A short story about a great teacher: Professor Le Dinh Ky

The teacher walked slowly, occasionally stopping to wait for a young woman with two long braids following behind. One of the older, more experienced members of the class committee pointed towards the teacher and exclaimed, "That's Teacher Le Dinh Ky! Teacher Le Dinh Ky and his wife!" We looked in that direction. I silently compared them: his wife was much younger than him. Later, after returning to Hanoi from the evacuation, I had the opportunity to visit him in a small room on the third floor of building C1 – Me Tri Dormitory, and only then did I learn that his wife's name was Long, whom I called Ms. Long – and that her long braids were gone…

I remember Professor, short and stocky, with a pensive, quiet face. He spoke softly, as if he were listening to himself. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it was a bright smile, his eyes distant and sparkling… Following my friends, I occasionally visited him and quietly observed. Before, I didn't know, but since knowing him – both during my student years and later as a lecturer – I noticed that the people surrounding him weren't the beautiful girls or pretty young women from the female students, but rather a group of eccentric orangutans from the department, with their peculiarities in clothing, mannerisms, and even their “statements.” He welcomed them openly and intimately, and they spoke to him enthusiastically, passionately, and “very democratically.” They recited poetry, sometimes with their eyes half-closed and lost in thought, sometimes whispering, and sometimes shouting, gesticulating wildly like actors on stage. He listened attentively and endured it all with amusement.

Professor Le Dinh Ky

I remember it wasn't until our fourth year that we studied the specialized topic: The Tale of Kieu and Nguyen Du's Realism – a topic that was published in a book, very fascinating, and, to put it simply, never boring to read again and again. That was the general feeling of many people, not just those in the literature department. Ms. Sinh – a graduate of the University of Economics and Planning, wife of Professor Le Chi Dung – who at that time was a young lecturer in the Literature Department, in the same generation as Professors Le Chi Que, Nguyen Thien Giap, and Dinh Xuan Dung… was such a "fan". Because Professor Dung was my homeroom teacher and also from Quang Binh, I occasionally visited his house. Once, I saw Ms. Sinh holding a copy of *The Tale of Kieu* and Nguyen Du's Realism in her hands. As she read, she praised effusively: "Thu, how wonderfully Mr. Ky writes! I've read it many times, and the more I read, the more I like it. There are parts I don't understand in Mr. Dung's books… But in Mr. Ky's books, I understand and find them wonderful as I read (if my esteemed teacher Le Chi Dung reads these lines, I sincerely hope he will forgive me). Mr. Ky is truly talented." Suddenly, her enthusiasm faded, and her voice became pensive: "Mr. Ky's salary now is enough to buy a chicken every week to improve our diet, isn't it?"…

Besides his once-famous treatise, Professor also wrote textbooks on literary theory: Artistic Methods – 1962, Fundamentals of Literary Theory – 1971, 1984, and literary criticism and research essays: The Path to Poetry, 1969, Poetry with Xuan Dieu, Hoai Thanh, Che Lan Vien, 1988, Modern Poetry – Ups and Downs, 1989, etc. His forte and strength lay in the study and criticism of poetry. Whether writing about an author, old or young, established or just starting out; from To Huu to Pham Tien Duat, from Che Lan Vien to Thai Giang, from Te Hanh to Luu Quang Vu… (The Path to Poetry), he devoted himself wholeheartedly, writing with all his thoughts and feelings, with the clarity of his thinking and the sensitivity of his intuition. His works always possessed a groundbreaking quality due to their masterful, subtle, and profoundly insightful writing style. In particular, through representative figures such as The Lu, Luu Trong Lu, Xuan Dieu, Huy Can, Han Mac Tu, Nguyen Binh, Che Lan Vien, Vu Hoang Chuong, Bich Khe… (New Poetry – The Ups and Downs), Professor Le Dinh Ky has revived a brilliant and unique era of poetry in the flow of 20th-century Vietnamese poetry.

