing for the past? Nostalgia was once the wordemployed by soldiers far from their native lands to express their longing for home.If the past and home are interchangeable concepts, then yearning for home meansyearning for the past, for something that one can never return to; at least, never return to in the same way. It puts home in a different time zone. Returninghome thus becomes returning to a place that exists partially in one’s imagination, a place that will have changed or altered irrevocably when one goes back.Introducing the dimension of time harshly places an unavoidable distance between you and home, which can never be satisfyingly bridged. It renders home as the memory of a distant place (not just a familiar physical location) which might be mis-remembered, half-forgotten, or difficult to recall in its minute details.
They called us naziheen, the displaced ones. Displacement is like death. One thinksit happens only to other people. From the summer of ’67 I became that displacedstranger whom I had always thought was someone else… He is the one whoserelationship with places is distorted, he gets attached to them and repulsed by them at the same time. He is the one who cannot tell his story in a continuousnarrative and lives hours in every moment. Every moment for him has its passingimmortality. His memory resists ordering… He is despised for being a stranger, orsympathized with for being a stranger. The second is harder to bear than the first…But… the stranger can never go back to what he was. Even if he returns, it is over. A person gets ‘displacement’ as he gets asthma, and there is no cure for either. And a poet is worse off, because poetry itself is an estrangement.1
FRAGMENTSG i l a n e T a w a d r o s
I II
18 19
Vladimir: Look at the tree.Estragon: It’s never the same pus from one second to the next.Vladimir: The tree, look at the tree.[Estragon looks at the tree] Estragon: Was it not there yesterday?Vladimir: Yes, of course it was there. Do you not remember? We nearly hanged ourselves from it. But you wouldn’t. Do you not remember?Estragon: You dreamt it.2
Don’t you remember what happened that summer?” She didn’t remember and a shudder of panic rippled through her. If anything happened to her sister, how would sheremember anything about their childhood? Her memory was like a leaky boat, lettingthe water slowly seep in over time, weighing it down and gradually sinking hermemories beneath the surface of the sea. Her sister kept the boat afloat, remindingher of their shared past, jogging her recollections, conjuring sounds and imagesthat she had thought she’d lost forever. It was hard work trying to remember and she often felt like succumbing to the tide of forgetfulness sweeping over her,enabling her to live in the present unhindered by the disquieting intrusions ofpersonal history. She wasn’t like some people who seemed frozen in the past,perpetually re-visiting the things that had happened there. But neither was shestuck in the present, unable to connect her current life with what had taken place before. She moved between the past and the present, uncomfortable in both.
“
III IV
20 21
… it took me about fifty years to become accustomed to, or, more exactly to feelless comfortable with, “Edward”, a foolishly English name yoked forcibly to theunmistakably Arabic family name Said… For years, and depending on the exactcircumstances, I would rush past “Edward” and emphasize “Said”: at other times I would do the reverse, or connect these two to each other so quickly that neitherwould be clear. The one thing I could not tolerate, but very often would have to endure, was the disbelieving, and hence undermining, reaction: Edward? Said? … The travails of bearing such a name were compounded by an equally unsettlingquandary when it came to language. I had never known what language I spoke first,Arabic or English, or which one was really mine beyond any doubt. What I do know,however, is that the two have always been together in my life, one resonating in the other, sometimes ironically, sometimes nostalgically, most often eachcorrecting, and commenting on, the other.3
She liked to play a game when she was listening to Desert Island Discs on the radio,choosing her own eight records to keep and listen to on her imaginary desert island.Her selection kept changing every time. It was difficult to choose the eight songsthat would remind her of past experiences; the tunes that would transport her backto another moment, evoking that time in vivid, 3-D, saturated Technicolor. At thesame time, she wanted to choose songs that reflected who she was, that were a kindof musical distillation of her identity up to that point. She also selected songsthat invoked the person she aspired to be, the woman she was in the process ofbecoming. She took this game so seriously that she had even recorded her own versionof Desert Island Discs, interviewing herself about her own life and memories, herjourney to this particular place and to all the other places where she had feltequally out of place. She couldn’t imagine herself surviving for very long on adesert island. Apart from the fact that she hated the ‘great outdoors’ and wouldprobably be eaten alive by mosquitoes, she wouldn’t be able to survive the isolationand the complete absence of other people.
V VI
22 23
How did nostalgia come to mean a longing for the past? How did it come to signify a sentimental longing to be anywhere but here? James Baldwin understood so perfectlythat one can be a prisoner of one’s past, static and immobile: “To be locked in the past means, in effect, that one has no past, since one can never assess it, or use it: and if one cannot use the past, one cannot function in the present, and so one can never be free.”4 What Baldwin proposes instead is a fluid, dynamicmovement between the past and the present that weaves the past into the present,thus releasing new possibilities for the future. I imagine it as a sequence of movements, choreographed to re-trace the patterns and memories of the past but re-drawn and re-animated in the present to create something entirely new anddifferent: a shimmering, golden dance that has never existed before.
She had completely lost interest in the day-to-day. She felt as though she existed in an airtight, vacuum-packed bubble, moving through the world without it having anyimpact upon her, removed from any physical sensation. She couldn’t see, hear, smell,touch, taste anything beyond the confines of her immediate surroundings. She hadn’timagined that death would have this effect upon her. She stayed in this state ofsuspended animation for days, revisiting the day of her father’s death over and over again. She tried to recall every minute detail of that day as though the banalsequence of events, much like any other, held some clue to his sudden, unexpecteddeath. Her uncle, wanting to mine the seemingly unfathomable depths of her grief,jerked her back into consciousness. “I’ll never forget,” he remarked, anticipating her response attentively, “the time when your father stopped speaking to your sister.He didn’t speak to her for an entire year, did he?” Nothing had prepared her forthat. She had blocked that long, painful episode out of her mind completely; she had, it would be true to say, forgotten it entirely, edited it out of her memory. Notes:
1. Mourid Barghhouti, I Saw Ramallah, London: Bloomsbury, 2004, pp.3–42. Samuel Beckett, ‘Waiting for Godot’, The Complete Dramatic Works,
London: Faber and Faber, 1986, p.563. Edward Said, Out of Place: A Memoir, London: Granta Books, 1999, pp.3–44. James Baldwin in James Baldwin and Richard Avedon, Nothing Personal,
New York: Atheneum, 1964, unpaginated
VII VIII
.T
he ti
me
of th
e ap
pare
nt r
evol
utio
n of
the
sun
thro
ugh
the
eclip
tic;
the
peri
odoc
cupi
ed
by
the
eart
h in
m
akin
g its
revo
lutio
n ar
ound
th
e su
n,ca
lled
the
astr
onom
ical
yea
r;al
so,a
per
iod
mor
e or
less
nea
rly
agre
eing
with
this
,ado
pted
by
vari
ous
natio
ns a
s a
mea
sure
of t
ime,
and
calle
d th
e ci
vil y
ear;
as,t
he c
omm
on lu
nar
year
of
days
,st
ill i
n us
e am
ong
the
Moh
amm
edan
s;th
e ye
ar o
f
days
,etc
.In
com
mon
usa
ge,t
he y
ear c
onsi
sts o
f
days
,an
d ev
ery
four
th
year
(c
alle
dbi
ssex
tile,
or le
ap y
ear)
of
da
ys,a
day
bein
g ad
ded
to F
ebru
ary
on th
at y
ear,
onac
coun
t of
the
exc
ess
abov
e
da
ys (
see
Bis
sext
ile).
“Of t
wen
ty y
ear o
f age
he
was
,I
gues
s.”(C
hauc
er)
i.A
yea
r's m
ind ,
a tim
e to
be
allo
wed
for
an a
ct o
r an
eve
nt,
in o
rder
tha
t an
entir
e ye
ar m
ight
be
secu
red
beyo
nd a
llqu
estio
n.B
ut w
hat,
real
ly,c
an b
e se
cure
d?
ii.(y
ears
) in
form
al a
ver
y lo
ng t
ime;
ages
:i)
it's
goin
g to
tak
e ye
ars
to p
ut t
hat
righ
t.ii)
I s
aw B
ack
To
The
Fut
ure
for
the
first
tim
e..
a se
t of
stu
dent
s gr
oupe
d to
geth
er a
sbe
ing
of r
ough
ly s
imila
r ag
es,
mos
tlyen
teri
ng a
sch
ool o
r co
llege
in
the
sam
eac
adem
ic y
ear:
Mos
t oft
he g
irls
in m
y ye
arw
ere
leav
ing
schoo
l at
the
end
ofth
e te
rm.
[Got
an
A o
n a
scie
nce
quiz
abo
ut t
hefiv
e se
nses
.].
• (on
e's y
ears
) one
’s ag
e or
tim
e of
life
:Sh
e ha
d a
com
posu
re w
ell b
eyon
d he
r ye
ars:
she
does
n’t
spea
k (a
lso
cale
ndar
yea
ror
civ·
il ye
ar) t
he p
erio
d of
days
(or
days
in le
ap y
ears
) st
artin
g fr
om t
he fi
rst
of J
anua
ry,
used
for
rec
koni
ng t
ime
inor
dina
ry a
ffai
rs:
[In
this
vill
age,
ther
ew
ere
stor
ies,
old
and
man
y.M
y la
st n
ight
ther
e,be
fore
I w
as t
o le
ave
for
— g
ood .
For
Eng
land
. Tha
t’s w
hat I
mea
n.
You
wer
e le
avin
g fo
r go
od.
So m
y la
stni
ght,
it w
as n
o di
ffer
ent f
rom
the
othe
rsin
tha
t th
ere
was
coo
king
,th
ere
was
eatin
g an
d th
ere
wer
e st
orie
s at
bed
.I’d
hear
d th
em m
any
times
bef
ore,
so t
hat
som
etim
es I
did
n’t
liste
n fo
r th
e st
ory
som
uch
as t
he s
ound
s an
d sh
apes
of
the
wor
ds in
the
dark
.I m
oved
in a
nd o
ut o
fsl
eep,
mur
mur
ing
satis
fied
smile
s an
dm
aybe
a n
oddi
ng h
ere
and
ther
e...
agai
nI
cam
e ou
t of s
leep
and
they
wer
e te
lling
the
stor
y of
the
Lau
gir
ls.
I re
mem
ber
mov
ing
back
int
o sl
eep,
then
sud
denl
ypu
lling
mys
elf
out
agai
n as
if
I w
ere
afra
id I
’d m
iss
som
ethi
ng,
whi
ch w
asst
rang
e,yo
u kn
ow,a
s th
is w
as a
sto
ry I
knew
wel
l.B
ut i
n m
y ha
lf-dr
eam
sta
teth
ere
seem
ed t
o be
som
ethi
ng d
iffer
ent
and
unfa
mili
ar i
n th
e w
ay i
t w
as b
eing
told
,th
e w
ay I
was
hea
ring
it,
I ca
n’t
real
ly
say
wha
t it
was
.W
hat
do y
oure
mem
ber?
Rem
embe
r the
rive
r I sh
owed
you
yest
erda
y,w
ith t
he s
tone
bri
dge?
The
y dr
owne
d th
emse
lves
in
that
riv
er.
Tha
t’s h
ow t
he s
tory
goe
s.T
here
wer
ese
ven
of t
hem
.A
fter
the
dea
th o
f th
eir
pare
nts,
the
fam
ily n
ame
fell
into
dec
line.
An
uncl
e ca
me
from
the
city
to
over
see
the
selli
ng o
ff o
f th
e re
mai
nder
of
the
fam
ily
asse
ts.
He
had
no
inte
rest
in
taki
ng o
n th
e bu
rden
of s
even
unm
arri
edni
eces
.Fir
st t
he e
ldes
t tw
o w
ere
mar
ried
off t
o m
en w
ho tr
eate
d th
em b
adly
.How
badl
y?T
hey
neve
r ca
me
back
.T
here
mai
ning
fi
ve
knew
th
e sa
me
fate
awai
ted
them
,an
d so
th
ey
took
mea
sure
s.M
easu
res.
Yes.
You
mea
n th
edr
owni
ng.
Yes.
All
ofth
em,
alto
geth
er?
Yes.
]
PH
RA
SES
.in
the
yea
r of
our
Lor
d(o
r da
ted
inth
e ye
ar o
f gra
ce) —
— in
the
year
ad
——
:I w
as b
orn
in th
e yea
r ofo
ur L
ord
.[O
RIG
IN:
year
of
gr
ace,
sugg
este
d by
med
ieva
l L
atin
ann
o gr
atia
e,us
ed b
ych
roni
cler
s.]
wit
h a
rolli
ng r
ight
ank
le/
ash
ort
brea
th/
a pa
ir o
f di
sten
ded
elbo
ws
—ad
vice
fro
m m
y ku
ng f
u te
ache
r:do
n’t
try
to p
unch
no-
one;
you’
ll on
ly h
urt y
ours
elf
—/
an e
ss-s
hape
d sp
ine
(ess
— S
—y’
know
,lik
e fo
r su
perm
an!
ah,
no…
)/D
iagn
osis
:a c
old
dam
p hu
mou
r,pr
one
todr
y he
at im
bala
nce,
feed
with
— ,
avoi
dto
o m
uch
— /
trai
tor t
ongu
e/ F
airf
ax C
A:
your
fac
e do
esn’
t m
atch
you
r vo
ice//
but
wha
t to
do a
bout
that
?! fo
r yea
rs i’
ve b
een
on t
his
mis
sion
of
conv
ersi
on/
it st
arte
dto
mea
n so
met
hing
whe
n th
e m
issi
onch
ange
d,fr
om m
e to
you
… i
n ot
her
wor
ds,i
fee
l hop
e,fa
ith —
som
ethi
ng—
that
you
can
see
and
fee
l m
ore/
:yo
urvo
ice so
unds
hig
her
whe
n yo
u sp
eak
Chi
nese
—w
ell,
I sa
y,th
e la
ngua
ge
dem
ands
YE
AR
(S)
[
(z)]
nou
n
high
er
thin
gs.
nine
to
nes—
nine
! —
othe
rwis
e a
mot
her
beco
mes
a h
orse
,a
hors
e be
com
es a
gra
ndm
othe
r (m
a,m
a,m
a) a
nd y
our
mou
th d
oesn
’t m
atch
you
rm
ind/
sp
eech
,m
ovem
ent,
revo
lvin
gag
ents
,pre
cipi
tate
s/.
Cla
p.
clap
cla
p yo
ur h
ands
Alto
geth
er n
owR
ound
and
rou
nd w
e go
.W
orke
d at
T
es·c
o’s
[del
icat
esse
nco
unte
r] 1
0am
– 4
pm.G
ot re
ally
goo
d at
cutt
ing
a po
und
of c
hees
e /
cold
cut
sw
ithou
t hav
ing
to w
eigh
it.
.le
tter
s[
] T
he w
eath
er h
ere
has
take
n a
surp
risi
ngtu
rn.I
say
sur
pris
ing,
beca
use
not o
nly
isit
unse
ason
ably
war
m f
or t
his
time
ofye
ar,i
t als
o co
mes
on
the
tail
of th
e w
orst
typh
oon
to h
ave
hit t
he te
rrito
ry in
hal
f ace
ntur
y.W
hat
I fin
d pe
culia
r is
tha
t,be
side
s th
e w
eath
er,
ther
e is
litt
le e
lse
that
has
bee
n ta
lked
abo
ut r
ecen
tly.
No
one
spea
ks o
f the
ir d
amag
ed c
rops
,or t
hebu
sine
sses
tha
t ha
ve b
een
forc
ed t
o cl
ose
tem
pora
rily
fo
r re
pair
s,or
th
e de
adw
oman
at
the
villa
ge e
ntra
nce,
or t
hem
inor
infr
actio
ns w
ith th
e la
w…
All
this
talk
of
the
wea
ther
wou
ld b
ore
me
wer
eit
no
t so
su
spic
ious
ly
ince
ssan
t an
dm
onot
onou
s:H
ow h
ot i
t is!
I m
ust
have
hear
d th
is p
hras
e do
zens
of
times
in t
he
last
few
day
s,w
ith l
ittle
var
iatio
n,sa
veth
e oc
casi
onal
,It
’s so
hot
my
trou
sers
are
abou
t to
jum
p of
fmy
legs
.It’s
as
if th
ey a
recl
ingi
ng
to
the
pres
ent,
resi
stan
t to
look
ing
back
or
forw
ard.
But
whe
re t
his
is a
ll co
min
g fr
om I
hav
en’t
the
fain
test
idea
.I h
ave
reas
ons
of m
y ow
n to
avo
idlo
okin
g ba
ck,
but
sure
ly t
he r
est
of t
hevi
llage
can
not
be in
the
sam
e co
nditi
on.
It’s
as if
a s
pell
has
befa
llen
this
pla
ce—
no,i
t’s a
s if
a sp
ell w
ere
bein
g in
cant
ed,
the
inca
ntat
ion
bein
g,H
ow h
ot it
is! H
owho
t it i
s! H
ow h
ot it
is!T
he p
urpo
se o
f thi
ssp
ell I
do
not k
now
—it
cann
ot b
e si
mpl
yto
mai
ntai
n th
e w
arm
wea
ther
,or t
o st
ave
off
anot
her
typh
oon.
