Translator Tran Tien Cao Dang: “Literature helps us resist the illusions of modern life” | Metaglossia: The Translation World | Scoop.it
From www.tatlerasia.com - May 4, 10:08 AM
Translator Tran Tien Cao Dang, a quiet yet memorable figure in publishing, reflects with candour and depth on the culture of reading.

"Tran Tien Cao Dang, one of the quiet yet memorable figures in publishing, offers his thoughtful and seasoned reflections on the culture of reading.


Translator Tran Tien Cao Dang stands out as one of the publishing world’s unassumingly extraordinary figures, someone who has devoted his life to books and embraced a path that is unhurried yet profoundly rich in purpose. Raised in a family that cherished literature and later immersed in the world of editing and translation himself, he regards reading as a spiritual necessity. Reading is a means to sustain inner equilibrium rather than something to be pursued for specific gains; a discipline to cultivate beauty and intellect. In his exchange with Tatler, Tran Tien Cao Dang shares thoughtful and nuanced perspectives on reading culture—a notion that feels familiar, yet still yearns to be properly redefined in today’s world, where the velocity of information consumption often eclipses depth.


See more: Translator Bui Xuan Linh: “Taking the reader as the centre, we will visualise what the reader expects”


 


ABOVE Raised in a family that cherished literature and later immersed in the world of editing and translation, he regards reading as a spiritual necessity (photo: Ky Anh Tran)



Tran Tien Cao Dang, we often hear and refer to the term “reading culture”. In your view, what does it mean in this context?


I think the term has been explored extensively, and there’s a broad understanding of what it entails. Reading culture, as I see it, is reading for its own sake—not for profit, not for immediate utility. Reading simply because it brings joy, restores balance, and awakens a sense of beauty. Put plainly: reading without expectation. That, to me, is reading culture.


So it wouldn’t include books on specialised knowledge?


That needs to be clearly distinguished. For example, an engineer reading about technical machinery, an accountant studying material relevant to their profession, or a lawyer researching international law—these are acts of reading in service of their work. They are intended to enhance professional understanding and often carry a sense of obligation. That sort of reading, with its practical and material aims, doesn’t fall within what I consider reading culture. The kind of reading I refer to—literary reading, reading for its own pleasure—exists purely to satisfy a spiritual hunger.


Reading culture is often spoken of as something cultivated. But can it be innate? Can someone be born with it?


I believe it’s both.


Of course, as you said, reading culture is something to be nurtured. On a personal level, say within the family, if the parents possess a love and awareness of literature, their children are very likely to inherit it. I’m living proof of that. My mother taught literature, and from the time I was five or six, she would read poetry aloud to me—excerpts from The Tale of Kieu, Chinh Phu Ngam, and so on. I grew up surrounded by books, and reading became second nature.


On a broader scale, this also lies within society’s hands. A society must develop in all dimensions—not only in terms of economics or governance, but also culturally. That wider development naturally raises the collective intellect and reading culture. Encouraging reading is just one way to support this. And of course, that’s not a task to leave solely to individuals. It must involve the government and those in leadership. If left only to the people, it will remain confined to smaller groups.


Back to your question, in addition to being nurtured by family and encouraged by society, there are still special cases where a love of reading emerges suddenly—like a revelation.


One such case is a friend of mine, a former editor. He was born in Rach Gia into a wealthy family, but there was nothing in his upbringing remotely linked to literature. He himself had never picked up a book throughout his high school years. But when he moved to the city, he stepped into a bookshop and, surrounded by shelves, experienced an awakening. Something stirred, and a deep interest in literature arose from within him. It changed the course of his life—he became a committed, even fervent reader, drawn not just to read widely but with great depth.


What do you mean by ‘deep reading’?


It’s when we engage with a work and don’t stop there. For instance, reading Flaubert doesn’t end with Sentimental Education or Madame Bovary. We go on to read his contemporaries, examine critiques of his work, and delve into commentary on the critic himself.


I genuinely admire that friend of mine. He reads in a way that is almost curatorial. One year, he might focus entirely on Russian literature—Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Nabokov—then move on to immerse himself in Japanese literature, and so forth. What’s remarkable is that this came from nowhere—no background, no prompting. A need to nourish the soul and expand aesthetic sensibility was suddenly awakened within him, without any obvious trigger.


Yet, as this story shows, real bookshops in our country remain mostly in the larger cities. In smaller towns and rural areas, they often resemble textbook or stationery outlets.


