跟读练习: Festivaletteratura 2025 - Intervista a Ocean Vuong - 通过视频学习英语口语

When I discovered that Gladness was a town written with a capital G and not just Gladness, I was amused by the title's wordplay

but also could not stop thinking about how to translate it

and I still haven't managed to find a way to keep the ambiguity in.

Translation is a compromise, but where do you draw the line?

What do you find uncompromisable in your writing?

What is for you something that should not get lost in translation?

Oh, thank you so much.

I do think translation, I think it's good that translation is imperfect because it means that language,

all languages have their separate origins and I think it's actually really beautiful that there is no absolute translation,

that all translation is similar to desire.

You know, in desire I think it's much more truthful when we reach out to someone even before we touch them.

The reach is more true than the touch

and I think desire is always this reaching that never grasps and translation is similar.

I perhaps see the one thing that's most important to my work is not so much the sentences or the structure, but a deep desire for disobedience,

you know, to be meaningful disobedience against writing rules,

social norms, social dogmas, breaking culture in a meaningful

and substantial way with a kind of dignity is something I'm deeply interested in.

So I would say disobedience.

So the non-linear structure of your book seems to follow the ways of memory rather than chronology,

to what extent should time be treated as a narrative form shaped by memory, rather than a simple sequence of events?

I think memory is fractured and the scientists tell us that every time we remember we are making new connections.

So memory is actually creation, it's actually poetry from the Greek root maker.

So I think as much as we think it is recalling, we are also taking from the past and making something new in the present.

And I was looking for a fractured form for a long time to write my works.

But it wasn't actually until I went to the Palazzo Reale in Milan

when I saw the inside there were these large cracks inside the walls.

And when they showed it to me, they said that the municipal of Milan kept the bombing,

the bombings, the violence, intact.

They did not want to fix it.

And it was at that moment, this was while I was struggling to write my first novel, I saw the cracks, some of them as wide as my arm, all along the walls.

And I was so moved because it showed

that the city of Milan decided to to preserve the memory of violence rather than erase the violence for the original.

Because everything we think about in art restoration is always restore something to the original,

we fetishize the origin, but here these folks have prioritized the memory,

preserving the ugliness that actually becomes beautiful because they chose to remember violence.

And that's when I realized I couldn't write my book with a kind of open wound

and the Japanese would call it wabi-sabi, right?

We think of the Japanese ceramics often filling in the cracks with gold, and I think that was a new way for me to write my books.

Your books are filled with cultural references and your new novel, The Emperor of Gladness, is such in New England,

a place most of us here at Festival Literatura know nothing about.

Do you ever think while writing how differently these references are perceived overseas

or does the universality of some experiences you talk about go beyond that?

I think they go beyond.

I think language is a signifier.

So when I say winter, I have a very specific image in mind growing up in New England.

But the word winter with one definition in the dictionary has a different connotation from someone from Napoli

or someone from Nigeria or someone from Belgium or Vietnam.

So I think what the words stir in us is still true, even if it's different from the experience of the author.

I've never been to Russia, but when Tolstoy describes the Russian steps, I understand it.

I might understand it differently from him, but it's still a complete understanding to me.

So every book transforms his author.

When you read your early works today, how was your perspective on personal memory changed?

Oh gosh, if I could help it, I would fix every book I've written.

If I get a chance, I would edit everything over again.

You know, Walt Whitman wrote six versions of his first book, Leaves of Grass.

And the lesson there is that only the first two versions were good.

He sort of started to put too much control.

He started to laden the work.

It became bloated by the sixth draft.

And so that's a lesson, but maybe that's not the best way, even though if I had a chance, I would probably write every page differently.

But that's the reality of publishing.

I think a book is like a photograph.

It captures an author's mind at a specific date and time, usually the date where they finally hand it over to their editor.

But the work actually starts growing.

It's an organic thing.

Like you take a photograph of a person last year, you already changed.

Your cells change, your body changes.

Certainly if a photograph of you when you were maybe 12 or 15 years later.

So a book is a photograph and maybe the best way to update it is to write the next book.

The characters in your novels are often at the margins

and being on the edge is also a recurring image in your poetry.

What is about margins and edges that you find so attractive?

I think the margins to me is where the most exciting things happen.

And it's always the margin that where culture is most malleable and palpable and electric.

And you notice that throughout history, the center never evolves.

It's always the margins that evolves.

And then when it evolves something interesting, those in power will then grab it and then bring it into the center and assimilate it.

And then it will depend on another revolution of marginal innovation to happen on the outside.

This is true particularly in America with black music music, hip hop, blues, even country music comes from the black tradition.

So many traditions like this, including poetry.

Poetry has often been kicked out of academia in the 19th century.

And then slowly now it's part of you know the quote-unquote legitimate literary output

but for a long time it comes out of work songs,

field songs, prayers, the work of working-class peasantry now towards the center.

So I think it's always important to really pay attention to the outskirts.

That's where new phrases come in to be, slang, you know, new languages,

secret words, metaphors, those are where I think to me the most exciting linguistic activity happens.

One of my favorite quotes from the books is when Gazina says the work can cast spells, you should know this is a writer that's why it's called spelling,

if you could really cast a spell with your poems or your novels what would that be?

Oh gosh I don't know I'm not much of a of a wizard.

I think for me, actually, we are in Italy and I was lucky to be here when I was 18 backpacking through Europe like most Americans do.

But I never encountered the piazza in America.

America is very anti-piazza.

Even when we have it, like in Union Square, the police said you can't go there.

It's not really a piazza.

It's not as open as it is here.

And I think that the idea of the piazza coming, I believe, from the Roman Forum is a really beautiful idea.

And I think for me that image stuck to me for almost 20 years

because to me the piazza is a perfect metaphor for a book because the piazza is still, you know, someone orchestrated it,

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an architect designed it, but the people, what they do in the piazza, whether they sell fruit or they have a reading

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or they celebrate religious activities or they meet go on dates it's up to them

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and so to me the book is a piazza you make it

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but whatever a reader feels inside the piazza is still up to them

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and as an author i have no right to say oh

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you got it wrong you you are you have a wrong

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feeling in my piazza in my piazza you can only feel this

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and this and this i think that's not true

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so to me it's about building that space designing it in a very particular way

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and whatever somebody feels is still their truth and I don't have a right as an author to say they are wrong.

什么是跟读法？

跟读法 (Shadowing) 是一种有科学依据的语言学习技巧，最初开发用于专业口译员的培训，并由多语言者Alexander Arguelles博士普及。这个方法简单而强大：您在听英语母语原声的同时立即大声重复——就像是一个延迟1-2秒紧跟说话者的影子。与被动听力或语法练习不同，跟读法强迫您的大脑和口腔肌肉同时处理并模仿真实的讲话模式。研究表明它能显着提高发音准确性，语调，节奏，连读，听力理解和口语流利度——使其成为雅思口语备考和真实英语交流最有效的方法之一。

跟读练习: Festivaletteratura 2025 - Intervista a Ocean Vuong - 通过视频学习英语口语

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