If t
his
wer
e tr
ue i
tw
ould
be
ridi
culo
us a
nd u
nnec
essa
ry—
sure
ly i
t w
ould
tak
e se
vera
l m
onth
s fo
ran
othe
r ty
phoo
n of
thi
s m
agni
tude
to
stri
ke?
Eve
n if
you
have
bee
n in
dulg
ing
me
this
far,
you
may
nev
erth
eles
s su
gges
ta
mor
e m
unda
ne r
easo
n,th
at t
hey
only
wis
h fo
r the
war
m w
eath
er to
last
so
that
they
can
dry
out
the
ir f
loor
s,th
eir
wal
ls,
thei
r ca
rs.T
his
may
be
part
of t
he t
ruth
;bu
t I th
ink
ther
e is
mor
e..
Sang
kar
·a·o
·ke
for
the
first
tim
e[O
RIG
IN
s:
from
Jap
anes
e,lit
eral
ly‘em
pty
orch
estr
a’.]:
Tie
A Y
ello
w R
ibbo
nin
Tsi
m S
ha T
sui.
.
tota
l de
stru
ctio
n—al
l th
e ca
bbag
esha
ve b
een
dest
roye
d by
ant
s.“t
hey
look
like
stre
wn
corp
ses
on a
bat
tlefie
ld”
and
“ugl
y”is
wha
t i
thin
k ea
ch t
ime
i pa
ssth
em;
each
tim
e i
fail
to t
ake
care
of
thin
gs,y
ank
them
int
o in
visi
bilit
y,no
n-ex
iste
nce.
i kee
p m
y at
tent
ion
on s
owin
g,di
ggin
g,w
ater
ing…
.
lett
ers
[
]It
’s co
ld h
ere,
but I
like
it.
You
didn
’t te
ll m
e ab
out
the
dead
wom
an.
Who
was
she
? D
id y
ou k
now
her?
Did
I e
ver
mee
t her
?T
here
’s a
wom
an w
ho li
ves
next
doo
r.Sh
e fa
scin
ates
me.
She’s
abo
ut f
ifty,
and
her
nam
e is
Bow
en.
She
has
a lo
t of
visi
tors
.Som
etim
es th
ere’s
a li
ne o
utsi
de.
Las
t Su
nday
the
re w
ere
so m
any
peop
leth
at th
e lin
e st
retc
hed
dow
n th
e la
ne a
ndon
to t
he m
ain
road
.Fo
r su
ch a
n ol
dho
use,
the
wal
ls a
re v
ery
thin
.Dur
ing
the
day
I ca
n he
ar
nois
es—
moa
ning
,or
cryi
ng o
ut,s
omet
imes
a b
ang
or a
lou
dre
port
,lik
e an
exp
losi
on.I
thi
nk s
he h
asso
me
kind
of
ta
lent
—pe
rhap
s sh
eco
mm
unic
ates
with
the
dea
d? W
hen
Ito
ld m
y hu
sban
d,he
sai
d I
had
a w
ildim
agin
atio
n.I
feel
no
desi
re to
pro
ve m
ypo
int.
I w
ould
lik
e to
tal
k to
her
,bu
t I
feel
shy
abo
ut a
ppro
achi
ng h
er.W
e’ll
see
wha
t hap
pens
.N
ow I
mus
t pre
pare
din
ner.
I ho
pe y
ou a
re w
ell.
.
• (o
ne’s
year
s)on
e’s a
ge o
r tim
e of
life:
[lee
lee]
See
the
lush
sh
ould
erm
ount
ains
,ci
rcle
d in
a
wid
e,si
lent
mee
ting?
See
the
scat
teri
ng o
f iro
n E
iffel
mas
ts,
poki
ng a
t th
e bl
ue s
ky?
See
the
silh
ouet
tes
of e
agle
s gl
idin
g hi
gh a
bove
the
villa
ge,
whe
re s
mal
l fig
ures
mov
eam
ongs
t fu
rrow
s bu
rstin
g w
ith
gree
nab
unda
nce,
and
a sh
arp
voic
e or
a b
icyc
lebe
ll or
eve
n an
insi
sten
t be
e m
ay n
ot s
tirth
e do
gs
slee
ping
in
th
eir
hot
ston
eya
rds?
Thi
s is
whe
re L
eeL
ee M
o ha
sbe
en b
roug
ht to
safe
ty,w
here
she
and
her
mot
her
can
wal
k an
d br
eath
e w
ithou
tsu
rgic
al m
asks
,w
hich
Lee
Lee
doe
sn’t
wea
r pr
oper
ly a
nyw
ay.S
he d
oesn
’t kn
owho
w to
win
d th
e st
raps
aro
und
the
croo
kof
her
sm
all e
ars
on h
er o
wn,
so t
hat
the
prot
ectiv
e sw
athe
han
gs lo
ose
belo
w h
erno
se.(
In tw
o w
eeks
,alm
ost f
our h
undr
edha
ve
been
in
fect
ed;
ten
have
di
ed.
Pare
nts
deci
ded
to k
eep
thei
r ch
ildre
nho
me
long
bef
ore
the
Edu
catio
n B
urea
uan
noun
ced
the
terr
itory
-wid
e cl
osur
e of
scho
ols.
)L
eeL
ee
tele
phon
es
her
one
frie
nd,
Cha
rlen
ne,
and
asks
wha
t sh
e is
doi
ng.
Cha
rlen
ne li
ves
in a
hig
h ri
se in
the
city
.Sh
e is
pl
ayin
g co
mpu
ter
gam
es
and
wat
chin
g ca
rtoo
ns.S
he is
not
doi
ng h
erho
mew
ork
beca
use
she’s
ho
ping
th
atsc
hool
won
’t ev
er o
pen
agai
n.D
on’t
say
that
,sa
ys L
eeL
ee.
Cha
rlen
ne s
ays
her
mot
her
mak
es h
er t
ake
the
stai
rs,a
frai
dth
at t
hey’
ll ca
tch
it in
the
lift
s.T
hrou
ghth
e w
indo
w L
eeL
ee s
pies
her
eld
erly
neig
hbou
r w
alki
ng
by
wit
h a
larg
eca
rdbo
ard
box;
she
tells
Cha
rlen
ne s
heha
s to
go
and
runs
out
of t
he h
ouse
.Sh
e ca
tche
s up
with
her
nei
ghbo
uran
d st
arts
hop
ping
and
gri
nnin
g sh
yly
alon
gsid
e he
r.“D
idn’
t thi
nk y
ou’d
mis
s thi
s,”s
ays t
heol
d w
oman
,w
inki
ng a
t he
r fr
om u
nder
the
brim
of h
er w
ide
bam
boo
hat.
“Are
they
aw
ake?
”as
ks L
eeL
ee.
“Can
’t yo
u he
ar t
hem
jum
ping
‘gai
nst
the
wal
ls?
Her
e,he
lp m
e w
ith th
e ga
te.”
Lee
Lee
slid
es th
e m
etal
latc
h an
d pu
shes
the
gate
int
o th
e ya
rd,
lett
ing
the
old
wom
an t
hrou
gh,t
hen
push
es i
t to
fro
mth
e in
side
,bi
ting
her
teet
h at
its
lon
g,sq
ueak
ing
groa
n.“L
et’s
have
a l
ook,
then
.”T
he o
ldw
oman
has
set t
he b
ox d
own
by th
e fr
ont
door
of h
er h
ouse
and
is fo
ldin
g ba
ck th
efla
ps.
Lee
Lee
squ
ats
next
to
her
and
peer
s in
side
.The
chi
cks
are
smal
ler
than
she’d
im
agin
ed,
no b
igge
r th
an p
lum
s.T
hey
are
soft
,fu
rry
balls
of
gold
and
choc
olat
e br
own.
She
trie
s to
co
unt
them
,bu
t th
ey k
eep
mov
ing,
hopp
ing
and
tum
blin
g in
to
each
ot
her;
she
gues
ses
four
teen
.“T
hey’
re s
o cu
te”,
she
says
.“W
hat a
re
you
goin
g to
do
with
them
?”“A
fter
lun
ch I
’m t
akin
g th
em t
o th
eal
lotm
ent.
I’ve
mad
e a
nice
pen
for
them
up th
ere.
”“I
s it
big?
Will
the
y be
abl
e to
run
arou
nd?”
“The
y’ll
have
eno
ugh
spac
e.”
“And
then
?”“T
here
’s fe
edin
g,cl
eani
ng—
”“C
an I
hel
p?”
“The
y do
n’t
stay
cut
e fo
r lo
ng.Y
ou’ll
lose
inte
rest
onc
e th
at h
appe
ns.’
“I p
rom
ise
I w
on’t.
”“A
nd it
’s a
lot
of w
ork—
it’ll
tak
e fo
urm
onth
s to
get
the
m t
o a
dece
nt s
ize.
Bes
ides
,won
’t yo
u be
bac
k in
the
city
by
then
?”L
eeL
ee c
ount
s on
her
fin
gers
.“M
ay.
We
mig
ht s
till
be h
ere.
Just
in
time
for
the
Tue
n N
g fe
stiv
al.”
“Tha
t’s r
ight
.”“Y
ou’ll
eat
thr
ee o
r fo
ur a
nd k
eep
the
rest
for
eggs
”,sa
ys L
eeL
ee.
“Or
give
som
e aw
ay.A
sk y
our
mot
her
if sh
e’d fa
ncy
one
for T
uen
Ng.
”L
eeL
ee n
ods,
nods
,he
r en
thus
iasm
insp
ired
less
by
the
hope
of
plea
sing
her
mot
her,
or
of
eati
ng
juic
y,st
eam
edch
icke
n la
ced
with
gin
ger
and
scal
lions
,th
an h
er d
esire
righ
t the
n to
touc
h on
e of
the
crea
ture
s,to
pic
k it
up a
nd l
et t
hew
arm
thi
ng s
it in
her
cur
ling
palm
and
run
a fin
ger
alon
g its
sof
t,flo
ssy
fur,
feel
ing
its t
iny
bone
s an
d ho
ldin
g al
l of
its
frag
ility
in
he
r ha
nd,
befo
re
it is
oblig
ed
to
jum
p ou
t,an
d be
com
eso
met
hing
els
e.
.V
ery
tired
all
day.
.
• (o
ne’s
year
s) [
iden
tify
you
rsel
f]i
love
bor
row
ing
othe
r pe
ople
’s cl
othe
s,fe
elin
g th
e w
eird
po
wer
of
tran
sfor
mat
ion
that
liv
es i
n a
foot
ball
shir
t,a
leat
her b
elt,
an it
chy
twee
d pe
ncil
skir
t.ev
eryt
hing
is
fanc
y dr
ess.
but
itsh
ould
n’t
look
lik
e it;
cost
umes
are
too
muc
h,‘I’
m n
ot re
ally
/usu
ally
like
this
’,or
,‘I
live
for t
he w
eeke
nds o
nly’
,or,
‘Loo
k at
me!
Loo
k at
my
wac
kine
ss!
Is t
he d
ipve
gan?
’i t
hink
may
be u
nifo
rms
are
the
ultim
ate.
i re
cent
ly b
ough
t a
dres
s th
atlo
oks
sem
i-m
ilita
ry,
sem
i-ai
rlin
est
ewar
dess
,whe
n re
ally
i j
ust
wan
ted
tobu
y an
air
line
stew
arde
ss u
nifo
rm.i
don
’tw
ant
the
job,
i ju
st l
ike
the
dist
anci
ngef
fect
of
th
e ta
ilori
ng,
and
the
neck
ties…
med
ical
scr
ubs,
the
gree
n on
es—
duri
ng S
AR
S,i
enjo
yed
wal
king
aro
und
the
city
with
a s
urgi
cal m
ask
on…
wha
tis
it,b
eyon
d a
lam
e fe
tish?
may
be it
’s th
eid
ea o
f a
body
bei
ng a
bla
nk s
late
,or
agl
ob o
f pu
tty
that
can
be
pour
ed i
nto
thes
e pr
escr
ibed
mou
lds
and—
no,
the
putt
y is
n’t
blan
k,it
’s pu
tty
wit
hpe
rson
alit
y,th
at’s
impo
rtan
t—an
d so
whe
n yo
u po
ur
your
self
into
th
ese
mou
lds
you’
re n
ot g
oing
to
fit e
xact
ly,
beca
use
may
be y
ou w
on’t
reac
h in
to a
llth
e lit
tle n
ooks
and
cre
vice
s of
the
shap
e,or
may
be t
here
’s to
o m
uch
of y
ou a
ndth
ere’s
ove
rspi
ll...
that
’s in
tere
stin
g to
me,
the
part
s th
at d
on’t
fit,t
hat
jar
a lit
tle o
rlo
ok a
litt
le lo
psid
ed;t
hat’s
a n
ice,
stra
nge
little
fus
ion
star
ting
to h
appe
n.it
’s a
bit
like
wri
ting
for m
e.oc
casi
onal
ly,e
ither
as
a br
ief
wor
kout
or
exer
cise
or
whe
n i
shou
ld h
ave
bett
er t
hing
s to
do,
i mig
htat
tem
pt a
few
pag
es o
f co
pyca
t w
ritin
g.bu
t ev
en
if i
can
‘do
a fa
ulkn
er’
orw
hate
ver,
i fin
d i c
an’t
go f
or m
ore
than
wor
ds b
efor
e m
y es
sex
acce
nt o
rch
ines
e-je
wis
h m
othe
r tra
its s
tart
pok
ing
at t
he s
urfa
ce.a
nd s
omet
imes
it’s
a f
ine
mes
s,an
d so
met
imes
fa
ulkn
er
star
tsas
king
you
if y
ou re
mem
bere
d yo
ur h
ouse
keys
and
tel
ling
you
you’
ll ca
tch
your
deat
h in
a n
asal
ly,e
ssex
whi
ne…
.
fox·
trot
noun
.a
ballr
oom
dan
ce i
n 4/
4 tim
e,w
ithal
tern
atio
n of
tw
o sl
ow a
nd t
wo
quic
kst
eps.
• a
piec
e of
mus
ic w
ritt
en f
or s
uch
ada
nce.
• a
gait
in w
hich
a h
orse
wal
ks w
ith it
sfr
ont l
egs
and
trot
s w
ith it
s hi
nd le
gs.
.a
code
wor
d re
pres
entin
g th
e le
tter
F,
used
in r
adio
com
mun
icat
ion.
.be
ginn
ing
bron
ze
forw
ard
basi
cba
ck b
asic
hesi
tatio
n le
ft tu
rnhe
sita
tion
righ
t tur
nle
ft b
ox (
reve
rse)
turn
side
sw
aypr
omen
ade
.
lett
ers
[
]
It m
ay i
nter
est
you
to k
now
tha
t I
have
been
rea
ding
poe
try
agai
n,m
ostly
the
clas
sics
.I h
ave
mad
e so
me
earl
y,fa
lteri
ngst
eps
tow
ards
wri
ting
my
own
poem
s.I
shou
ld sa
y th
ey a
re c
owar
dly
gest
ures
,for
I am
con
trib
utin
g no
thin
g of
mys
elf
toth
ese
piec
es.
For
the
mom
ent
I am
hidi
ng b
ehin
d th
e w
ords
and
met
ers
ofth
e m
aste
rs.T
o pu
t it
mor
e pl
ainl
y,I
amsi
mpl
y co
pyin
g ou
t th
ese
wor
ks,
with
perh
aps
a su
perf
icia
l al
tera
tion
here
or
ther
e.I
feel
I c
an c
onfe
ss t
his
to y
ouw
ithou
t fe
ar o
f ju
dgem
ent.
For
som
ere
ason
,I
am
assu
red
of
your
ne
utra
lat
titud
e to
war
ds p
lagi
aris
m.T
his
is n
otm
eant
in a
ny w
ay a
s a
slig
ht;m
erel
y th
atI
doub
t you
hav
e gi
ven
muc
h th
ough
t to
the
subj
ect,
and
wer
e yo
u to
gi
ve
itth
ough
t,yo
u w
ould
like
ly fa
il to
see
wha
tth
e fu
ss is
all
abou
t.I
find
this
a q
ualit
y
to a
dmire
rath
er th
an fa
ult.
I can
thin
k of
noth
ing
mor
e to
say
for t
he ti
me
bein
g.I
hope
you
are
wel
l.
.W
atch
ed
the
UK
elec
tions
fr
omH
ong
Kon
g.R
ealis
e ha
ve
mis
sed
abse
ntee
vot
er d
eadl
ine.