This speaks volumes about the role of state support for reading, which I still see as lacking. The infrastructure to inspire this kind of discovery is not evenly spread. Much more can and should be done.


Your friend’s story brings to mind Plato’s allegory of the cave. But it seems there are many who don’t appear to seek out ‘spiritual nourishment’.


I wouldn’t say they don’t have needs. It may be more accurate to say that their desires are confined to entertainment. But what’s essential to grasp here is that the aspiration for higher things—the pursuit of beauty, the impulse to explore deeper layers of thought, the determination to stretch beyond what we already know—is precisely what sets us apart as human. When we reduce ourselves to seeking only diversion, we neglect those very qualities that define us.


ABOVE I believe we’re caught in an illusion, one crafted by vested interests (photo: Ky Anh Tran)


Do you think that one of the reasons people read—specifically literary works, as we’ve been discussing—has to do with economic conditions? It’s something we’re all aware of. We need to be “well-fed” before we can think about enjoying beauty, appreciating literature, or tending to the soul. Yet I’ve noticed a paradox: in the past, our grandparents lived with far greater hardship than we do today, but they read more, and their awareness of the value of reading was much stronger. Could it be that those of us now living in more peaceful, stable times are in some way less than they were?


I believe we’re caught in an illusion, one crafted by vested interests.


We’re told we must live faster—faster for what? Faster to get more. But how much is enough? And what is this “getting”, really? Is it anything concrete, or just a list of fleeting goals—a new phone, a few nights at a luxury resort? This obsession with speed has altered how we read. Abridged versions, summarised texts—they’re everywhere now, not only in Vietnam but across the world. You can pick up a summary of Hamlet more easily than the actual play, and people will opt for that.


And it isn’t just literature. Cinema, too, is being diluted. I find this deeply worrying.


In such a world, literature becomes one of our few defences against illusion.


I’m reminded of the title The Melancholy of Existence. But here’s what truly unsettles me: some works of literature themselves contribute to illusion.


What kind of works do you mean?


To put it simply, they’re the kind that, once finished, leave the reader with no questions. No disturbance. They make the world feel undisturbed, life cheerful, and society orderly. These books gently lull us into accepting an illusion of normality.


When the reader’s mind is strong enough, the fractures of modern life become impossible to ignore.


A real literary work should provoke questions. It should unsettle the truths we think we know. It should ignite a hunger for deeper spiritual and intellectual exploration.


Read more: The World Without End – A Graphic Survey of the History of Consumption and the Illusion of Development


There are some rather extreme opinions that reading romance novels doesn’t count as reading literature. Do you think that’s too harsh?


I don’t see it that way. To be playful—literature and cinema are like food. There are all kinds, and it depends on the “palate” of the reader or viewer. Not everyone connects with Kafka or Dostoevsky. Some might prefer Tolstoy, or even just enjoy Marc Levy—and that’s perfectly fine.


But on a broader scale, this raises a cultural concern.


In a country with a thriving literary culture, all genres of writing circulate in healthy balance. Lighter, “instant noodle” works have their place, and they’ll always be there. But alongside them, classic literature and profound writing must also flourish. Sadly, in Vietnam, that balance is seriously off. That’s why reading groups are so vital.


You also host literary talks. May I ask what you hope to achieve with them? Is it to gather a like-minded community—perhaps small, but deeply engaged—or are you hoping to spark something in those who are less familiar with literature, to awaken in them a love of reading?


A good question. But I’ll admit, I don’t expect anything as grand as revelation.


I’m aware that these sessions often attract only a few attendees—sometimes fewer than ten. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that those who come feel a burning need to seek something higher. Aesthetics. Spirit. Beauty. Without that inner pull, they wouldn’t come at all.


That said, I also see that not everyone is in the same place. Some arrive with less urgency. Some are merely curious. Others attend because it’s part of their role.


So, my goal is simple: to “draw in” as many people as I can—those who have shown even the slightest interest—and bring them a little deeper into the world of literature with me.


ABOVE I see that not everyone is in the same place. Some arrive with less urgency. Some are merely curious. Others attend because it’s part of their role (photo: Ky Anh Tran)



But reading seems, by nature, to be a solitary pursuit. Do book groups risk encroaching on that quiet sanctuary?


You’re right—reading, like writing, is inherently solitary. One writes best when entirely alone. I don’t oppose communal efforts such as creative camps, but to be candid, the outcomes of those sessions are usually just good—not great. A true masterpiece must arise from the author’s solitude, shaped by their individual voice. The same applies to reading. It should be an intimate act, one where we quietly engage with our own thoughts and inner responses.


