We’re attempting to unravel the tangled web of literary influence by talking with the great writers of today about the writers of yesterday who influenced them. This month brings the 50th anniversary of the end of the Vietnam War, so we’ve spoken with two acclaimed authors who wrote about the conflict and its consequences. Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai (Dust Child, The Mountains Sing) was born in the final years of the war and experienced Vietnam’s difficult post-war reconstruction. Karl Marlantes (Cold Victory, Matterhorn) served as a Marine at the war’s peak and was awarded the Navy Cross. Quế Mai discussed the simple yet stunning works of the Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thích Nhất Hạnh, and Marlantes spoke on the spiritual impact of Leo Tolstoy.
Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai on Thích Nhất Hạnh
Why did you choose to discuss Thích Nhất Hạnh?
My life was changed and continues to be inspired by the writing and teaching of the Zen Master Thích Nhất Hạnh. A known spiritual leader and peace activist, he was nominated by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1967.
But I got to know Master Thích Nhất Hạnh first and foremost as a poet. I think that up to now, 34 songs have been written from his poetry, with the most well-known song being “Bông hồng cài áo” (“A Rose for your Pocket”). This poem celebrates mothers’ love and calls on all of us to be more present when we spend time with our mothers. It celebrates the luck of those who still have their mothers and shares the sorrow of those whose mothers are no longer on this earth. I have listened to the song countless times and everytime I do, tears still come to my eyes and I want to immediately pick up the phone, call my mother or plan a trip to visit her.
Which of his works most stand out to you?
Master Thích Nhất Hạnh has published over 100 titles, all of which help readers build inner peace and positive thinking. These books address topics such as meditation, mindfulness, engaged Buddhism, and vary widely in genres: non-fiction, commentaries on Buddhist texts, poetry, and children’s stories. He wrote in both Vietnamese and English and I enjoy reading his work in both languages. Each book is there to be re-read, and each time I do, I discover new knowledge, new wisdom, and new plans for action.
For example, I often re-read the book The Miracle of Mindfulness as it reminds me to treasure each moment of life more, from a golden sunset to a blooming flower. I learned by heart these words from the book: “People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child—our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” Master Thích Nhất Hạnh’s books remind us to breathe, to be present, to be alive in every moment.
Yesterday I had a walk with a friend in the park. She just spent one week at Master Thích Nhất Hạnh’s Plum Village retreat in France. She had been there seven years before and her life was transformed, and recently, when she got depressed from her demanding job and the current situation with global politics, she returned for her second retreat. She was smiling when she came home. As we spoke, she quoted a verse from Master Thích Nhất Hạnh’s book Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life:
“I have lost my smile,
but don't worry.
The dandelion has it.”
I feel that one of the great strengths of his writing was in his ability to explain complicated ideas simply.
Definitely. Master Thích Nhất Hạnh is one of the most powerful and inspiring communicators. His way of speaking and writing is very gentle, never loud, never showy. He invites us to meditate with him as we read or listen to him. He opens the pathway to everyone, regardless of their race, nationality, education level, or skin color. I think that one of the greatest arts of writing is to convey complicated messages simply, and Master Thích Nhất Hạnh did that stunningly in many of his books.
Master Thích Nhất Hạnh’s poetry shines in every page of his work. For example, consider these lines from No Mud, No Lotus: “Most people are afraid of suffering. But suffering is a kind of mud to help the lotus flower of happiness grow. There can be no lotus flower without the mud.” In the same book, he addresses the important issue of dealing with suffering by saying, “The main affliction of our modern civilization is that we don’t know how to handle the suffering inside us and we try to cover it up with all kinds of consumption.”
What do you think writers can learn from him?
To be present, to be humble, to be grateful, and to be useful for humanity.
Karl Marlantes on Leo Tolstoy
When did you first read Tolstoy?
I tried reading War and Peace in high school, and I gave up. It might have been the translation, but it also might have been because I was just too young. Then when I came back from the war—from Vietnam—I picked him up again and it was so fascinating to me because he seemed to understand the utter chaos of war.
I’m not sure I completely buy his thing that Napoleon was just a surfboard riding on a giant wave of the collection unconscious, but I do think he was right that these individuals are hemmed in by what’s happening. At that time I was so angry at the government for basically lying to us, and then when we got home you know how we were treated, so it helped me: here was Russia—a completely autocratic system—and things were unfair then too.
And then I moved into Anna Karenina—do you remember that horse race? The horse stumbled and fell. In about two sentences, he described the character of the horse, and I understood who that horse was. And I thought, Jesus, no wonder they call him a master.
Cormac McCarthy wrote that War and Peace is the greatest novel ever written. What do you think?
I haven’t read all the novels, but it’s the greatest novel I’ve ever read. People ask who’s your favorite author, and I instantly say Tolstoy. At first it was kind of trod and plod, ugh, it’s a big book. But then when I was in my mid-20s with some experience, I couldn’t put it down. I actually ruined one of my girlfriend’s vacations. She came with me to Slovenia and I just sat inside and read War and Peace and that was the end of that relationship.
Why do you think it’s had such a lasting impact?
What do you mean by impact? If you’re thinking about impacting politics or culture in general, I don’t think that it has. Somebody could argue with me about that, but I would be very surprised if anybody at the cabinet level in our government has ever read it. I think that its impact is in spirit. People who are seriously trying to seek meaning. When Andrei was looking at the empty sky… if you’re a person who is tuned the right way, that influences you: the sky is empty, but the emptiness is something. I read that scene and wow—it impacted me.
We could get into a discussion of whether literature in general has done anything for the human race. I think it’s done an enormous amount of good for what I might call spiritual or psychological growth. I identified with Andrei, so I saw early 19th-century Russia through his eyes and was able to see the sky the way he saw it. I think literature is the only art where you can get out of your own skin. If you look at something on the wall at the Metropolitan, you’re still there and it’s over there. But if you’re reading a book and you’re into it, you are those characters, and whatever happens to them is happening to you. If it’s a good novel, usually really profound things happen and there are major character arcs—well, that changes you. And I experienced that with Tolstoy.
These days there’s an aversion to publishing large books. Why do you think people should write or read big books?
Well, should is something I would pull back from, but I think people who do read them get way more. An editor of mine says, Don’t interrupt the dream. If you write a big book, you create a whole new world for somebody. There’s something about being in a completely different world, and a big book can actually get you there. Publishers are very afraid—and they’re right—that attention spans are getting smaller and smaller, so in terms of publishing a big book, I would guess that they’re probably on to something. Not enough mind space out there.
Tolstoy had the benefit of living in a time before TV.
Right. And the other thing I think about when people say people don’t read the way they used to—in Tolstoy’s time most populations were illiterate, so the reading public was tiny. We probably have more readers today than we did back then. Art has always been something that only a few people get into. If you’re serious about it, it takes time. And big books take time.
What should writers learn from Tolstoy?
Don’t worry about taking your time. He wasn’t in a rush, and you can feel that.