.t
he c
ity
of ch
in ji
es:T
owar
ds th
e en
dof
th
e se
cond
m
illen
nium
,th
e ci
tysu
ffer
ed
from
an
ov
erab
unda
nce
ofre
side
nts
calle
d C
hen
Jie—
m
illio
n to
be p
reci
se—
whi
ch c
ause
d an
inc
reas
ing
amou
nt o
f co
nfus
ion
amon
gst
offic
ials
,an
d w
as e
vent
ually
labe
lled
a ‘so
cial
and
adm
inis
trat
ive
nigh
tmar
e’by
the
cen
tral
gove
rnm
ent.
A la
w w
as p
asse
d th
at p
rohi
bite
d ne
wpa
rent
s fro
m n
amin
g th
eir c
hild
ren
Che
nJi
e,an
d th
at
dem
ande
d a
rand
omse
lect
ion
of e
xist
ing
Che
n Ji
es t
o ch
ange
thei
r na
mes
.T
his
was
to
lit
tle
avai
l;in
vest
ed a
s it
was
with
suc
h au
spic
ious
qual
ities
(Ji
e m
eani
ng p
ure,
clea
n) t
hena
me
cont
inue
d it
s po
pula
rity
,w
ith
cens
us f
igur
es s
how
ing
that
the
num
ber
of n
ewbo
rn C
hen
Jies
had
ris
en b
y
%in
the
last
yea
r.In
th
e fa
ce
of
such
bl
atan
tin
subo
rdin
atio
n,th
e go
vern
men
t w
asfo
rced
to
chan
ge i
ts t
actic
s:fir
st t
hey
incr
ease
d th
e fin
e im
pose
d on
th
ose
refu
sing
to c
hang
e th
eir n
ame,
or w
ilful
lyna
min
g th
eir
child
C
hen
Jie,
from
,
to
,
;th
en t
hey
bega
nar
rest
ing
peop
le a
nd t
hrow
ing
them
into
jail;
even
tual
ly t
hey
star
ted
perf
orm
ing
publ
ic
exec
utio
ns
of
peop
le
with
th
ena
me
Che
n Ji
e.It
is c
once
ivab
le th
at th
is la
st m
easu
rem
ay
have
ev
entu
ally
pr
oduc
ed
the
desi
red
effe
ct,
had
an
unde
rgro
und
colle
ctiv
e kn
own
only
as ‘
The
Pro
tect
ors’
not
been
so
ef
fect
ive
in
rally
ing
the
citi
zens
to
se
cret
ly
burn
th
eir
iden
tific
atio
n pa
pers
in
prot
est
and
take
to t
he s
tree
ts a
t no
on o
n N
atio
nal
Day
,ch
antin
g:Yo
u w
ill h
ave
to d
estr
oy t
heen
tire
city
,for
I a
m a
lso C
hen
Jie!
I a
m a
lsoC
hen
Jie!
.o
rdin
ary a
ffai
rs:f
rom
the
bott
om o
fth
e st
airs
we
lear
n of
a d
eath
.thi
s de
ath
took
pla
ce s
omew
here
els
e,ri
ght
befo
redi
nner
.we
are
told
to st
ay d
owns
tair
s.th
ead
ults
rem
ain
in h
igh
room
s.w
e ca
n he
arth
e gr
ainy
ligh
t.th
ey fo
rget
to fe
ed u
s.
.or
dina
ry a
ffai
rs:G
ot d
runk
for
the
first
tim
e at
Mr.
Pur
ves’
clas
s pa
rty.
.
ordi
nary
aff
airs
:Sh
e ne
ver
lets
his
hair
cra
wl
past
his
ear
lobe
s.T
ime
for
acu
t.Sh
e sn
ips
at h
is h
air
in t
he k
itche
n,br
ight
by
nigh
t,da
rk b
y da
y (it
doe
sn’t
catc
h th
e su
n).H
e fin
ds th
e so
und
of th
esc
isso
rs c
omfo
rtin
g.Sh
e is
ver
y go
od.
Aft
er e
ach
new
hai
rcut
he
gets
whi
stle
d
com
plim
ents
fr
om
his
staf
f an
d so
ft,
rais
ed g
lanc
es f
rom
Eng
lishw
omen
.H
ese
nds
his
youn
ger
wai
ters
to
her
whe
nth
ey st
art t
o lo
ok li
ke h
ippi
es.S
omet
hing
abou
t ha
ving
the
ir h
air
cut
by t
he b
oss’s
wife
mak
es t
hem
act
mor
e re
spec
tful
lyto
war
ds h
im (
thou
gh b
ehin
d hi
s ba
ckth
ey s
till
call
him
‘Pro
fess
or’a
nd m
ake
fun
of
his
seri
ous
polit
enes
s an
d hi
sin
sist
ence
on
doin
g th
ings
‘in
the
prop
erw
ay’,
but
perh
aps
not
as m
uch
as b
efor
e.St
ill,
they
don
’t ar
ticul
ate
to e
ach
othe
rw
hat i
t is a
bout
the
light
,sw
ift m
otio
n of
her
finge
rs i
n th
eir
hair
tha
t fil
ls t
hem
with
a s
tran
ge n
ew k
ind
of l
ongi
ng,
aco
mbi
natio
n of
lust
and
hom
esic
knes
s,or
the
sobe
ring
eff
ect
of t
he c
old
war
ning
stee
l aga
inst
thei
r ne
cks
and
ears
).
.Ye
s,sh
e is
goo
d.Sh
e co
uld
do t
his
for
a liv
ing,
if it
wer
en’t
for
the
child
ren.
She
is c
arry
ing
thei
r se
cond
chi
ld,a
lso
agi
rl.T
hey
do n
ot y
et k
now
its s
ex,a
nd a
rebo
th o
penl
y w
ishi
ng f
or a
boy
,bu
t to
them
selv
es t
hey
wis
h di
ffer
ent
thin
gs.
She
wan
ts a
boy
.A b
oy w
ould
be
mor
etr
oubl
esom
e,pe
rhap
s,bu
t he
cou
ld c
arry
on t
he f
amily
nam
e.H
er b
lood
is in
her
child
ren
and
in t
heir
futu
re c
hild
ren;
but
her
conc
ern
is t
he n
ame
line.
Sinc
e he
rsis
los
t,it
is e
ven
mor
e im
port
ant
toco
ntin
ue h
er h
usba
nd’s.
Her
hus
band
,m
eanw
hile
,w
onde
rs a
t th
e di
min
ishi
ng
stre
ngth
of
his
own
conv
ictio
n.Sc
isso
rsin
han
d,sh
e pa
uses
to
adm
ire h
er w
ork.
Her
gaz
e sn
ags
on a
tin
y pi
nk s
pot,
alm
ost
hidd
en i
n th
e th
ick
of h
is w
avy
blac
k ha
ir.Sh
e co
ntin
ues
to w
ork
with
the
bris
k de
tach
men
t of
a p
rofe
ssio
nal,
all
the
whi
le
sile
ntly
sc
rutin
izin
g th
eba
ld-s
pot-
in-p
rogr
ess
as i
f it
wer
e so
me
kind
of
alie
n pa
rasi
te.
Whe
n di
d it
get
ther
e? W
hat i
s it d
oing
? H
ow so
on b
efor
e it
spre
ads?
.
Lat
er
that
ni
ght
she
runs
an
unce
rtai
n ha
nd t
hrou
gh h
er o
wn
lock
s.Pe
ople
oft
en g
ive
amaz
ed c
ompl
imen
tsat
how
shi
ny a
nd b
lack
her
hai
r is
.She
smile
s in
her m
odes
t way
,and
doe
sn’t
tell
them
(do
esn’
t kn
ow h
ow t
o te
ll th
em)
that
she
con
sum
es b
lack
ses
ame
seed
slik
e ri
ce,a
nd t
hat
she
regu
larl
y pu
lls o
uthe
r w
hite
hai
rs a
nd r
ubs
ging
er in
to t
hero
ots
to s
top
them
spr
ingi
ng u
p ag
ain.
.
Qui
t jo
b.D
ecid
e ne
ver
to w
ork
agai
n in
a p
lace
that
has
a d
ress
cod
e.
.Fu
nera
l for
gra
ndm
othe
r.
.fo
x·tr
otin
term
edia
te b
ronz
e
prog
ress
ive
quar
ter
turn
spr
ogre
ssiv
e qu
arte
r tu
rns
to r.
forw
ard
chan
ges
o.p.
back
cha
nges
o.p
.ri
ght b
ox (
natu
ral)
turn
prom
enad
e w
/und
erar
m tu
rn to
l
prom
enad
e w
/und
erar
m tu
rn to
r.
.C
offe
e sh
op,
Lit
tle
Ital
y.E
aves
drop
ped
on m
an ta
lkin
g to
wom
anab
out
Cat
holic
ism
:T
he n
uns
are
butc
han
d th
e pr
iest
s are
gay
.
.she
doe
sn’t
spea
k.th
e de
sire
is th
ere.
she
does
n’t
spea
k.sh
e do
esn’
t ha
ve t
hew
ords
.she
doe
s no
t sp
eak.
the
desi
re i
sno
t the
re.s
he d
oes
not s
peak
.
.H
.say
s w
e sh
ould
bre
ak u
p.
.A
yea
r’s m
ind,
a tim
e to
be
allo
wed
for
an a
ct o
r an
eve
nt,
in o
rder
tha
t an
entir
e ye
ar m
ight
be
secu
red
beyo
nd a
llqu
estio
n:(A
nd i
n th
e da
rk w
e ri
se a
ndre
ach
for
our
clot
hes,
says
the
Fir
st.
Ihe
ar
slow
dr
awn
brea
thin
g,bu
tton
ssc
ratc
hing
thr
ough
eye
s,sh
iftin
g fe
et.
Ihe
ar
chai
r jo
ints
so
ftly
m
oani
ng,
and
othe
r m
ovem
ents
I k
now
,po
cket
s an
dhe
lpin
g,as
we
stra
ight
en e
ach
othe
rs’
colla
rs a
nd t
ight
en o
ur s
carv
es a
s if
itw
ere
an o
rdin
ary
outin
g.
.T
he S
econ
d ho
ld m
e st
ill,s
ays
the
Thi
rd.S
he p
lace
s som
ethi
ng h
eavy
in m
yri
ght
pock
et,
and
it pu
lls m
y sh
ould
erdo
wn,
anot
her
heav
y th
ing
in m
y le
ft,
and
I w
ant
to s
cow
l at
her
,th
ough
Ikn
ow s
he i
s do
ing
the
sam
e fo
r th
eot
hers
.I
have
to
st
raig
hten
m
ysel
f,pr
actic
e st
andi
ng e
venl
y w
ith t
he n
eww
eigh
t.I
feel
the
sto
nes,
each
one
so
big
and
roug
h m
y ha
nds
can’
t de
scri
be it
all.
Hea
vine
ss s
prea
ds,
drea
dful
col
dnes
s;I
shiv
er a
nd y
awn,
thin
k to
the
jou
rney
ahea
d.I
know
I w
ill t
ire,
and
so I
will
have
to
pret
end
I am
car
ryin
g a
smal
lan
imal
or
a
child
,ot
herw
ise
I’ll
bete
mpt
ed t
o dr
op a
sto
ne h
ere
and
ther
ean
d ru
in e
very
thin
g.I
no lo
nger
wan
t to
go.I
wou
ld li
ke to
go
back
to m
y be
d an
ddr
eam
.But
I a
m n
ot s
care
d.I
am s
impl
ytir
ed.
.
We
can’
t hol
d ha
nds,
says
the
Fift
h,as
we
are
wal
king
in
a lin
e,an
d I
am a
tth
e en
d be
caus
e I
am
the
youn
gest
,th
ough
I t
hink
the
Sec
ond
or t
he F
irst
shou
ld b
e be
hind
me
for
prot
ectio
n.M
yba
ck is
col
d.Se
e,th
ey d
o no
t lea
d so
wel
l.So
I m
ust
trea
d ca
refu
lly b
y m
ysel
f ov
erth
e bu
mpy
,sh
arp
grou
nd.
I ha
ve
noha
nds
to b
alan
ce o
r br
eak
a fa
ll;th
ey a
reoc
cupi
ed w
ith b
unch
ing
and
wei
ghin
gm
y co
at p
ocke
ts,t
o ke
ep th
e st
ones
from
hitt
ing
agai
nst m
y si
des.
I w
ish
we
coul
dho
ld h
ands
,tho
ugh
I do
fee
l a li
ttle
saf
ean
d gr
atef
ul fo
r th
e m
oon;
I ca
n no
w s
eeso
met
hing
of
thei
r da
rk s
hape
s m
ovin
gah
ead
thro
ugh
tree
arm
s an
d bu
shes
and
dow
n an
d up
sof
t m
uddy
slo
pes.
The
fain
t roa
ring
she
et o
f riv
er is
con
stan
t,so
we
know
we
are
goin
g th
e ri
ght
way
.I
may
occ
asio
nally
com
plai
n,bu
t at
thi
sm
omen
t I
am g
lad
to b
e th
e yo
unge
stan
d fr
eed
from
the
bur
den
of le
ader
ship
,
unlik
e th
e F
irst
and
the
Sec
ond—
find
the
ston
es,f
ind
the
rive
r.A
nd e
ven
if I
wer
e ol
der a
nd le
adin
g,I
cann
ot im
agin
edo
ing
a go
od jo
b of
it,f
or s
ince
my
birt
hth
ey h
ave
fed
my
fear
and
laz
ines
s,m
yey
es h
alf-
shut
and
my
body
hal
f-as
leep
and
blin
d to
rea
l sen
se o
f di
rect
ion.
It is
too
late
to
try
and
be d
iffer
ent
now
,to
look
aft
er a
ny o
f th
em (
alth
ough
I h
ave
alw
ays
had
good
ear
s,an
d w
ould
stil
lhe
ar
the
roar
ing
shee
t of
ri
ver,
sope
rhap
s,pe
rhap
s I c
ould
lead
if I
had
to).
.
We
shiv
er in
the
dark
ligh
t,sa
ys th
eSe
cond
.I fe
el w
eak
and
near
to c
ryin
g fo
rm
ysel
f—th
e po
vert
y—ou
r po
vert
y—th
est
rugg
le—
the
was
te—
the
abse
nce
ofst
rugg
le—
Fath
er—
.
I am
tire
d,sa
ys t
he S
econ
d,an
dve
ry h
eavy
.It
gri
eves
me
that
I d
o no
tlo
ok
behi
nd
once
fo
r th
e T
hird
,th
eFo
urth
,and
the
Fift
h.I
wor
ry t
hat
one
of t
hem
will
tri
p an
d fa
ll,or
scr
atch
them
selv
es o
n a
bran
ch;n
ot b
ecau
se t
hein
jury
will
be
grea
t,bu
t be
caus
e it
may
jolt
them
fro
m t
heir
sle
epy
reso
lve
and
sugg
est
mor
e fe
ar t
o th
em,a
nd t
his
will
exag
gera
te a
nd w
e ca
nnot
,ca
nnot
hav
em
ore
fear
—bu
t I
do n
ot l
ook
behi
nd.I
love
the
m,
I sa
y,bu
t I
no l
onge
r kn
oww
hat
it m
eans
if I
am
als
o tir
ed o
f th
eman
d w
ish
for
them
to
die
so I
am
fre
e of
wor
ry,
free
of
thou
ght.
How
won
derf
ul
to
forg
et.
How
sa
tisfy
ing,
to
feel
no
wei
ght
or s
ense
.The
hea
vine
ss g
row
s,it
has
no m
ercy
.I a
m f
ull o
f re
vuls
ion
and
long
ing
for
my
bloo
d.T
he F
irst
cho
seni
ght,
so w
e w
ould
n’t
have
to
see
each
othe
r.Sh
e to
o th
ough
t it w
ould
mak
e us
wea
k,do
ubtf
ul…
but
she
for
got
abou
tth
e m
oonl
ight
,w
hich
mea
ns i
t is
not
real
ly s
o da
rk,
and
we
are
able
to
see
alit
tle o
f ou
r fa
ces,
our
dim
sha
pes.
But
none
of
us w
ill l
ook.
Perh
aps
she
knew
this
too.
.
As
I be
nd u
nder
bra
nche
s an
d st
epov
er t
he r
ocky
gro
und,
I am
thi
nkin
g of
nail
head
s,sa
ys t
he T
hird
,th
ose
shin
yfl
at
pelt
s st
arri
ng
the
join
ts
of
the
woo
den
gate
tha
t se
para
tes
the
pig
pen
from
the
vege
tabl
e ga
rden
.I th
ink
of th
ena
il he
ads
and
mar
vel
at m
y lo
ve f
orth
em,
neve
r kn
owin
g til
l no
w h
ow I
depe
nded
on
th
e si
ght
of
them
fo
rre
assu
ranc
e.T
hey
are
foot
prin
ts in
mud
,a
smud
ge
of
brea
th
on
a w
indo
w;
evid
ence
of
the
hum
an e
ffor
t.I
see
dear
old
Fung
,kne
elin
g ov
er p
lank
s of
woo
dw
ith h
amm
er a
nd p
urpo
se i
n m
ind
tocr
eate
a u
sefu
l th
ing,
push
ed b
y co
oks’
hand
s,se
rvan
ts’h
ands
,gar
dene
rs’h
ands
.A
nd m
ine
and
the
Four
th’s,
beca
use
we
love
d th
e pi
g.