Some reading groups follow a format where participants read and then gather to discuss. With all due respect, I believe this approach subtly diverges from the essence of reading. It risks dissecting the text too clinically—emphasising logic at the expense of personal feeling, which is just as vital.


Yet this solitary state is only the beginning—the first part of the journey. What follows is a desire for resonance. After completing a book, the reader seeks out echoes of their own response. Think of the triangle: Author—Work—Reader. The author crafts the work; the work reaches the reader. That connection alone creates an intersection. But when the triangle is complete, something more profound can occur: the reader may perceive layers that even the author had not foreseen. And that insight is real—it is not a misreading. From these personal discoveries, a reader often feels compelled to seek kindred spirits, to share, to extend what they’ve uncovered.


So yes, reading begins in solitude—but companionship naturally follows.


I said earlier this conversation would focus on your identity as a reader, but it would be remiss not to touch on your role as a translator—another vital part of your life. When you translate a literary work, does it affect your ability to enjoy it emotionally as a reader might?


For me, translation is an act of rewriting. I don’t experience the joy of the reader—but I do get to share in the writer’s thrill. Most of the books I’ve translated were ones I read long ago: The Khazar Dictionary, 2666, Seven Madmen, and others. But there are exceptions. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami, for instance—I translated it while reading it for the first time. The enjoyment is different. It isn’t the pure pleasure of reading, but a kind of intense exhilaration.


A true reader sees the whole—absorbing the entire forest, not merely a handful of trees. That, to me, is the mark of a discerning reader


- Translator Tran Tien Cao Dang -


Tran Tien Cao Dang, you are also a writer. Writing and reading are both demanding pursuits, and we each have only so many hours in the day. Suppose you were forced to choose just one—reading or writing. Which would you keep? I’ve wanted to ask since reading If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller by Italo Calvino, which you translated.


That’s a brilliant question. And oddly comforting, because I’ve never had to make that choice. Reading and writing are, for me, like two sides of the same leaf—inseparable. I am utterly devoted to reading, but the need to write also tugs at me constantly. It’s as if there’s a story inside me that insists on being born. So I will always strive to do both.


But if I truly had to choose—well, I wouldn’t. I’d rather give up everything than surrender one for the other.


If you couldn’t read or write, what would you do instead?


I already know the answer. I would open an animal rescue centre. Not just for cats—all animals in need of help, care, and healing.


Back to writing. As a voracious reader, have you ever been so overwhelmed by the towering achievements of human literature that you felt tempted to “break your pen” and give up writing altogether?


It’s a feeling familiar to any writer who reads widely.


But ultimately, it comes down to how deeply rooted that “writer’s core” is within you. If it’s strong enough, it will meet the challenge head-on. It will press forward, even in the shadow of Goethe, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Kafka, and so many other literary giants. It might say: I may not reach your summit, but I will reach my own.


It’s a bit like athletics. When a young athlete from our country starts out, if they aim immediately for a world record, it can feel crushing. But if they first aim to break the national record, that ambition feels more attainable—and they keep going, and going.


I remember a saying that has stayed with me: the final step depends on the first. Just take each step with care, and hold the destination in your heart.


A final question, if I may. Do you believe there’s such a thing as a “professional reader”?


It’s a fascinating question—though not an easy one.


We don’t usually speak of “professional reading”, do we? Because, as we tend to understand it, reading isn’t something done for payment. I’d be more inclined to speak of a good reader. And a good reader isn’t necessarily someone who devours vast numbers of books—but someone who reads with depth.


By depth, I mean the kind of reading we spoke about at the beginning. Not only engaging with a single work, but exploring the author’s body of work, reading their contemporaries, seeking out criticism, and diving into context.


Which brings me to something else—criticism. I sometimes think that a good reader needn’t take on the role of a critic. A good reader allows themselves to receive and perceive, without constantly imposing a critical framework. Worse still is when that critical approach relies on only one lens—whether it’s postcolonialism, gender theory, semiotics, or deconstruction. These perspectives are not inherently wrong, of course, but clinging to just one can become limiting. It narrows rather than expands our encounter with literature. And literature, above all, demands openness and agility.


A good reader, in the end, sees the whole picture—not just a few trees, but the entire forest.


https://www.tatlerasia.com/power-purpose/impact/translator-tran-tien-cao-dang-on-literary-and-reading


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