A summary of the reasons why writing Singaporean literature is so difficult, if not impossible, according to Joon and Yasmine, or why all the existing novels written by Singaporeans that we have read are so unsatisfactory.
1. The language. Singaporeans generally speak, well, Singlish, and even if we don't, we often mix languages even within the same sentence. As Joon pointed out, sometimes when we want to really express ourselves truly and honestly, we automatically switch to Malay even though we speak English 99% of the time. How do you translate "ghetto step kental", "YA ALLAH (must be all caps)", "amik kau ubat" and the hilarity of the word "snek"? How do you explain why the word "korek" is so dirty-sounding, when the direct English translation, "dig", is not? Or "sumbat", which means "stuffed"? You either write in English and sound really fake or write the way people really speak and alienate 90% of potential readers. Unless you can find a publisher daring enough to print a Singlish version of Trainspotting or A Clockwork Orange. Otherwise, film is a better way to portray the country.
2. The urge to explain everything about Singapore and living here. A lot of the Singaporean novels/short story collections out there cram all the cultural references they can into one sentence and history lessons into one paragraph. We picked up a book just now that had a story about a fashion student who was dyeing batik until "his fingers turned red, like a Malay bride's". So unnecessary. There are descriptions of HDB flats in all of these books. There is always, always, an old Chinese person feeling disconnected from their offspring, who were English-educated and don't understand the traditional ways. If someone takes the MRT, there will be a description of the cleanness and the crisp announcer's voice. At some point we have to stop telling and start showing.
3. A lot of these books have also been written by people who don't seem to know all that much about Singaporean life across all classes and ethnic groups, and hence have to prove their knowledge by dropping as many cultural references as they can. (We have insider knowledge that the author who wrote about chinese boys playing "sepak tawak" at community centres once asked a colleague, "Where is Yishun?") The authorial voice is always of someone from outside Singapore looking in, not of a local writing while living in Singapore itself.
4. Good grammar does not equate to good writing lah ok.
Did I leave anything out, Joon?
Canadian guy who is not black: I'm gonna get my black friends to beat you up. I'm gonna get my black girl friend to come and beat you up. She's big, she's gonna hurt you. You can't out-hustle the hustler.
Mari.am: In my language, you are what is called "ghetto step kental".
Joon and I have started a page on our shared blog, The Portable Reader's Guide to Good Things, on contemporary novels/short story collections that are worth your time.
We read a lot of junk so you don't have to.
Oh my god:
Be pleased then, you, the living, in your delightfully warm bed, before Lethe's ice-cold wave will lick your escaping foot.
-- Goethe, Roman Elegies
Lethe: In Greek mythology, one of the rivers of Hades whose waters will cause complete forgetfulness.
I must read Goethe.
(I found the line from a review of You, The Living.)
Last week I went to view flats and at the second flat we went to, the agent who greeted us asked, "Who is the buyer?" I said, "Me," and he stared at me and said, "Huh?! So young? How old are you?"
Asshole.
Anyway I was thinking about it today and then I tried to move on to the next part of the memory, which was my reply, but then I realised that I'd forgotten my age. I couldn't remember what number I gave him because I honestly forgot how old I was. The first thing that came to my mind was 26, but then I thought, no... that's too old. I'm 25, right?
Because a couple of years ago when I was 24 I kept thinking I was 26 so lately I have a tendency not to take myself seriously when I think about how old I am.
But no. I really am 26 now.
Oh my God, you know. Jonathan Safran Foer had his first book published at 26. Zadie Smith too, I think. What have I done with my life?
Ok so I just had this will-we-ever-make-something-of-ourselves conversation with Joon the other day and we resolved that quite peaceably but obviously this is not the kind of thing that you just put to rest and never think about ever again.
What it is, really, is a widening chasm of fear.
Sometime back I said I was tired of waiting for life to start and back then I thought life would start when I got married and I got my freedom. But with marriage looming I am starting to realize that marriage is not the freedom I thought it would be. It’s so foolish to have thought marriage equated to freedom in the first place, but that’s what you do when you live in a prison – you feed yourself hope, even if it’s based on a lie.
Would marriage give me the life that I always thought I wanted? Maybe not. I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel as if I am living life the way I want to and not dictated by someone else, or other people.
Why is it that whenever I finish a book, I can never decide what to read next, despite the fact that I have close to 40 unread books on my shelves (and table and floor)?
Anyway. How effective would a theme-based reading regime be? I just read this weekend's New York Times reviews, which focus on Chinese books and now of course I want to read Chinese books. If I spent a month or two reading only Chinese books, or Jewish or African or whatever, would it make me want to shoot myself?
There is such a feeling of dread that sloshes around inside me at the thought of the weekend ending. I will be listening to a nice song, and then when the singer hits a particular note of yearning, I will be reminded of work. Or the reminder could come in the middle of a TV show, for no reason at all. Even while reading a book, I could suddenly think of work if I come across any word that is related to the tasks I have awaiting me in the office.
The dread starts right at the centre of my chest, then throbs its way down to my stomach and my legs. Finally, I feel the dread in the soles of my feet, like a prickle. I have to squeeze my toes to make it go away, but it only travels back up to my chest, hiding in wait until the next reminder of work welcomes it back out again.
Will I ever reach a point in my life where I wouldn't fear Mondays anymore? I don't think so. Throughout my working adult life, it will be the thought of work that haunts me, and after retirement it will be death.
That's Saturday night optimism for you.
You think me jaded and effete. You are mistaken. If you are delicious, if you have lovely eyes,..., if your body and mind... are so lithe and tender that I feel I could mingle more intimately with your thoughts by sitting on your lap..., there is nothing in all that to deserve your contemptuous words.
- 16-year-old Marcel Proust, to a classmate who had jilted him
1. Read for yourself
Find the people you know in the books you read. Find yourself, even, in the characters of 200 years ago. They say things you have never dared to speak aloud, they feel things you have tried to suppress for fear of being perverse. The author, if he/she is a good one, will describe these feelings better than you can and you will learn that you are not alone. Even Anna Karenina, after all, is petty, insecure and irrational in ways that you have always found shameful in yourself.
2. Take your time
If it takes 17 pages to describe how you can't fall asleep, then take 17 pages. N'allez pas trop vite. Don't jump straight to the meeting, speak first of the rustling of papers, the false sincerity of handshakes, the sweetness of the macaroons. There is more to every story, and anything can be a starting point from which your masterpiece will bloom.
3. Suffer successfully
It's only when you suffer or feel pain that you'll learn something. You wouldn't read up on gastrointestinal machinations until you've suffered indigestion or gastric flu. Suffering is the root of great ideas. If you have syphilis, go and write Fleurs du Mal. Don't be a bad sufferer. Apologise after committing a faux pas, don't take your bitterness out on someone else, don't pretend not to care when you truly desire something that someone else has, if you're ignorant about something, don't be afraid to ask. You can feel sorry for yourself but be honest to your pain.
4. Express your emotions honestly
Avoid clichés. Find your own way to describe the rain, the moon, the Angkor Wat. To rely on worn out phrases is to shut yourself out of your own personal experience and feeling, and to deny that each sunrise, each storm is unique. Don't try to write like someone else. Don't try to talk like someone else. Don't pick up expressions that you've heard other people say just because you think they will make you sound worldly or attractive.
Joon and I have started a new blog where we'll write about things we like and want to share with you. It's called The Portable Reader's Guide to Good Things. There isn't much up yet because we just started it today, but we promise lots of, well, good things to come.
If you have anything you think we should recommend, write us at theportableguide AT gmail DOT com.
Thank you and have a nice day.