.W
e sh
all
mis
s ou
r st
udie
s w
ithM
aste
r L
iang
tom
orro
w,s
ays
the
Thi
rd.
We
shal
l m
iss
his
stoo
ped
old
back
,w
hich
re
min
ds
me
som
etim
es
of
aho
mel
ess
bird
,an
d hi
s cl
umsy
ent
ranc
eof
boo
ks,m
anus
crip
ts,r
olls
of
pain
tings
spill
ing
out
of h
is a
rms
as h
e ed
ges
tow
ards
th
e de
sk.
We
shal
l m
iss
his
roun
ded
wor
ds h
eavy
with
int
ent
and
sadn
ess,
and
the
thou
ghtf
ul p
ause
s th
atso
met
imes
dri
ft i
nto
perm
anen
t si
lenc
e.T
oday
,w
hile
rec
iting
a p
oem
abo
ut a
hunt
er i
n a
fore
st,t
he i
nter
rupt
ion
of a
swal
low
fl
ying
in
to
the
room
an
dpe
rchi
ng
on
his
lect
ern
elic
ited
th
isre
spon
se:“
Wel
l,a
good
aft
erno
on to
you
,si
r.B
ut I
’m a
frai
d yo
u ha
ve f
low
n in
toth
e w
rong
cla
ssro
om.”
The
n he
spe
nt a
cons
ider
able
am
ount
of
time
wav
ing
his
book
ab
out,
fina
lly
succ
eedi
ng
insh
ooin
g it
back
out
side
.H
e ca
ught
me
cove
ring
my
smile
,and
gav
e m
e a
brie
fsc
owl.
I sh
all
mis
s hi
s sc
owlin
g.I
shal
lm
iss t
he n
ovel
ty o
f bei
ng u
nfav
oure
d,fo
ron
ce m
y be
auty
and
cha
rm ig
nore
d.A
ndI
shal
l m
iss
our
pain
ting
clas
ses,
and
Ish
all
mis
s m
y fin
gers
lig
ht a
gain
st t
hezi
ther
,an
d I
shal
l m
iss
the
mot
tled
shad
ows
on t
he c
allig
raph
y bo
ok t
hat
alm
ost
diss
olve
the
pai
nful
eff
ort
of m
ybr
ushs
trok
es,
and
mak
e m
e ha
ppily
resi
gned
to
th
e or
dina
rine
ss
of
my
penm
ansh
ip.
.
The
y re
spon
ded
to m
y au
thor
ity
with
sad
com
plia
nce,
says
the
Fir
st,a
s if
they
all
knew
the
re w
as n
o ot
her
way
—ex
cept
per
haps
the
Sec
ond,
who
spe
ntth
e ne
xt fe
w d
ays a
void
ing
my
eye,
tryi
ngto
hi
de
her
dark
lo
ok
of
doub
t an
dm
istr
ust.
But
the
n sh
e su
rpri
sed
me
incl
ass
this
aft
erno
on;w
hen
Mas
ter
Lia
ngw
as p
reoc
cupi
ed w
ith t
he s
wal
low
,sh
ere
ache
d ov
er a
nd p
lace
d a
pebb
le n
ext t
om
y bo
ok.
She
held
m
y ga
ze
for
am
omen
t and
nod
ded
to m
e,ye
s,ye
s.
.We
find
a pl
ace
at th
e ri
ver,
says
the
Fift
h,al
thou
gh i
t do
esn’
t fe
el s
o m
uch
like
a pl
ace
that
w
e’ve
ch
osen
,as
som
ewhe
re w
e’ve
hap
pene
d to
sto
p at
,ha
ving
fin
ally
com
e to
the
end
of
our
stre
ngth
.W
e st
and
a lit
tle w
hile
in
ada
rk,
blui
sh
clum
p,pa
ntin
g lig
htly
,nu
dgin
g ag
ains
t ea
ch o
ther
with
sof
tel
bow
s,sh
ould
ers.
Our
bod
ies
are
war
mfr
om t
he w
alki
ng.
We
do n
ot l
ook
atea
ch o
ther
.H
and
in h
and
we
mee
t th
ew
ater
:th
e F
irst
go
es
in,
lead
ing
the
Seco
nd a
nd T
hird
in a
fter
her
.I h
ear t
heFo
urth
say
,It’s
col
d,an
d I
real
ise
it’s
the
first
tim
e w
e’ve
spo
ken
sinc
e ge
ttin
g up
in t
he d
ark,
and
then
the
Fou
rth
take
sm
y ha
nd a
nd p
ulls
me
tow
ards
the
wat
erco
ld s
hock
aro
und
my
legs
I g
asp
goin
gin
qui
ckly
it is
up
to m
y ne
ck I
gas
p,an
dpu
sh,w
hy p
ush,
why
rea
ch f
or t
he b
ank
and
roar
ing
but
the
hand
and
the
sto
nes
are
pulli
ng m
e ba
ck,b
ut I
kic
k an
d pu
sh,
but
the
hand
and
the
sto
nes,
but
I ki
ckan
d st
op,s
top,
you
see,
don’
t you
see,
says
the
Fir
st,t
he li
ne o
f cro
wns
will
cru
mbl
ean
d di
ssol
ve;
no w
eigh
t,no
sen
se,
nom
emor
y,re
mem
ber;
not
to b
e se
nt;n
otto
suf
fer
aliv
e;no
t to
fea
r al
one;
not
todi
e al
one;
not
to d
isap
pear
int
o br
oken
myt
h.N
ow,
calm
.T
oget
her
we
step
dow
n.W
e si
nk.
We
lay
dow
n.W
e ar
ecl
ose,
and
we
rem
ain.
We
rem
ain.
)
.w
e tr
avel
ligh
t,it
seem
s
.w
e tr
avel
lig
ht,
it se
ems
(or
only
little
see
n in
our
han
ds).
we
trav
el li
ght,
it se
ems:
swift
,lo
w,
cree
ping
...le
ap!
asi
ngle
bou
nd a
nd s
udde
nly
no i
t ta
kes
mor
e,it
take
s go
ing
into
the
grou
nd a
nda
risi
ng a
nd a
noth
er p
assi
ng b
efor
e th
epo
ssib
le e
xcha
nge
of h
ere
and
ther
e,of
your
s an
d m
ine,
befo
re th
e fa
ll,th
e la
nd,
the
roll—
this
is t
he t
rick
iest
par
t,fo
r at
times
we
falte
r,be
tray
ed b
y do
ubt,
whi
leat
ot
her
tim
es
the
grou
nd
sim
ply
dist
rust
s an
d re
pels
us.
but
ther
e ar
e al
sotim
es,
and
thes
e ar
e fe
w,
but
they
are
ther
e,w
hen
we
are
able
to
exec
ute
ala
ndin
g so
sile
nt,
so p
erfe
ct,
that
the
rear
e no
be
tray
ing
mov
emen
ts,
noco
nsol
ator
y st
eps.
we
finis
h st
andi
ng,
stra
ight
,with
the
loo
k of
som
eone
who
has
been
her
e al
l alo
ng.
.
is th
is w
hat y
ou w
ante
d?
.
Iden
tify
you
rsel
f.
.on
ret
urn
:B
orde
r co
ntro
l.th
ena
tiona
l gu
ard
is e
xhau
sted
.bu
t th
ey,
they
hav
e al
l th
ese
new
filt
ers:
retin
alsc
ans,
ther
mal
sca
ns,r
ubbe
r glo
ves,
all t
oen
sure
tha
t yo
u ar
e w
ho y
ou s
ay y
ou a
re,
or th
at y
ou a
re th
e sa
me
you
that
left
this
coun
try,
beep
! be
ep!
Iden
tify
you
rsel
f.w
hat?
oh,
i’m—
Pap
ers.
pape
rs.
You’
rem
issi
ng a
for
m.
wha
t? Y
ou’re
miss
ing
afo
rm.
no-o
ne t
old
me
i ne
eded
a f
orm
.Yo
u’re
miss
ing
a fo
rm.d
o i r
eally
nee
d it?
We
can’
t le
t yo
u th
roug
h w
itho
ut a
for
m.
aren
’t th
ey o
verr
ated
any
way
? W
hat?
isn’
tit
al
l ill
usio
n an
yway
? W
hat
are
you
talk
ing
abou
t?do
esn’
t it a
ll co
me
dow
n to
cells
an
d su
b-at
omic
pa
rtic
les
and
wav
elen
gths
,vi
brat
ions
? ri
sing
,pa
ssin
gaw
ay,r
eple
nish
ing,
risi
ng,p
assi
ng a
way
,re
plen
ishi
ng…
who
i a
m,
and
you,
and
you,
yes
you
with
you
r rub
ber s
tam
p,no
tto
put
too
fin
e a
poin
t on
it…
but
,bi
olog
ical
ly s
peak
ing,
the
me
and
the
you
at th
e be
ginn
ing
of th
is p
roce
dure
no
long
er e
xist
;in
fact
,in
the
time
it’s
take
nus
to g
o th
roug
h th
is,y
ou a
nd i
have
die
da
hund
red,
no,a
tho
usan
d tim
es.n
o,m
ypa
pers
don
’t st
ate
that
i’m
a s
cien
tist,
oran
enl
ight
ened
bei
ng (
but
som
etim
es,
whe
n si
ttin
g,an
d th
e m
ind
is s
till
and
the
body
fol
low
s ac
cord
ingl
y,an
d th
e
auto
-ops
is is
bei
ng p
erfo
rmed
,a p
artic
lem
ay b
e ca
ught
).Id
enti
fy y
ours
elf:
who
are
you?
you
real
ly d
on’t
let u
p,do
you
? ca
n i
say
fuzz
y to
ngue
d bi
-tri
-qua
drili
ngua
l,je
lly-l
imbe
d,ov
er-p
erso
nalis
ed p
utty
in
a… d
on’t
look
sca
red.
it’s
okay
.it
’s al
lte
mpo
rary
—ju
st
a ph
ase
i’m
goin
gth
roug
h.ca
n i g
o th
roug
h?
.th
e tu
rnip
s ar
e be
tter
this
yea
r.
.fo
x·tr
otfu
ll br
onze
righ
t piv
ot tu
rntw
inkl
eba
ck t
win
kle
prom
enad
e ch
eck
prom
enad
e tw
ist t
urn
prom
enad
e pi
vot
grap
evin
es
.
Met
Bob
Woo
dwar
d’s
daug
hter
in
San
Fran
cisc
o.
.on
ret
urn:
How
do
you
feel
,be
ing
back
? I’m b
ack.
Yes.
How
do
you
feel
?I
can’
t tas
te a
nyth
ing.
How
can
that
be?
An
exag
gera
tion.
I ta
ste
thin
gs,
ofco
urse
.But
the
tast
es d
o no
thin
g fo
r me.
The
y do
n’t
mak
e m
e w
ant
mor
e.T
hey
don’
t mak
e m
e sm
ile fo
r mem
orie
s of m
ym
othe
r.T
hey
don’
t fee
l lik
e a
rew
ard,
not
even
sat
isfa
ctio
n,fo
r a
day’
s w
ork.
And
Iw
ork. I se
e yo
u.I
wor
k en
dles
sly,
I am
dul
l fr
om i
t.N
o,I
was
dul
l whe
n I
cam
e he
re.W
hy is
it th
at I
can
’t to
uch
anyt
hing
,gra
b it?
If
I w
ere
to c
lenc
h m
y fin
gers
aro
und
asm
all
neck
I d
oubt
I’d
fee
l an
ythi
ng.
Why
can
’t I
touc
h an
ythi
ng a
nd h
ave
itin
spire
fee
ling
in m
e? I
wan
t to
kno
ww
hy n
othi
ng fe
els
palp
able
.Yo
u se
em d
istan
t.B
ut I
am
now
here
els
e.I
am w
eigh
ted
here
.See
how
I m
ove
mor
e sl
owly
her
e?
Your
iri
ses
tick
le t
he r
oofs
ofyo
ur e
ye-
whi
tes.
You
are
bore
d.Ye
s I
am b
ored
.I a
m b
ored
to d
espa
ir.B
ut i
t is
n’t
as i
f I
don’
t ha
ve e
noug
h to
occu
py m
ysel
f with
.I a
m fr
ight
ened
.O
fwha
t?O
f th
is
num
bnes
s,th
is
leth
argy
.I
won
der
if I
am a
live.
No,
I ex
agge
rate
agai
n.I
know
I a
m a
live.
I ju
st w
onde
r if
it is
rea
lly m
e w
ho is
aliv
e.
.P
lane
rid
e to
HK
:The
ligh
ts in
the
sky
are
beau
tiful
.I g
et d
runk
and
eat
too
man
y pe
anut
s.
.•
(one
’s ye
ars)
I dr
eam
abo
ut y
ouso
met
imes
,in
si
tuat
ions
th
at
seem
fam
iliar
and
yet
odd
,as
the
y ar
e no
tsu
ited
to y
ou.
You
are
surr
ound
ed b
yar
tists
and
peo
ple
danc
ing,
your
hou
se is
cons
tant
ly f
illed
with
mus
ic a
nd l
ivel
yco
nver
sati
on
and
you
are
so
busy
chat
ting
to
a sl
eek,
smal
l fa
ced
man
sitt
ing
on y
our
chai
r ar
m th
at y
ou b
arel
yno
tice
me
whe
n I
wal
k th
roug
h yo
urdo
or a
nd c
anno
t fin
d a
plac
e to
put
my
bag.
I ca
n’t
belie
ve I
hav
e co
me
all
this
way
and
you
stil
l nee
d se
vera
l mom
ents
befo
re y
ou s
ee m
e.I
shou
ld b
e st
unni
ngyo
u w
ith m
y en
tran
ce,
with
thi
s si
lken
coat
fa
lling
of
f m
y lim
bs
and
my
dazz
ling
reap
pear
ance
,the
wei
ght
of a
llth
e tim
e w
e ha
ve l
ost.
But
her
e I
am,
hidi
ng.I
thou
ght I
was
the
sure
one
,the
one
who
kno
ws
how
thi
ngs
have
fal
len
sinc
e.I
didn
’t kn
ow c
erta
inty
cou
ld b
esh
aken
in
such
a w
ay.
And
by
you,
my
supp
osed
ally
,now
,str
ange
r.Yo
u po
sses
sth
is n
ever
bef
ore
sere
nity
,th
is s
tilln
ess
that
ca
n on
ly
com
e fr
om
a ce
rtai
nw
isdo
m,a
cer
tain
wis
dom
tha
t ca
n on
lyco
me
from
a c
erta
in b
attle
… Y
es,t
his
isal
l fam
iliar
,odd
.Thi
s is
not
how
thi
ngs
are,
not h
ow th
ey a
re su
ppos
ed to
be.
I sit
in t
he c
orne
r.T
he n
ight
goe
s on
.I c
lose
my
eyes
and
bec
ome
the
slee
per.
Whe
n I
fina
lly
awak
e—it
fe
els
like
year
s—I
real
ise
that
you
hav
e liv
ed m
y lif
e an
d I
have
live
d yo
urs.
.J
cam
e ho
me
from
the
hosp
ital.
6lbs
4 oz
.
