Mr. Lee looked at him in perplexity, though he greeted him back. "I thought you'd be upset about working tonight," he said inquiringly.

"No, I'll be happy to work here every night." Nan beamed despite his tired face.

As Nan headed for his car, a homeless man, Jimmy, who was a veteran of the Vietnam War and often mooched cigarettes from passersby, was sitting on his heels with his back against the wall of the motel. He stood up, grinning at Nan, and said, "Merry Christmas, sir. Can you spare some change?" He put out his dark-skinned hand, his ring and little fingers missing.

"Merry Christmas!" Nan cried back. He thrust his hand into his hip pocket, pulled out four singles and some coins-all the money in there-and gave them to Jimmy.

Jimmy said, "You gave me a real holiday, sir. Thank you!"

"Buy yourself a cahp of coffee and a doughnut."

"I will."

Nan could feel Jimmy's eyes following him all the way to his van. The sky was overcast and the wind chilly. It threatened snow. He lifted his head to watch the low nimbus clouds. Snow would make today more like Christmas, and Pingping and Taotao might roll a snowball again in their backyard. Nan felt sleepy, his forehead numb, yet he was strong in spirit. He pulled out of the parking lot and turned on the radio, which was playing a swelling carol. He reminded himself that he mustn't nod off on his way home.

EPILOGUE

EXTRACTS FROM NAN WU'S POETRY JOURNAL

January 3, 1998

THE OTHER DAY, at the used book store Book Nook, I picked up a volume of poetry, A Peculiar Time, by Dabney Stockwell. Having read it through, I feel it's a remarkable book: fresh, elegant, intimate, and full of mysterious lines. But there's no way to find more information on this poet, who should be in his seventies if he's still alive. Neither Barnes amp; Noble nor Borders carries his books. This saddens me, because it shows how fragile and ephemeral a poet's reputation can be. In the acknowledgments, Stockwell listed the magazines in which most of the poems had originally appeared. Obviously he was known, if not famous, when the book was published in 1969. No matter how good one's poetry is, its survival seems to depend on chance. Therefore, one shouldn't expect any success. In the end there may be only failure.

January 30, 1998

I have found that the addressee, the "you," in lyrical poems is vital in shaping the poetic voice. It functions like a sounding board that helps determine the level of diction and the volume and tone of the speech. Generally speaking, it's more effective to identify the addressee in a poem so that the readers can be clear who is speaking to whom.

March 9, 1998

Good news. Yellow Leaves accepted two poems, "Pomegranates" and "The Drake." Though it returned my other three pieces, this is my first acceptance, which I hope portends an auspicious beginning. The editor suggested only one minor revision-deleting a comma. I revised four other poems slightly and sent them out to Still Water Review.

April 7, 1998

For a long time I couldn't decide in what kind of English I should write. I used to avoid using American English because some of my poems were set in China. These days I feel I must depend on the American idiom and stop confining myself to the neutral English like that used in the Holy Bible, NIV My subject matter would eventually be American, so I should get myself ready for the task of speaking in the American idiom. I mustn't live in the past and must focus on the present and the future.

May 4, 1998

Heard from Arrows today. Its editor, Gail Upchurch, urges me to quit writing poetry. She wrote, "I admire your courage, but I should let you know you are wasting your time. English is too hard for you. You may be able to write prose in English eventually, but poetry is impossible. So don't waste your time anymore. Do something you can do. For instance, write a memoir about the Cultural Revolution, which I'm sure will be marketable. Or write some personal essays. In brief, the way you use the language is too clumsy. For a native speaker like myself, it almost amounts to an insult."

Screw the memoir! It's a kiddie form. I don't mind insulting someone by my writing. A poet is supposed to outrage people. Gail Upchurch spoke as if I hadn't known I was waging a losing battle, and she didn't know I already accepted myself as a loser who has nothing to lose anymore. To write poetry is to exist.

June 13, 1998

Chinese poetry does not have the concept of the Muse. As a result, the poetic speech can originate only from the human domain.

This is an interesting phenomenon, which marks the fundamental difference between Chinese poetry and English poetry. Perhaps this can explain why Chinese poetry is more earthy and bound to the affairs of this world. Should I believe in the Muse? I don't know, but I can see that such a belief may empower a poet. Still, how can we be sure what work has divine sponsorship and what does not? Even if we are sure, can't our convictions be but illusions? In other words, how can we trust our own visions? Probably to stay within the human domain is a better way to go.

July 6, 1998

Tu Fu wrote, "Writing is a matter of a thousand years; / My heart knows the gain and the loss." It seems he was quite certain that some of his poems would last a millennium. Although he is a great poet, if not the greatest in Chinese, his confidence verges on megalomania. The mortality of one's poetry is contingent on many factors mostly beyond the poet's control. By contrast, Horace said he hoped his work would survive himself by a century. This is more human, aware of his finitude.

July 20, 1998

Talked with Dick last night. He is bored in Iowa and said he'd try to see if he could work out a deal with his university so that he could teach only one semester a year. He misses New York, especially the nightlife. He is opposed to the idea of self-publishing, because a vanity press book is looked down upon by professional poets. Screw the professionals! William Blake published Songs of Innocence and of Experience at his own expense; so did A. E. Housman with A Shropshire Lad. I should not exclude self-publishing once I have enough poems for a book.

August 22, 1998

Fives poems were rejected by Poetry, but the editor wrote an encouraging note, saying he saw "a glimmer of talent in every poem." He seemed to address me as a young woman. I've been revising the poems and will send them elsewhere soon.

September 6, 1998

Too many people call themselves poets in the U.S., just as too many people call themselves artists-here even a con man is called con artist. I don't believe in the "art" of poetry. For me it's just a craft, not very much different from carpentry or masonry. It's a kind of work that can keep me emotionally balanced and functioning better as a human being. So I write only because I have to.

September 27, 1998

Gail Upchurch wrote again and said she still couldn't see any progress in my poetry. She quoted Yeats, who in a letter declares that no poet who doesn't write in his mother tongue can write with music and strength. I was disheartened by the quotation, as I do love some of Yeats's poems. I felt as if a brick had hit me in the face. On second thought, I believe Yeats's statement might be true only of his time. Nowadays TV and radio are everywhere, and you can hear native English speakers talk every day, so it may be less difficult for a writer to choose to write in his adopted tongue.