38 39
40 41
Big Ben Hawaiian Band, Hits HawaiianStyle, Columbia EMI,
Big Ben Hawaiian Band with the MikeSammes Singers, Blue Hawaiian Skies,Columbia EMI,
*Cheung Yi Man, Mut Yau Leung Sum Dik Yan, Cheung Shing **
Nat King Cole, I Don’t Want to be HurtAnymore, Capitol EMI,
Ray Conniff: His Orchestra and Chorus,You Make Me Feel So Young, CBS,
*Dung Pui Pui, Songs, Regal EMI **
Mona Fong, East and West, EMI,
Nam Hung, Why Did I Fall in Love, EMI,
Tom Jones, The Green Green Grass of Home,Decca,
Lam Doi, The Kingdom and the Beauty,Regal/EMI*
James Last and his Hammond-Bar-Combo,Hammond À Gogo: Melodies for Dancingand Dreaming, Polydor,
James Last and his Hammond-Bar-Combo,Hammond À Gogo Vol.II, Polydor,
Lazy Latin, Morgan,
Peter Lee, Peter Lee Sings EnglebertHumperdinck and Tom Jones Hits, MarbleArch Pye,
Joe Loss and his Orchestra, Must Be Madison – Must Be Twist, EMI,
Joe Loss and his Orchestra, Dance to the Top Pops, EMI,
Joe Loss and his Orchestra, Go Latin with Loss, EMI,
Joe Loss and his Orchestra, WorldChampionship Ballroom Dances, EMI,
*Luk Yuet Shuet, Lucky**
Roberto Mann, The World of Roberto Mann,Decca,
Elvis Presley, Elvis’ Golden Records, RCA
Decca,
Cliff Richard, Cliff ’s Hit Album, ColumbiaEMI,
John Pritchard Conducting the LondonPhilharmonic Orchestra, The Elegance ofthe Waltz, Marble Arch Pye,
Cliff Richard, More Hits-By Cliff, ColumbiaEMI,
Cliff Richard/The Shadows, Cinderella,EMI,
Dance to the Music of Victor Silvester and his Orchestra, EMI,
More Dancing Sounds of Cyril Stapleton,selected by Bill and Bobbie Irvine, Pye,
Bobby Vee, Bobby Vee’s Golden Greats,Liberty EMI,
Mary Wells, Bye Bye Baby, Oriole,
Andy Williams, Hawaiian Wedding Song,CBS Columbia,
*Yeung Yin, Life Records**
* Romanizations artist’s own** Year unknown
42 43
Just Give Me One Thing That I Can HoldOn To
R o b S t o n e
There’s flies in the kitchen I can hear ’em there buzzingAnd I aint done nothing since I woke up todayHow the hell can a person work in the morningAnd come home in the evening and has nothing to say— Angel From Montgomery, John Prine, 1971
44 45
I. ... AND CIGARETTESDos vadanya, dos vadannnnnnnnya. Dossss vah –dahnnn – ya! Ya – ya ya. Hmm, hmm. Hmm, hm. Cha cha cha. Dum dip i doo doo. Run for the shadows. He climbed up. Winced. For all that he could care,Stephen Wong might drive his truck straight at a wall.“You’ll want to give him a bit of a shaking up, see. And if you spot him dozing, you just slip round in frontand slow down, simple like, so as not to get a slap.”
Four drivers were on the same run but two of thedrivers were not on the run regularly. The two ‘new’drivers asked one of the regular drivers what they shoulddo once the change over point had been reached. Hmm,hmm. “So you draw up as close as you can, slow down,and wait till he touches on your back bumper. Then you give the brakes a little touch... and he’ll wake up,screaming! He’ll shit himself and be turning the steeringwheel in all directions. God! It’s a laugh. It’s better if you lean on the horn at the same time. He’ll need to get the joke though, or you will definitely be getting a bit of a bop if he thinks you were at it.”
… And by the time I get to Alberquerque she’ll be rising.Hmm. She’ll turn softly and give me a call. Call? Call.Call – deeper – Cahwlll. Hunh! Hmm, hmm. Cha cha cha.
Kent. Kent all the way from Ponty. And back. Oh!Bugger back. First to Bristol to pick up a shit load ofmoulding resin for some timber repair firm in Chatham.
Then driving. Driving to Kent. Battery is low on thephone. Radio broken for weeks. CD never worked,anyway. Agh! And the fucking rain. Janet needs to ring,doesn’t she. Janet is going to ring. Janet is going to ring.Ja – nnnn – et. Pah, pa, pa. Pop! Hmm, hmm.
It used to be easier, there was a rule. First one to finishtheir chips could start on everyone else’s. And peopleknew that, and it was OK. And you just ate more chips. It was a rule. Stephen – he was never Steve – had donefine at school. Fine enough, at least, so that his teachersrecognised a potentially bright boy. His dad had been ateacher too. A geographer. His dad’s parents had comefrom Hong Kong originally. They’d shown up in Cardiffimmediately after the war. But there was nothing otherthan Merthyr in Stephen’s accent, or his father’s.Stephen’s mother was... what shall we say... she wasglamorous. Blonde and irritated by children. Came fromRoath. From that decorous little suburb of Cardiff.Merthyr was not the step up she’d expected, not withmarrying a teacher and everything. The people she knew now were dowdy. She had friends from school inMerthyr. They’d all gone to a private girls’ school inCardiff, together. And they’d all gone dull together, andshe didn’t really expect them to understand what wasinvolved by having to live here now. Her from Cardiff.
“God you’re handsome,” she’d said, on first meetingStephen’s father. Is there something in you? You know?Caroline Street, 1960. Twenty, she was. Drunk, and he so
dignified – but kind of just the slightest bit wayward.And Chinese, for God’s sake. Chinese.
Stephen found it easy to make friends. Too easy. Alwayshad. A recent acquaintance, one who liked to spend timewith Stephen, was disliked by the other drivers. He’dbeen carving up. It was an odd phrase. Like too old, orsomething. They had been shifting aggregates from theslag heaps above Ferndale. This was in the 1980s. Thosenarrow little streets and roads down the fach had reallysuffered. Really big lorries. Really heavy loads. Reallylittle houses. This bloke, Lendy, was a quick driver. Heliked to get it right, and timed every corner, every gearchange. It was just that he was a bit odd. He didn’t meananything by it. But he was doing about twenty percentmore runs in a day than anyone else. Wound people upno end, that did.
Eventually someone reported his lorry faulty.Automatically out of the route for a check. Themanagement took him off the run and put him ontramping instead. There’d have been a riot otherwise;everyone thinking he was a plant by the management so as to drop the rates. Tramping was a pain. Not onlydid it mean squirreling around the rubbish little roads,you had no idea where your next drop was. You went out Monday to pick up, which you had to load yourself,and there might be half a dozen drop offs to do with that one load, with the last one in Salford or something.Then you’d get somewhere and there’d be another load
to pick up and take to, I don’t know, Hull. And there’dbe a load there to take maybe to Liverpool, and one from there to Leeds, and one from there to Birmingham, and then Carlisle, then Dover, then... Oh well, you know. And sometimes there was no load to pick up, and you needed to find one yourself to make the driveworthwhile.
Tramping is a bastard. Anyway, the union – ha! theunion – wouldn’t support his squabble with themanagement, and he was stuck tramping for the nexttwenty years. He kept in touch with Stephen though;Stephen and his regular routes. Ironic really. Lendywould have loved a route he could have really learned,and got familiar with. And, traipsing aimlessly about the country would have suited Stephen to the floor.
Stephen. Stephen, Stephen. Funny, he couldn’t imagineanyone shouting his name. Everyone called him Wongy.Well, it was that when it wasn’t Jap. You know, friendlylike – but you just show a flicker of annoyance. He has a terrific collection of birds’ eggs. Well, he did when hewas younger. And strange he should think of that now.Welcome to Wiltshire. Hmm, hmm. He’d never beenmadly driven to collect eggs or even to clamber trees –which is what he’d always assumed it was about.Mistaken, it seems. Stephen preferred to be out with his little .22 airgun broken over his arm. A BSA. With its crisscrossed, hardwood stock, it was the joy of his life. His oldest brother had started the egg collection.
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Then his second oldest brother had picked it up, andthen Richard. And then Stephen had ended up with it.There was some cachet attached to this collection. It was well known, and he felt sort of obliged to carry it on, but he also liked the attention. So many peoplewanted to see this those frail little shells, huddledamongst shavings in their boxes, with their little peeling labels and the improbably small writing. Heliked attention. It was interesting and nice. Warm like.Funny.
... Oh, Richard. He’d remembered Richard. Bloody Hell. Richard was the star at school. The grammar hadturned comprehensive the year after Richard arrived. He was the last of a breed of Welsh schoolchildren – well that’s certainly what his teachers thought; at leastthose who hadn’t left in a fit of pique. Richard was oneof those who, as he went through school, increasinglycame to represent a last remnant of academic success.His two elder brothers had scraped school. But Richardglowed and shone. He was tall, athletically gifted to just the right degree: not too good so as to worry abouthis future. But he was so fucking clever. Witty andpolite, and rude when he should be. Boisterous to thecorrect degree, and handsome. He was flawlessly brave, that was Richard. Played full back and never let a tackle go, never. Not even when they got slaughtered60-0 by Coedylan. Those guys all went on to play forWales, crap they were though. The teachers frequentlyberated the school at large during assembly. Their proud
tradition of sending numbers to sit the Oxbridge examshad been ruined by the comprehensive. That’s what they fixed on, and there was no shaking it. Richard was a hope for them.
He had a girlfriend. And he had a car. A Cortina. The gearstick used to come out sometimes, leaving himstranded at the lights holding up the traffic. He couldbear that. But one day, just as he left home, in the rainwhen he could hardly see where he was going a dog ran out in front of him. He swerved and hit a lampost.The lampost fell, landing on a small girl. It killed her. Everything went wrong for Richard after that,everything. No one blamed him, not to his face at least. But there was always something in the air.
At the times when Stephen thought about why onearth he drove for a living, he thought of that. Trying toredeem some appalling cliché visited on someone’s reallife. Hmm, hmm. Hmm, hmm. Tap, tap, tap. Cigarettes.Cigarettes, where now. Ah! He never had a car. He had a bike. Got a little Honda CB when he was sixteen –against his parents’ understandable wishes that heshouldn’t. A 250cc, when you were allowed to drivesomething useful on your provisional. But he passed his test as quick as he could and bought another Honda.A 900cc Superdream. Shiny and angular and silver. He was held in amazingly high regard for this. Bikeswere what people his age drove, not cars. Bike or nobike, his peers all wore leather jackets; the ones with the little tails. Some liked the old British numbers,
but usually only in the abstract. Most had Hondas orSuzukis or Yamahas. Not often did you see Kawasakis.Sack o’ crappy. Even though, or perhaps because he sovividly outstrode his friends’ motorcyle fantasies, hewasn’t invited into the little cliques. He couldn’t standMotorhead. Didn’t really know who Hawkwind were.And on the other hand didn’t get punk. He listened to Stevie Wonder and David Bowie and Roxy Music.And he dressed too well.
His leather was clean and unscuffed. It looked like it might have been recently pressed; certainly his Levijeans and Ben Sherman shirt had been. And his longhair was never dull or tangled like it was supposed to be. It shone, of course. Still, people were pleased to seehim when he pulled up for a chat. Smiling and amicableas he took off his helmet, hair tumbling, and suggestedsome scheme for drunkenness and girls in Cardiff.Usually they just wanted to go smoke dope in the RAF
club, and squabble pointless politics, though. Stephendidn’t get disappointed by this. Used to it, I suppose. He just went to Cardiff, and danced – with himself andwith others.
“Oh, stick with me baby, for a thousand years.” Fumblingbetween phone and cigarette: “Just a parcel? How big?Oh, little, OK. Whereabouts?... Where’s that, then?... Onthe A2... Straight in... Pen, pen, pen, pen-pen-pen, ah!...Newington Butts... by the Elephant roundabout?... andthis goes to... Oh! Same address. Right... Chatham...
What?... No, still pissing down... Just past Reading...Yeah, yeah, see you, bye... Hm? Tomorrow, what do youmean tomorrow... so stop over?... In London?... In thetruck?... What’s he up to, Janet?... Aye, OK, OK... It’sonly three o’clock, now, though... OK, yeah, bye...
Hmm, hmm. Stephen pulled up. Bought tea, batteriesand sweets; and drove. Skirting London he arrived in Broadstairs at five-thirty. The weather had clearedmiraculously.
II. THE USE OF HANDS AND FEETShe sat and peered at Calais; the sea flat and gravid.Behind her, the golf course and the castle – nowluxurious flats. Below her, the clayey, chalky cliffs andthe unimpressable sand of Botany Bay. Above her, theserrated early autumn sky. She turned the knife in herfingers. Opinel. Celeste liked to think of her father givingher this old folding pruner. Its curved, stained and bittertasting blade imparted things to her about Nantes, andthe sun, about grapes and the expert knowledge of vines.Yet, here she was in a blustering bit of England, with itsbizarre and irrascible climate. She observed the nuancedcolours of the sea change. She saw the weather close inand the tints of the passing shipping shift. She watcheddappling light play with the corroded iron posts whichheld up the sagging fence wire; the drying straws of bracken. She soaked herself in industrial maritime.
Her face ruddied. Rejecting the bourgeois taste for
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Felcos, she in fact had bought the little carbon steel Opi herself, in a nursery outside town. It fit her hand so well. Two years ago, riding a fit of enthusiasm forvegetables, she had asked to be put on a waiting list for the allotments beside her bungalow. She had boughtthe tiny two-bedroomed house as a retreat from theaggravations of south London. Only forty, just forty,Celeste still worked buying trinkets for a small andalmost glamorous shop in town. The allotments that shesaw from the bungalow window had convinced her tobuy the place. All that order, all that make-do. She hadyet to see how terribly exposed and salty the site was, or how very rude and robust were the plants that theallotment holders chose to grow in their rows. Shehadn’t really worked out the extent to which this was a place of retired widows. She hadn’t thought that theseallotments were memorials to a life that had been seen,but had never been lived. The potatoes and tomatoeshad to speak of prudence and not of need. Small squaresof waving corn told of a yearning for American luxurythat had inhabited the horticultural habits of parentswho lived through the war, who had dug for victory, and who had competed with each other, fiercely andquietly.
Her garden, which she had inherited as a trim andneatly hedged lawn, was now bursting with inexpertlyplanted yet blazing colour. Pauline, the chair of theallotment society, had seen this, and, it being in her gift, she bumped Celeste up the list. Delighted, of
course, and not a little proud, Celeste had accepted aplot immediately. It was a prize plot. She set to digging,to laying out old carpets and planning rotations, tobanging in staves and tying string, to importing manuresand seaweed from the shore, rubbing her aching limbs.
“I am not some character from a Thomas Hardynovel, you know,” she had told a reporter one day, whowas eager for a story of the retired life of the outlyingareas of Broadstairs. Her voice had become clipped andover-precise, almost shrill. She hated the sound of it.Her native consonants jostled for order in the petulance.“And if the council want to move the sewage plant tohere, they will most certainly have a fight on theirhands”. She would never say “Most certainly,” never. She knew better. The young reporter smirked to herselfabout the little fiction with which she had goaded thisodd woman, with her lined and bony face, in her tiredand masculine jeans.
Within weeks Celeste had been manoeuvred.Before she knew it, she was chair of the allotmentsociety. She was praised by all for her organisationalcapacities, for her people skills and her extensiveknowledge of plants. She should have guessed; sheknew that she possessed none of these things. But sheliked the attention. She wanted to be flattered, to feelagain the need to preen. Her long, dark, dyed hairflicked and stung her eyes in the wind as she tried torehearse the burdens of her situation. These were niceold ladies, but something vile was brought out of
them by the allotment. They became intense andangry about the faintest thing. They factioned easily. A flourishing of delinquent daturas was the lastproblem. With their pretty spiky leaves and little blueedged flowers they had popped up everywhere thissummer. The one widower on the site had brought afew from a friend’s allotment in Dulwich, the previousyear. They had thrived, and pleased the old man noend. They pleased the others, too. “Such an unusuallooking plant, George.” When eventually they went to seed, no one grasped how they would spread. Then, they suddenly became common. And they werepoisonous, too. “What about the children?” Georgetried to think he didn’t care about the suddenlysquabbling biddies, but he did. And they themselvescouldn’t understand why they were so angry. Andthere were the brambles and bindweed, out of controlagain. And there were nylon netting and cold flintsgoing into the compost heaps, which made themdifficult to turn. And no one was really looking afterthem. The roof of the communal shed leaked now.There was a restriction on the water supply. Some ofthe plots had become neglected eyesores, and requiredthat terse letters be written. All this became heaped as Celeste’s responsibility. She shouldn’t have allowedit to happen. She should do something about it. Shewas the chair. The AGM was approaching. It was goingto be a small hell.Now detached from its heavy trailer, Stephen parked his
truck on the long sloping hill that looked down ontoBotany Bay. When he’d been asked what he’d like to doonce he’d won the lottery, he had said he’d retire and buya really good, really expensive Mercedes cab. “Ah! Youreally like driving, eh?” “No, I’d just park it out the backand shoot at it with an airgun. Throw rocks.” He hoppeddown. He’d learned over time, and didn’t need to movegingerly. In the late eighties, he’d been at a party in somehouse or other in Dowlais, and someone had started agame of seeing who could jump from the highest stair.The stoned fools had got to the eighth stair, then theyrealised that you had to duck to avoid the floor above, as it were. Interest in the contest was just starting towane. Stephen stepped up to the ninth stair, leaped andmanaged to keep his head down. He landed squarely on his heels. It was excruciating. Both bones split. Not a trace of this moved across his face. He took theapplause, and walked out into the kitchen, where hewanted to scream. He swallowed nearly a quarter bottleof whiskey, made his excuses and left. The months oflimping afterwards ruined his tendons too. It didn’t hurtall the time. In fact most of the time it was fine. But helearned to carry his weight in his arms where he could.Any unexpected slip could bring him nearly to tears. A few years later, blind pissed with 4am bravado, he had decided to swim the Seine from a campsite in theBois de Bologne. Stripped, he got so far, feeling thingsbrushing against his legs in the pitch water. Lookingahead of him he saw what he took to be a riverboat
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easier. Having kept a small patch of vegetables, up by the pigeon lofts until the end, she died in 1979.Nobody knew, but no one would have been surprised to find that she was ninety three.
Mrs Rhys – she’d been named Wendy, but who was to know – had inherited her mother’s determined andresilient ebullience. Celeste had not. Like her father she adored ballroom. Where he had only love, she alsohad the gifts. Fluent, poised, balanced, elegant. Sheloved the clothes, she loved the make-up and lights, and she loved to move like that. Free. She knew the steps were constraining, but what they allowed wasmore: to float in someone’s arms. Needed as much as wanted. One day her father came home with anenormous pink gown. Layer upon layer of cheap nylonnetting now flowed round her waist as she practiced in the hall upstairs at the club. Dan, being Dan, had a key. And Celeste could go there anytime she liked. She was getting really good; even though in this, theopinion of others scarcely registered for her.
But something happened. Something. One summershe was fine, the next she was anorexic. One summer shehad an appetite like a horse, the next, though she stillhad an appetite, she simply didn’t eat. Her weightplunged, and suddenly she was frail and bony and tense,and touchy. She became a scandal, and the object ofwhispered inquiries and furtive stares. She stared atherself. And her parents were perplexed beyond words.She stopped going out. She could barely get out of bed.
And she stared at herself. She could feel her teethgetting loose. Her joints ached and drove her todistraction. She stared at herself and at her floridlysequinned, pink dress. And it stared back; abandoned,betrayed, or something, whatever it was. That’s whenshe started to listen to John Peel, since she couldn’t get comfortable and couldn’t sleep, ever. She started to get good at schoolwork, because she hadn’t becomeintellectually lethargic. And then, like it had come, the anorexia passed, never choosing to explain itself. At least she never said what she thought it was. She was most certain that it wasn’t her grandmother’sdeath.
As she started to recover though, as her legs becameable to carry her better, as her hands and wrists stoppedhurting, as her lower back found some strength, as her belly muscles started to bite again, as she started to dance again – it was to something else. Anything else. A happy memory, ballroom was over.
III. CYTHÈREStephen floated in the sea, his arms and legs splayed. He stared up. He could feel the tide dragging at him, but it didn’t matter. Occasionally, he looked towards the shore, just to make sure. It didn’t matter. He couldjust walk back around the headland should he drift. This water felt so health-giving. He could feel all thesalts and little animals eating at him, repairing him.Even the coldness – it came in waves – he could feel
hurrying by. Stopping, he realised that this was in fact the opposite bank, and that he was being sweptdownstream – he seemed to remember there being a weir. He turned back, with powerful strokes, quickly,concentrating, holding back a sore desire to panic and cry. He couldn’t find his clothes. Elated but stillunsatisfied, he climbed a tree, naked. And fell. His feet and ankles, and his knees, and more recently hiships and lower back never recovered from the furtherblow. Stephen didn’t limp, but he did walk with greatawkwardness now.
He floated, thinking still. The early evening sun wasglorious, and the sea champagne.
At Blaenllechau Rad Club, there had been dance classes.Celeste Rhys’s father had run them. Well, he didn’t runthem, he let the others do that. But ballroom had beenhis great love. Her father was a character. He drove aCorona Pop lorry. Everyone knew him, and he seemed to know everyone. Dan. Always to be seen with a bottleof sticky, fizzing coloured water in his hand, with thebubbles moulded into the glass. Every day, and regularlike clockwork he covered his route. Never a dullmoment, never a second without some whiplike remarkabout how well someone looked, or how someone elsehadn’t paid a bill, or how clever or handsome MrsThomas’s children were. Cut himself one day, he will. He jingled with glass and change, and his flatbed lorry
roared. He wore a big striped apron, and a white coat.He looked for all the world like some burly andincompetent butcher. He’d been down the mines, he’dbeen a labourer, on hobbles and for the council. He’dtried selling second-hand televisions and fridges. He’d worked a fruit stall in Pontypridd. But he liked todrink in the afternoon, to watch the horses, and caperand chat. He rarely went out at night, except for thedancing – and then he didn’t drink. It wasn’t abstinence.And it wasn’t because he danced. He couldn’t put one step after another himself, and he’d stopped trying. He just didn’t drink.
So, in 1974, he set up shop. Cigarettes, newspapers,tins of beer and beans, potatoes in plastic buckets. Notmuch of a range, but cheap, and he could guaranteeselling them. The place was right between the chip shopand the club. Heaven. So, whilst he carted pop, his wiferan the busy little enterprise. She was really quitesomething, Mrs. Rhys. Small, with a violently friendly,machine-gun Rhondda accent. Her parents had comefrom Hong Kong. They’d arrived in Cardiff. They hadmoved to Treorchy. Mrs. Rhys’s father had gone downthe pits, and was dead before his thirtieth birthday. Mrs. Rhys’s mother had prevailed. Christian, she was nevertheless an unlikely matriarch amongst theMethodists. She wielded a lot of power. She wasrespected, though sometimes referred to as Duchessbehind her back. On arriving in Wales, she immediatelychanged her name to Gladys Morgan, because it was
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straightening him. The few clouds up there seemed to frame something, like an impenetrably blue mirror. He remembered his father, and that he had a preternatural ability with chalks and pastels. OneChristmas, as a present for a neighbour, he had drawnan exquisite Madonna on rough green-grey paper, the same colour as this beautiful sea. There seemed to be no reason why. It occurred to him, he did it. It meant almost nothing to either party. It was such a beautiful drawing, yet as perplexing as it was pointless.He had never done it before. He never did it again.Hmm, hmm. Cha cha cha... Some of these days, and it won't be long going to drive back down where you once belonged... Wish upon, wish upon, day uponday, I believe O Lord... whish whisshhh... seesoo, hrss,rsseeiss, ooos. Stephen had been drinking. He sculledshorewards.
Celeste looked down onto Botany Bay, watching thefigure splashing in the closing light and sprawling in the gentle water. She massaged her knees. She stretchedout her legs, arched her back, and pushed her handsdeep into the pockets of her light, black nylon jacket.She felt the little Opi, and moved her hand around it,catching hold with the odd fleshy parts of her strongfingers, pushing it through a repertoire of moves that it would never be otherwise asked to perform. In herother pocket she felt the rather more elegant knife that she preferred to carry with her. Its smooth bone
handles and shiny nickel bolsters. Its blade, comfortingand pastorally-minded in some ways, was at once ahideous and exacting talon. A finely shaped andexpensive, hollow-ground wharncliffe. Not veryfeminine. It lived almost permanently in the darkness of pockets and pouches. The Opi on the other hand,bothered no-one. It certainly didn’t bother the old ladies of the allotment. It was a badge. She pulled it out again and inspected. The blade was a filthyhawksbill. Such a violent name for anything required to perform so delicately; slicing roots and plantlings. She gazed down once more at the figure scullingplacidly. She stood, took her Walkman from her bag,pushing the rubber phones into her ears, and she strode down the hill.
Two paths lead up from the sands of Botany Bay. It is a small cove. The paths start out close together, but as they cut their way up through the soft chalk cliffs, they diverge. At the top, they are separated by a highpatch of brambles, a hundred feet long. They areinvisible, one to the other. Hobbling through the sandand onto the harsh gravel slope, Stephen made his wayup one path. At the top he stopped. Celeste reached the top of the other path, and stopped. She had beenlistening to the same CD for weeks on end. Somehow,when burning it, a rendition of Alban Berg’s eerilyheartening Chamber Concerto had become overlain by the pneumatic merriness of Tina Charles hammering
out I Love to Love. Stephen hummed. Hmm, hmm.Hmm, hmm. Some spume touched his face. He startedto move, awkwardly. His shoulders out of time (or inperfect time) with his hips and knees. Last night theyloved you, opening doors and pulling some strings...angel. He was singing loudly now, looking out towardsCalais. She looked across the water to Calais, and triedto twitch her way into the Berg, moving from her bellyand back. Her arm reached awkwardly into a space, her wrist snapped over. He picked up one flat foot afterthe other, placing them carefully; the setting sunstreaming from his left. He watched his golden shadowsfleet across the golden grass. Hmm, hmm. She waited as the she found the places between the regular andirregular rhythms of Tina Charles and Alban Berg. Quite still, until, yes, there – and here, a gesture,twinsting her hips, rolling a counterpoint in hershoulders, from the balls of her feet, and an elbow.Fleetingly she saw herself, outlined in black on the sea’s dwindling grey green.
They were watched, the pair of them as they danced – unawares, staring at the sea. Stephen dusted off some sand, turned and walked easily to the truck.Celeste peered at her hands, shrugged and turnedtowards home. She dragged her hand through the privet at her gate; paused to fumble the key. She turned on the radio, and immediately turned itoff. Stravinsky, again. She listened to a passing
truck as its engine played with the wind and the
sea. Stephen flipped his radio, hopefully. It came on. Miraculous. I’ve been sitting learning how to read. Cause back in school I never liked to. It’s just one of those little things I’m going to need. As I put my life together without you.
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Trialogue/QuintetConversation with Sonia Boyce, Irit Rogoff, Naomi Siderfin and Joanne Morra (chair),simultaneous Cantonese translation by susan pui san lok (omitted)
Edited by Joanne Morra & susan pui san lokAnnotated by Joanne Morra
1. Lost, and found, in translation:
The tiny gap that opened when my sister and I were given new names can never be fully closed up; I can’t have one name again. My sister has returned to her Polish name—Alina. It takes a while for me to switch back to it; Alina, in English, is a different word than it is in Polish:it has the stamp of the unusual, its syllables don’t fall as easily on an English speaker’s tongue.In order to transport the single word without distortion, one would have to transport the entire language around it. My sister no longer has one,authentic name, the name that is inseparable from her single essence.
[…]
No, there’s no returning to the point of origin, no regaining of childhood unity. Experience creates style, and style, in turn, creates a new woman.Polish is no longer the one, true language against which others live their secondary life.Polish insights cannot be regained in their purity;there’s something I know in English too. The wholeness of childhood truths is intermingled with the divisiveness of adult doubt. When I speak Polish now, it is infiltrated, permeated,and inflected by the English in my head. Each language modifies the other, crossbreeds with it,fertilizes it. Each language makes the other relative. Like everybody, I am the sum of my languages—the language of my family and childhood, and education and friendship, and love, and the larger, changing world—though perhaps I tend to be more aware than most of
the fractures between them, and of the building blocks.
— Eva Hoffman, Lost in Translation ()
2.
This is the problem of immigrants, and especially of their children, the problem of minorities, the problem of minor literature, but also a problem for all of us: how to tear a minor literature away from its own language, allowing it to challenge the language and making it follow a sober revolutionary path? How to become a nomad and an immigrant and a gypsy in relation to one’s own language.
— Gilles Deleuze & Felix Guattari, ‘What is a Minor Literature?’ ()
What is the result of thinking through the personal and communal detours precipitated by the traumatic displacements of an exilic existence, what Deleuze and Guattari call ‘the problem of immigrants, especially their children, the problem of minorities’? And to do so in terms of various linguistic, geographic and psychic propositions offered to us by ‘accented’ works of art? That is,works of art made, as Hamid Naficy in his book An Accented Cinema () informs us, by ‘exilic or diasporic subjects’.
These are the stories of diaspora, nostalgia and aspiration.
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Irit Rogoff [IR]:… there is a scene [in Stephen Frears’ 2002 film,Dirty Pretty Things] which for me is a seminalscene, in which the protagonist, who is a Nigeriandoctor and is already exhausted because he isillegal—he sleeps on people’s sofas, he works atnight in a hotel as a kind of night concierge, hechews some kind of leaves (they’re not quite cocaleaves, but they’re some kind of leaves that keephim awake all day)—and he befriends a youngTurkish woman who also works in the same hotel,and a relationship develops between them and at some point she asks him, “Why did you leaveNigeria?” And he looks at her with absoluteexhaustion and he says, “It’s an African story.” And in that moment we realize that he has nolanguage to tell the story, and we have no ability tounderstand the story. And in that one exhaustedsentence, I think lies my dilemma, which is a kindof set of problems around maybe cross-culturaltranslation, maybe cross-cultural connection inwhich I fundamentally do not believe in the verypossibility of understanding “the other.” And sothat then requires a set of sort of moves sideways.
For Deleuze and Guattari, a minor literature is quite simply that ‘which a minority constructs within amajor language.’ By looking at Kafka’s work—in themain—Deleuze and Guattari are able to distinguishthree characteristics to a minor literature: thedeterritorialization of language; the relationship orconnection between an individual and politics; and thecollective act of enunciation. Deterritorialization is a result of the impossibilities of being and speakingwithin a language that one is not most able orcomfortable in. The act of writing in this languagemeans that everything in it is political: the ‘crampedspace [of a minor literature] forces each individualintrigue to connect immediately to politics. Theindividual concern thus becomes all the morenecessary, indispensable, magnified, because a wholeother story is vibrating within it’. Because of this,everything takes on a collective value. A minorliterature rearticulates language’s relationship to sense,it brings out the ‘internal tensions of a language;’it brings to the fore the gap between the place of theenunciation and that which is enunciated; it makesexplicit and at the same time foreign the ways in which language sounds (and the places within which linguistic sounds are formed—the mouth,tongue and teeth); it dislocates sense to form a type of linguistic music.
What Deleuze and Guattari are offering us is apolitical phenomenology of a subject living intranslation.
3.
The promise of translation is never kept: it is a necessary impossibility.
… there is a basic trope that we’ve been raised with,that if we make an enormous effort, if we researchand we read and we open our ears and we makeourselves receptive, that there will be somepossibility at getting at the truth of the experienceof another. And I think that’s based on two things:One is the notion of the possibility of having anempathic response. That… the stories, thecomplicated stories of diaspora, of migration, ofcultural unfitting, of rejections and hostilities andprejudices and discomforts and so on—somehowneed to elicit a kind of an empathy, and that this isthe way that we might hear. And that, that empathyis founded on a notion of common ground: that atsome level there’s a humanity, there’s a commonground that we share that allows us to produce anempathic relationship. I think that this is profoundlylazy… and that it’s a kind of liberal accommodation.And I think that instead, I want to think to thislogic—this is the logic of the interface—thepossibility of things interfacing with one another. To the logic of the interface I would want to countertwo other logics: one is the notion of the network,and the other is the concept of loss…
… in the world of art, which is the world in whichwe’re sort of operating, epistemologically, all ofthese kind of notions of expanding our
The ‘tower of Babel’ does not merely figure the irreducible multiplicity of tongues; it exhibits an incompletion, the impossibility of finishing, of totalizing, of saturating, of completing something on the order of edification, architectural construction, system and architectonics. What the multiplicity of idioms actually limits is not only a ‘true’ translation, a transparent and adequate interexpression, it is also a structural order, a coherence of construct. There is then (let us translate) something like an internal limit to formalization, an incompleteness of the constructure. It would be easy and up to a certain point justified to see there the translation of a system in deconstruction.
— Jacques Derrida, ‘Des Tours de Babel’ ()
The Biblical narrative of the tower of Babel tells a tale in which the Shem are punished for hubris;for wanting to build a tower and for desiring a namefor themselves. God obstructs their plans and desiresby pronouncing his proper name ‘Babel’. For Derrida,this punishment instigates the need for translation, andalso makes certain its impossibility. The necessaryimpossibility of translation is a product of Babel, quiteliterally. Babel – as proper name – translates into Godthe father, the name of the father, the city of God, and– as a common Hebrew noun – into confusion. Thus,the name of God – Babel – means confusion.
Derrida is keen to point out the multiple meanings ofthe word Babel in order to demonstrate both theconfusion that ensues from the pronouncement of thissignifier (because of its polysemy, and thus thepolysemy of any word); and the confusion brought
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understanding, expanding our horizon,accommodating, and so on—it’s based on thenotion of a center [as] a kind of a clearing-housethrough which everything is negotiated. And thatcentre is, it’s two things: it’s a stable body ofknowledge and it’s infinitely expandable culturalinstitutions and structures, which can contain allthe other’s cultures.
about by the introduction of multiple languages.With this, ‘the necessary and impossible task oftranslation, its necessity as impossibility’ besetshumankind, the city and tower remain incomplete,the Shem are, as the Bible informs us, ‘scattered upon the face of the earth.’ And from this, ourinheritance comes to us in the form of variouslinguistic, epistemological, and racial genealogies.
4.
‘The basic error of the Übertragende[translator/transference] is that he preserves the state in which his own language happens to be instead of allowing his language to be powerfully affected by the foreign tongue.’
— Rudolf Pannwitz, quoted in Walter Benjamin,‘The Task of the Translator’ ()
For Benjamin, the task of the translator is to make a ‘connection’ between the ‘intention’ or ‘mode ofsignification’ of an original and its translation by‘releas[ing] in his own language that pure languagewhich is under the spell of another, to liberate thelanguage imprisoned in a work in his re-creation of that work.’ By this Benjamin means that thetranslator is to locate the ‘intention’ and ‘mode ofsignification’ within the language of the original and that of the translation as a means of ‘releasing’in his own language the ‘pure language’ contained in all languages.
For Benjamin, translation is the only means by which‘pure language’ – ‘the totality of [the] intentions [of alllanguages] supplementing each other’ – can be found
I wrote a paper called, ‘Hit and Run: Museums andCultural Difference,’ [for the Scandinavian MuseumWorkers’ Association] and talked about the fact thatthe museum—certainly the Western museum, theAnglo-European American model of the museumwhich is ultimately the universal survey museum—is an enlightenment institution, and as anenlightenment institution it still has the conceitthat it is infinitely expandable, that it can expand to contain everyone’s stories, without anyfundamental loss to the core body of knowledge,the core set of values, etc. And that the only way in which we, if we’re thinking in terms ofmuseums, can accommodate difference at anylevel, is by thinking through some element of the loss of the self or the loss of that central body of knowledge, and so on. And they wereextraordinarily puzzled by all of this, and afterwardpeople came to say, “Well, this sounds like a reallygood idea, but now how do we do it? Do we, like,pack up three suitcases of paintings and put themin the basement?” And I began to understand thatthe notion of loss at the centre, the notion of loss
‘concealed in concentrated fashion.’ Because of this,translation does not strive for a ‘likeness to theoriginal.’ Rather, a translation is a ‘transformation and renewal’ of the original, thereby ensuring that the original has an ‘afterlife.’ That is to say, theoriginal’s ‘afterlife’ is a result of translation becausethrough translation the original is ‘transplanted [...]into a more definitive […] realm,’ while at the same time being destabilized. In undertaking this task, the translator also ensures that his language is ‘renewed.’
In order to develop this claim more fully, Benjaminturns to Pannwitz’s statement that the translator’s‘basic error’ is that he ‘preserves the state in which his own language happens to be instead ofallowing his language to be powerfully affected by the foreign tongue.’ For Pannwitz, the foreigntongue should ‘powerfully affect’ one’s own language. Pannwitz’s proposition is extremelyimportant because it reverses the traditional view of a target language (the language into which a text is translated) maintaining its status quo. By concluding with Pannwitz’s claim,Benjamin is able to suggest that ‘[t]he task of the translator consists in finding that intended effect (Intention) upon the language into which he is translating which produces in it the echo of the original.’
As a ‘supplement,’ translation is for Benjamin‘derivative, ultimate, ideational.’ But, because atranslation aims at ‘integrating many tongues into one true language,’ ‘the language of a translation can—in fact, must—let itself go, so that it gives voice to the intentio of the original not as reproduction
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of some aspects of the self, is in and of itself theexperience of cultural difference at the centre. So it’s not a strategy, it’s not something that weaffect; it’s the lived condition of cultural difference.
[…]
So the one thing is this notion of a center,epistemologically, in terms of an institutional andcultural stability in which everything will continue,and alongside it we’ll add, you know, other stories.And the other, in this shift from an interface to anetwork, is this notion of circulation, which I’m verypreoccupied with. I think what happens asglobalization has begun to rewrite some of thelegacies of the postcolonial condition; one of thethings that we have to face is that it’s extremelydifficult for us to actually produce positionality, toactually produce a notion of location, which isessential. Because, you know, where do you speakfrom, in what language do you speak, who do youspeak to, in the name of what urgent issues areyou speaking, all has to do with the ability toproduce a positionality and to produce a location.And I think that that is getting increasingly difficultwithin the regimes of globalization. It’s producing a lot of false dichotomies between something called
but as harmony, as a supplement to the language in whichit expresses itself, as its own kind of intentio. And this is why translation is not a ‘reproduction’ but works in‘harmony’ with the original, making translation an anti-imitative, non-derivative and non-ideational mode.
Benjamin’s dialectical understanding of translation makes clear that a translator works ‘according to the laws of fidelity in the freedom of linguistic flux,’ therebygranting the translator a certain ‘freedom’ to ‘re-create’his own language, and for a translation to manifest that‘re-creation.’
5.
In her essay ‘The Politics of Translation’, GayatriSpivak analyses the ways in which translation ismotivated by questions of gendered agency, as well asracial, historical, linguistic and economic factors, so that,for her, translation functions within an ‘ethicopoliticalarena.’ In this same text, Spivak touches on the ways inwhich translation is connected to personal history andmemory, love, voice, and intimacy itself. For this Spivakconsiders what it means to translate Bengali, her mothertongue:
Translation is the most intimate act of reading.I surrender to the text when I translate. These songs, sung day after day in family chorus before clear memory began, have a peculiar intimacy for me. Reading and surrendering take on new meanings in such a case. The translator earns permission to transgress from the trace of the other – before memory – in the closest places of the self.
the ‘local’ and something called the ‘global’ which I don’t think can be separable any longer, and so,we have to produce another logic and that is a logic of circulation.
[…]
I think that the illusion of knowledge that I grew upwith was one of total knowledge. If we learned andlearned and learned and learned and learned wewould know a totality of something. I think thatwhat we’re beginning to understand through thesetypes of functions is that knowledge exists in waysthat are partial—partially legitimate, partiallyvisible, partially knowable… there is no longer apossibility of separating an ‘over here’, and the‘over there’… culturally, we now look like Deleuze’snotion of the fold. We are so deeply enfolded in andwithin one another that it’s absolutely impossibleto translate us back into origins, ‘over here’s and‘over there’s and so on. And I think that these arethe logics of circulation, which liberate us.So, moving away from the liberal model of the
empathic, with somebody else’s experience andsome illusion that it’s actually possible to knowthat… a notion of ourselves enfolded within eachothers’ histories and experiences and affects and soon, so that we always know our own experiencepartially, somebody else’s experience partially, andit’s the rather odd fits and moments in which theytouch one another, not always very significant—sometimes, you know, sometimes through a smellof something, through something in a sidewalkcafé—that a new model of cultural difference and cross-cultural translation gets produced.
Here Spivak points out that at its mostfundamental, translating one’s mother tongue is anact of intimacy. She suggests that this experience isa familiar act of ‘surrendering’ oneself, of touching‘the trace of the other’ within ‘the closest places ofthe self.’ By remembering the ‘songs, sung day afterday in family chorus before clear memory began’ inthe act of translating her mother tongue, Spivakconjoins the figures of autobiography, the familial,memory and voice so as to form the basis for anunderstanding of the ‘intimate act’ of translation.
As a means of articulating the intimate contact with ‘the trace of the other’ within the self, Spivaknotes how the translator’s ‘surrendering’ to the‘spacey emptiness between two named historicallanguages’ is made manifest through contact with‘frayages or facilitations.’ For Spivak, the translatorencounters these ‘frayages or facilitations’ while‘juggling the disruptive rhetoricity that breaks thesurface [of the two languages] in not necessarilyconnected ways, [so that] we feel the selvedges ofthe language-textile give way.’ Alluding to Freud’searly work on the formation of the unconscious as a series of neurological and psychic ‘facilitations’that are inscribed onto and within the subject,Spivak suggests that these same inscriptions are the sensory, linguistic and rhetorical affect, felt and embodied, by the translator in her task. ForSpivak, this intimacy as an act of proximity andnecessary distance is both a matter of love—‘[t]hetask of the translator is to facilitate this lovebetween the original and its shadow’—and an act of gendered ‘agency.’
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Naomi Siderfin [NS]:In 2006, we marked Beaconsfield’s tenth anniversarywith a ten-week extravaganza entitled ChronicEpoch. Chronic Epoch was an exhibition with liveevents each weekend, culminating in an eventcalled Mother of all Parties. It was nostalgic in thatwe had had significant working relationships withthe majority of participants, sometime in the pastten years, often at critical stages in their careers. A few new faces were invited in order to avoid the wallow factor and to give a sense of lookingforward as well as back.
[…]
The word ‘chronic’ has a negative ring to it, beingassociated with incurable sickness, which belies itsmore benign meaning—which is merely ‘deepseated’ or ‘long continued’—an ongoing condition.To refer to a period of time—a decade—as ‘chronic’was to imply a recognition of the ongoing nature of certain types of endeavour or project—sick orotherwise. Beaconsfield is an artists’ initiative and the imperative to work as an artist tends to be a lifelong—chronic—project.
More recently I’ve been asked to make acontribution to a book which has required me to tryand summarise what Beaconsfield originally set out
definition of allegory is, as Angus Fletcher points out in his book Allegory: The Theory of a Symbolic Mode from, ‘to say one thing and mean another’. Allegory is a type of double-speaking. Based on an initial metaphorthat is extended through metonymy, allegory posits atleast two meanings.
Metaphor has its etymological roots in translation, intransferre, and ultimately in transference—the centralintersubjective relationship at the heart of psychoanalysis.Metaphor and metonymy—the transpositions thatconstitute allegory—are based on modes of translation.Translation, like allegory, is a linguistic structure that isboth one thing, and an other.
[…]
Sonia Boyce [SB]:This film [Role] is one of numerous works that hascome out of a process of initiated and uninitiatedcollaborations. The series is called, Devotional, andit consists of a growing list of names, a chronology,drawings, films and archive material, charting thehistory of ‘black’ British female singers (primarily),from the 1930s to the present. Role, which is thefilm that I’ve just shown, of course, seems toreference film credits. For me it articulates a kind of,a kind of punk aesthetic. And when I was makingthe piece, which is basically eight musical tracks allplayed simultaneously, I was wondering, what if Icollapse all the sounds into one, what does itbecome? What is discernible? What is listening? Isthis aggressive?
[…]
6.
Understanding translation as a process ofremembering, repeating and working-through.
The treatment seemed to make no headway.This gloomy foreboding always proved mistaken.The treatment was as a rule progressing most satisfactorily. The analyst had merely forgotten that giving the resistance a name could not result in its immediate cessation. One must allow the patient time to become more conversant with this resistance with which he has now become acquainted, to work through it, to overcome it, by continuing, in defiance of it, the analytic work according to the fundamental rule of analysis.Only when the resistance is at its height can the analyst, working in common with his patient, discover the repressed instinctual impulses which are feeding the resistance; and it is this kind of experience which convinces the patient of the existence and power of such impulses. The doctor has nothing else to do than to wait and let things take their course, a course which cannot be avoided nor always hastened.
— Sigmund Freud, ‘Remembering, Repeating and Working-Through’ ()
7.
Allegory is the structure within which modes oftranslation are enacted. Etymologically, allegory’s rootsare allos and agoreuein, which together mean ‘otherspeaking in the market place’. A more common
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to achieve, when we founded the organisation in1994... At first I was fairly glib about the ease withwhich I might be able to do this, but, many weekspast deadline, I found myself entangled in a mire ofcontradictory memories, thoughts and conclusions.
[…]
[In 1994,] we even pronounced our namedifferently...
In summarising the past the memory seems to beamazingly adept at cutting to the chase. Is it thecase that significant events are the ones that stayin the memory? Or is it the case that the eventsthat are easily recalled, or spring to mind, becomeiconic by default?
… it’s easy to understand why the past is oftenviewed through rose-coloured glass - because we generally deal with trauma by forgetting it.
So the most painful moments within a particularstory are dulled by time and the healing powers of amnesia, whilst the high points acquire aglamorous sheen that might not have been evident in real time.
[…]
… is ‘where we are now’ what we aspired to? Anddoes it matter if it is not? Can we even accuratelyremember the details of our original aspirations?
[…]
8. Working-through translation:
The necessity to work through is again and again proved in our day-to-day experience: for instance, we see that patients, who at some time have gained insight, repudiate this very insight in the following sessions and sometimes even seem to have forgotten that they had ever accepted it. It is only by drawing our conclusions from the material as it reappears in different contexts, and is interpreted accordingly, that we gradually help the patient to acquire insight in a more lasting way.
— Melanie Klein, Narrative of a Child Analysis, ()
Joanne Morra [JM]:I’m really taken aback—with the experience,actually, between the different talks and theCantonese translation and so; I think that I need to take a big breath…
[…]
IR:The question of listening, in a way is raised bysusan’s simultaneous translation. It kind of gets usinto a split between listening and hearing, […] onehas to do with a sonic field and one has to do withcultural translation and they’re really two differentkind of things. I’ve been thinking a lot aboutlistening not as a sonic field but really about thevery possibility of it. Of how, when you sit andmuse your thoughts regarding a piece of art or apiece of work, do you even begin to conceptualizethe field of listening? Because it’s as difficult aspositioning oneself culturally. Who are you speakingto, what kind of act of listening becomes theirparticipation? And it seems that we’re so busy withhaving something to say that we don’t conceptualizethe other part of the interaction. Except in a kind ofprescriptive or an enunciative way.
SB:I suppose, when I think about how this question firstcame up, it was to consider, why is it if you’re in aparty, and there are lots of people talking, you canhear some things and not others. What is it thathappens when we start to edit, even though theremight be lots of sounds? So, as Joanne rightly said,it’s very difficult to talk and to hear susan speakingat the same time, whereas if it were in a room, if we
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were in a party, it wouldn’t be as difficult to do that.So what is it, what is the mechanism that allows usto edit, or not… you know, does listening have akind of partiality?
NS:It does… we have selective hearing.
IR:… the issue is then the legitimacy of partiality… let’s say, it’s not legitimate in a lecture. In a lectureyou’re supposed to pay undivided attention. But it is permissible in a kind of multiple social situation.Or it is permissible when there is both conversationand music, and you would need to be able to kind of accommodate… for example, why does[learning] require undivided attention? […] we have a cultural theory that hasn’t caught up—somemodes are legitimate and others are not, someundivided attention means really learning andknowing and being in charge and others aredevalued as fragmented and chaotic. […]
SB:Have we confounded everybody?
NS:What did you mean when you said, “Is thisaggressive?” and “Is the piece aggressive?”
9.
Babel: Confusion: Translation
10.
In ‘White Mythology: Metaphor in the Text ofPhilosophy’ from 1971, Derrida analyses the usure ofthe philosophical metaphor. In French, usure ‘meansboth usury, the acquisition of too much interest,and using up, deterioration through usage’. The dualstrategy of usure enables Derrida to question the
SB:One, the piece, but also the attempt to do it… a lotof practice in recent years has been aboutappropriating people’s work… And I’ve just takenthis as an act of theft, you might want to call it. AndI think about the writer Michel Serres who wrote abook called, The Parasite, and he writes also aboutnetworks and what’s involved in the act of theft andnetworks. I’m sure many of the performers that I’veput together wouldn’t see themselves necessarily as associated with the others. As with the list thatI’ve been gathering, some of them would probablysay, “Am I, can I be considered ‘black’?” within the terms that I’ve framed them in. So that’s what I mean by aggressive, as well as the… aggressivesound that comes out of putting all those soundstogether.
[…]
IR:But it’s really different from appropriation. Thatawful moment that was called ‘postmodernism’,that sort of used appropriation because it claimed that there was no possibility of having real experience. There was only second-hand
economic determinants of profit and loss within thephilosophical metaphor. ‘For Derrida, the “generaleconomy” [of metaphysics] is the one that shows how[its] eternal attempt to profit from its ventures is based upon an irreducible loss, an “expenditure withoutreserve” without which there could be no idea ofprofit’. Here, profit and loss, are inextricably linked to one another, there is never a choice between them,there is always one with the other.
In , Emily Apter edited an issue of Public Cultureentitled Translation in a Global Market. This collection‘focuses on the extent to which global artists, videomakers, and writers consciously or unconsciously buildtranslatability into their art forms.’ Inspired by Adornoand Horkheimer’s critique of the American ‘cultureindustry’, it asks ‘how one achieves a mass culturalobject—a cultural object that can be translated acrosslinguistic, cultural, and social contexts.’
11.
‒ – The Box of : Preparatory notes and thedrawing, To Have the Apprentice in the Sun.
‒ – Rrose Sélavy/Marcel Duchamp, La mariéemise à nu par ses célibataires, même: Otherwise known as The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even:Otherwise known as The Large Glass.
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experience. And so, I think that being parasitical in astructure is precisely the opposite because itacknowledges its experiential dimension and thentries to use its affects in some interesting way…
SB:But that early eighties work which was seen to beabout appropriation, always is about position… Imean you talk about positionality, and I think aboutall kinds of artists that have used appropriativemeans, it’s always either for or against and never in that kind of middle space of ambiguity orambivalence which is a space that I’m really veryinterested in. That space of ambivalence. Some of
– Rrose Sélavy /Marcel Duchamp, The Bride StrippedBare by her Bachelors Even, (The Green Box): A conceptualtranslation in notational form.
‒ – de ou par Marcel Duchamp ou Rrose Sélavy,Boîte-en-valise: ‘an album of approximately all of thethings I produced’.
– George Hamilton Heard, Marcel Duchamp from the Green Box: An interlinguistic translation, from Frenchto English.
– The Green Book: ‘The Bride Stripped Bare by HerBachelors Even, A Typographical Version by RichardHamilton of Marcel Duchamp’s Green Box, translated by George Heard Hamilton’.
– Richard Hamilton, The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even: A translative remake.
– Richard Hamilton, Typo/Typography of MarcelDuchamp’s Large Glass: Translating the Translation,a question of medium.
12.
It is from this hybrid location of cultural value—the transnational as the translational—that the postcolonial intellectual attempts to elaborate a historical and literary project. It has been my growing conviction that the encounters and negotiations of differential meanings and values within the governmental discourses and cultural
the performances in this piece, on the list, I hate,some I don’t know, some I really love. I’m reallyinterested in that question of positionality, and thatone might really occupy several places at the sametime. I was quite interested in when Naomi wastalking about whether cultural diversity is rather like a material or an artistic practice; it’s so fullambivalences, I think. I think it’s a really interestingquestion. Can one materially be culturally diverse?And what would that entail? Is it even a possibility?[…]
practices that make up ‘colonial’ textuality have enacted avant la lettre, many of the problematics of signification and judgment that have become current in contemporary theory: aporia,ambivalence, indeterminacy, the question of discursive closure, the threat to agency, the status of intentionality, the challenge to ‘totalizing’ concepts, to name but a few.
[…]
Cultural translation transforms the value of culture-as-sign: as the time-signature of the historical ‘present’ that is struggling to find its mode of narration. The sign of cultural difference does not celebrate the great continuities of a past tradition, the seamless narratives of progress, the vanity of humanist wishes. Culture-as-sign articulates the in-between moment when the rule of language as semiotic system—linguistic difference, the arbitrariness of the sign—turns into a struggle for the historical and ethical right to signify. The rule of language as signifying system—the possibility of speaking at all—becomes the misrule of discourse: the right for only some to speak diachronically and differentially and for ‘others’—women, migrants,Third World peoples, Jews, Palestinians, for instance—to speak only symptomatically or marginally. How do we transform the formal value of linguistic difference into an analytic of cultural difference? How do we turn the ‘arbitrariness’ of the sign into the critical practices of social authority? In what sense is this an interruptions within the discourse of modernity?
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[…]
IR:I think with what Sonia said about ambivalence, that my thinking was really guided by two things I encountered. One was Jacques Derrida talkingabout the childhood in Algeria. As a Jew, he and allthe other Jewish children in Algeria under the Vichygovernment were thrown out of the schools. And hesaid, in a way it didn’t matter because the next day,we all founded schools, it was the same students,the same teachers, the same old curriculum, it wasjust for the Jewish children who had been thrownout of the general schools. And he said somethingreally interesting; he said, from that day on, I havehad an everlasting hatred of racism and absolutelyno empathy for its victims. And I thought that waskind of a mind blowing notion—that he could makethat kind of division—because it meant that he wasfocusing his energies on racism, not on empathizingwith its victims. You know, on articulating systemsof thought where binarism would not be permitted,which seems to me a huge political act. And theother thing was something Hannah Arendt said,who herself was a refugee from Germany to theUnited States: she said it is absolutely unacceptableto me to have a discourse of anti-Semitism, becauseanti-Semitism is a discourse that doesn’t allow us to talk about the politics that underlie it, who’sexpression it is. We often get stuck in the anti-Semitism and we don’t talk about how that anti-Semitism is always produced out of a particular set of politics. So that’s the ambivalence, theambivalence of having an experience, and then
— Homi Bhabha, ‘“Fireflies Caught in Molasses”:Questions of Cultural Translation’ (1992)
13.
The time of allegory is a future-past, its spatialarrangement is substitutive and contingent.
Allegory, is a mediated transformation of aphenomenon into a concept which is then transformedinto an image without ever negating the primaryconcept. A trace of the concept is always presentwithin allegory. Within this theoretical framework,Fletcher notes that ‘Allegoria manifestly has two ormore levels of meaning, and the apprehension of thesemust require at least two attitudes of mind’. Allegoryimplies the existence of the unconscious, as a structuraldetermination of itself. Like allegory, the Freudianunconscious and its dream-work transform or translatea latent concept into a manifest dream so that the traceof the former always remains present—held in theimage. In this way, allegorical signifiers and dreamshave at least two meanings that can be apprehendedfrom at least two attitudes of mind—the conscious andthe unconscious.
making that experience transcend one’s owncondition seems to me what we’re talking about in this kind of context.
[…]
SB:I do believe, actually, that we carry huge histories of baggage with us and so I personally vacillatebetween the distant past and the present and thebits in between and in a way I’m not sure that I could literally insert myself just in the case of‘now’… there’s baggage that doesn’t allow me to start with now…
IR:… ‘now’ really mirrors a fractured relation… WhatI’m finding really attractive, is that ‘now’ is not alogical sequence…
SB:Right, I’m not talking necessarily logical, but thatthere are…for want of a better word, ‘ghosts’that don’t allow us to be just here in the now.
NS:I’m sure the ghosts are part of it… part of the now.
[…]
14.
This accent is the trace, the remainder, of the language the subject cannot speak. As such, it is a taboo, an inhibition, even a violently imposed incapacitation. There is no original on which the subject can fall back; world history has deprived him of that. The ‘accent’ is all that remains. This insight has compelled me to work with subtitling as a strategy to honor that remainder. It compelled me, that is, to treat the accent as an extra, an unexpected resource, rather than the difficulty of speaking the foreign language as a deficit. […] Instead, it adds something, a
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[…]
JM:I’m going to ask a final question, to bring this eventto a close. In a text by Gayatri Spivak on translation,she talks about translating from her mother tongueinto English, and she says that it was likeremembering songs from her childhood, and thatthe experience of translating one’s mother tongue is an experience of connecting with the other in thespace of the self. So she’s really very much talkingabout a divided subject and talking about nostalgia,and talking about a political aspiration for genderand politics and economics in the future. So, I wantto ask each of you to say a few words about theexperience of having susan translate, which for mehas been very difficult and disruptive, as it’s like the other is speaking to me… I’d like you all to saysomething about that…
NS:I’ve got used to it, it’s just going along in thebackground, I think I’m hearing other things aroundme, so it’s stopped impinging on me…
[…]
I don’t know how many people have been upstairs.Susan has… created a volume, a box… and she’s
contribution of its own, to the domestic culture within which it circulates as the subject’s precious stone, shining through the banality of an English spoken with limitations. Thus, the concept of ‘accent’ precedes that of translation and incorporates it.
— Mieke Bal, ‘Translating Translation’, ()
15. Using the subject of translation.
In his essay, ‘The Use of An Object and RelatingThrough Identification’, W.D. Winnicott discusses theparadoxical relationship between subject and object.For Winnicott, the subject’s first relationship to anobject is through relating, wherein the subjectidentifies and projects the object as a part of thesubject. The subject must then transform theirrelationship to the object by developing a capacity touse objects. Object-usage is a recognition made by thesubject that the object is separate and outside ofsubject. The object is an ‘other-than-me.’ It is outsideof the subject’s omnipotent control: as Winnicottstates, ‘that is, the subject’s perception of the object asan external phenomenon, not as a projective entity, infact recognition of it as an entity in its own right.’The paradox of this situation is that the object is bothcreated by the subject, but is also there outside of thesubject. It is both a part of unconscious fantasy and the reality principle.
In order for the object to be transformed from arelating-object to a use-object, the subject enters a transitional space, and the object becomes atransitional object. Within this process, the subjectmust destroy the object so that the object can be
covered the windows with rose-coloured filter…and she’s up there playing her father’s records…and so I think she’s trying to tap into, to get someknowledge of her father’s experience of coming tothis country… trying to grasp in a way somethingof an experience that she has a kind of longing for,or a longing to know more about…
externalised. And yet, the object might, or might not,survive the destruction by the subject. If the objectdoes survive, it means that it is now outside of thesubject’s omnipotent control and is an autonomousobject that the subject can use. However, while using the object, the subject continues to have anunconscious fantasy of destroying the object (anecessary part of transforming the relating-object to the use-object). Because of the survival of theobject, the subject is able to live in the world ofobjects, but the price that must be paid is the continual fantasy of destruction towards the object.For Winnicott, ‘[t]his quality of “always beingdestroyed” makes the reality of the surviving object felt as such, strengthens the feeling tone, andcontributes to object-constancy. The object can now be used.’ In using the object, the subject findssustenance in the ‘other-than-me substance’ of theobject.
Elise Miller, in her article, ‘Kingston’s TheWoman Warrior: The Object of AutobiographicalRelations,’ states that autobiography is a means of rethinking, reconfiguring, ‘replaying and remastering early conflict.’ By employing the work of Winnicott, Miller proposes that theboundaries of autobiography are not dissimilar to the analyst’s understanding of ‘potential space,’the intermediate area between, what Winnicott calls ‘me-extensions and the not-me. This potentialspace is at the interplay between there being nothing but me and there being objects andphenomena outside omnipotent control.’ Millerconsiders the ways in which the objects ofautobiography—animate and inanimate—are bound up within the dialectic between the transitional
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IR:I kept thinking, Who’s she talking to? Who’slistening? Who’s accessing this? Are they hearingdifferently from these people here? […] I askedsusan before we started […] that I thought thatthere was somebody here that she would betranslating for, and so I asked who it is that shewould be translating for, and she said, well, it’sreally for myself, it’s a kind of acknowledgement of the bits of oneself, and, so I’m very preoccupiedto ask who’s listening to this, and what it means to be somebody who’s listening in two languagessimultaneously.
NS:I think it’s an incredibly strong image… we’retalking about sound, but this background layer is quite extraordinary really…
IR:There’s also moments of great gentleness, and then I noticed three different moments when it became quite present, and a bit aggressive…
SB:I supposed the thing that I’ve been thinking aboutis how exhausting—I’m exhausted for susan—notjust for susan but for the work involved in trying to make sense simultaneously...
objects of me and not-me, and the transitional space of subject formation and reformation: As Millerstates, ‘Writing an autobiography is also a transitionalactivity. As a psychological and historical document,the autobiography exists in that twilight betweenfantasy and reality, subject and object.’
IR:[…] If you’re inhabited by several languages, itstarts the work of making you think about therelation, because, there’s a tendency for eachlanguage to replace the other. When I learnt English,I fell in love with synonyms, because my languagedoesn’t have synonyms. It’s short and abrupt and very crude. And I absolutely fell in love withsynonyms and I’m addicted to them, I’ll stuff as
16.
Representing a living in exile often meansunderstanding the complexities of a tripledisplacement: psychic, geographic, and linguistic.The question of the visual image and language as representative of autobiographical, psychic and geographic displacements and translations are fundamental. How does the daughter visuallytranslate her relationship to her mother, her father? Is the relationship between the subjects literally,metaphorically, metonymically, or synecdochallyrepresented?
In accented art practices, what is the relationshipbetween text and image—whether it be the use of subtitles, intertitles, captions or letters—as a means of visualizing linguistic barriers, polyglotidentities, geographic distance or that which isremembered? How and why are intertextual visualrepresentations, such as documentary footage,films, or reconstructions, employed as translativedevices? In what ways do the various types of shots, narrative structures or lack thereof, and locations represent a temporalization and spatialization of a daughter translating her inheritance?
In translation who speaks for whom and why? Why translate? What is the relationship between the daughter and her mother tongue? Whose voice do we hear, and why? What of its texture,rhythm, clarity, volume, and tone?
Silence or noise is used at times in various accented
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many synonyms into a sentence as possible,because I still can’t get over this possibility ofhaving multiple meanings—you know, that asentence might not mean just one abrupt thing, but might get inflected this way and that way. It seems to me like an extraordinary thing, so I thinkthat the languages that you’re inhabited by, theydon’t live in peace with one another, they don’ttranslate seamlessly into one another, they set up really conflictual relations, and I think I shareSonia’s admiration of the exhaustion, I don’t think this is just about turning words into words.
[…]
films, videos and installations to deafen our ears to the words and voices of the participants. In these aural translations are we hearing the moments ofnecessary psychical break between two subjects, twogenerations, two cultures, two histories as moments of departure, of loss, of mourning, of having hadenough? Or are they unbearable moments of longing, of desire, of intimacy?
Does the voice enact the intimacy of translation: anintimacy which is both an erotics, a love, a rapture;and a necessary fracture, break, boundary, and asilence, and silencing?
In terms of a geographic double displacement,accented works of art often represent, visually andorally, the complex and overdetermined intimate spaces and places which constitute a displaced ‘home’.Are these representations duplications of an inheritedexile? What of the representation of exile through a family’s home, or the anonymity of city streets,or the traces and rubble of a lost place? How can we measure subjectivity, ethnicity and the plight of the stranger within these translative spatialparameters?
How is intimacy, or distance created, represented,translated?
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susan pui san lok lives and works in London. She has a BA Hons in Fine Art, an MA in Feminism and the Visual Arts from the University of Leeds (1994/96), and a PhD in Fine Art from theUniversity of East London (2004), UK. She hasexhibited in the UK and internationally, including at SPACETriangle, Café Gallery Projects and theHayward Gallery, London; Shanghai Duolun MOMA,Beijing 798 Space, and Hong Kong Arts Centre.Forthcoming projects include a Cornerhouse BiggerPicture Commission, touring to Leeds, Sheffield and Norwich (2007–8). Recent publications includean artist’s book, NEWS (2005), an essay in David A.Bailey, Ian Baucom & Sonia Boyce eds. Shades ofBlack (2005), articles for Third Text, parallax, and theJournal of Visual Culture, and various exhibitioncatalogue essays. She is currently a ResearchAssociate in Visual Culture at Middlesex University, UK.
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ExhibitionsGolden, Chinese Arts Centre, Manchester, 11 May–2 July 2006
Golden (Lessons), Beaconsfield Contemporary Art,London, 18 October –10 November 2006
WorksVistas, 2005, video triptych, DVD, 5 mins looped
Songs, 2005, audio series, CD, various durations
Years, 2006, video diptych, DVD, alternating two-screen loop, 22 mins
Awards, 2006, digital prints, various dimensions
Chorus, 2006, score, 3 mins, commissioned from Mat Davidson by susan pui san lok
Untitled (Lessons), 2006, installation with shimmercurtain and lighting filter, 10m x 15m x 6.5m approx
Golden Hour, 2006, audio, CD, 57 mins 24 secs
Eventssusan pui san lok in conversation with Naomi Siderfin, Chinese Arts Centre, Manchester, 11 May 2006
Trialogue, discussion with Sonia Boyce, Irit Rogoff, Naomi Siderfin, Cantonese translation by susan pui san lok, Beaconsfield, London, 18 October 2006
Mobile Chorus, rehearsal & performance,Beaconsfield, London, 18 October 2006
DIY Ballroom, improvisations, Beaconsfield,London, 25 October & 1 November 2006 (Annie Pui Ling Lok), 10 November 2006 (Jenevieve Chang with Amadeo Rosenheim)
Notes (Golden), paper presented at Encounter,Curiosity and Method: The Making of Practice,symposium, Tate Britain, London, 26–27 October 2006
Mobile Ballroom, flashmob, Vauxhall Station,London, 4.19pm, 10 November 2006
Golden Hour, broadcast, Resonance 104.4FM, 7– 8pm, 10 November 2006
AcknowledgementsGolden (Notes) is funded by the Arts andHumanities Research Council (Diasporas, Migrationand Identities programme). Golden has alsoreceived funding from Arts Council England (ACE)and Middlesex University. Vistas (2005) was aBeaconsfield commission; Vistas and Songs (2005,ongoing) were developed during ElectricGreenhouse, an Artquest / B3 Media digital artsresidency; and Years (2006) was a Chinese ArtsCentre commission.
Special thanks to Annie, Mimi, L.C and Y.Y. Lok, and Julian Stallabrass. Thanks also to Sally Lai;Sarah Champion and Ying Kwok at Chinese ArtsCentre; David Crawforth, Rachel Fleming-Mulford,and Naomi Siderfin at Beaconsfield; Heidi Reitmaier at Tate Britain, and Marquard Smith at Kingston University.
YearsThanks to Tammy Arjona, Annie Pui Ling Lok, Y.Y.Lok, and Richard Shenton at the Media Archive ofCentral England
LessonsThanks to Corinne Bannister, Sonia Boyce,Jenevieve Chang, Maebh Culhane, Ben Cummins,Mat Davidson, Emma Davies, Jake Ewen, HelenLewis, Annie Pui Ling Lok, L.C. Lok, Y.Y. Lok, Irit Rogoff, Amadeo Rosenheim, Naomi Siderfin,Joe Walsh, and all the volunteer singers, dancers,and technicians.
NotesThanks to mimi lok, Joanne Morra, Rob Stone, and Gilane Tawadros; Alicia Garcia; Christian Küsters; and Julian Stallabrass.
All images by susan pui san lok 2005–6, except pp.66–7, 73 (third from left), 80, by Julian Stallabrass. Re-photography by Ferdinand Carabott pp. 40, 42, 48–9, 50. Score excerpt p.72 courtesy of Mat Davidson.
Published by SPSLDesigned by CHK DesignPrinted by Martin Edwards Printing Limited edition of 1000 copies
ISBN 978-0-9551849-2-5© 2006 the artist and authors
www.susanpuisanlok.com
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