Perhaps because he is an introspective person, his lectures are "subtle rather than passionate," or perhaps he tries to guide his listeners—the students—into the depth of the subject matter, paying less attention to the excitement or something more focused on the outward appearance of the "young and immature" student audience, who often pay more attention to the teacher's attire and mannerisms than to the lecture itself. Studying Professor Ky's class, if one listens attentively and broadens their "expectations," they will reap many useful and novel insights. For example, when lecturing on The Tale of Kieu, when Nguyen Du describes the meeting and intimate encounter between the "national beauty and genius" Kim Trong and Thuy Kieu, and the line: "One looks directly at the other, bowing their head in fear," the professor pauses for a long time to explain and clarify the brilliance and skill of Nguyen Du in portraying a couple deeply in love (with a hint of "flirtatiousness in their affection"). According to my teacher, when a virtuous woman sits opposite a man who is infatuated with her, when the man has "looked directly into her face," the woman should "shyly bow her head," because staring up at him at that moment would be inappropriate! To this day, I haven't forgotten those humorous yet profound analyses from my teacher. And I "realized" that Nguyen Du had indeed chosen for the character Thuy Kieu, in those moments of time and in that intimate setting, a very graceful posture, very distinctly East Asian in character.
In December 1976, thanks to the arrangements of Professor Nguyen Lai, a linguistics professor then teaching at a university in the German Democratic Republic, my teacher had a trip abroad for less than a month. At that time, I had just gotten married and was having trouble finding accommodation. My teacher called me over and said, “A lifetime only comes once. Come and stay at my place; it’s bright and spacious. I’m going to Germany for about three weeks. During that time, the dormitory and administrative office will surely arrange housing for you.” I was extremely surprised, and could only bow my head in gratitude to hide the tears that were about to well up… Upon returning from Germany, looking at the room, my teacher thanked me for cleaning and tidying up his belongings. Bending down under the bed, he suddenly said, “Oh, you washed my clothes for me? Last time when I went to the South, I soaked a similar set in a basin, and by the time I took them out, they were completely rotten.” (At this time, Ms. Long had moved to Saigon, and the teacher lived alone in Hanoi.) He recounted that he had bought several dozen spokes in Germany, and was overjoyed because this item was very scarce in Vietnam. He was surprised to find they were spokes for children's bicycles (I think they weren't called mini-bikes back then), and he didn't have one of those. Then, he took a rosy, fragrant apple, carefully sliced ​​it into many pieces, and placed them on a plate with a poetic and elegant invitation: "Here you go, a little taste from distant Siberia…" That was the most exquisite fruit I had ever tasted at that time. And even now, I haven't tasted an apple as delicious as that!

I remember Professor Le Dinh Ky was very genuine, simple, and averse to anything formal, flashy, or superficial. Although brief, my time at the Faculty of Literature, University of Hanoi, was filled with his dedicated guidance, allowing me to take my first tentative steps into a profession I now love but which I once feared. My first observation session, where they provided feedback on my lecture, was attended by prominent figures: Professor Hoang Nhu Mai, Professor Le Dinh Ky, Professor Phan Cu De, Professor Ha Minh Duc… Looking down from the podium, my heart pounded and my legs trembled; I spoke hesitantly and stammered. After the lecture, Professor Hoang Nhu Mai whispered to Professor Ky, "He lectured as if he were a student talking to his teacher!" I secretly admired Professor Hoang Nhu Mai's keen insight. Indeed, at that moment, I forgot the lecture content, the sequence of my intended presentation, and even the dozens of students sitting in front of me (including quite a few older men who had returned from the battlefield and whom I usually held in high regard). I only saw the towering figures of my professors… But my beloved professors were all “noble hearts,” giving me sincere and valuable feedback, helping me to be more confident on the long and arduous road ahead. Professor Ky encouraged and advised me a great deal. He showed me how to read and take notes on materials, how to “walk on two legs”—teaching and research, specifically, how to invest in classroom lectures while simultaneously writing critical research papers. My professor particularly emphasized and repeatedly reminded me: "You must remember that writing poetry criticism is very difficult, but the hardest thing is to hide the theory, letting it dissolve into the analytical feeling," and added: "Nothing is more awkward than writing poetry criticism where the theory is completely exposed, dry, rigid..." Everything I gained in my later research works and critical essays stemmed from those valuable introductory lessons, from the profound experiences and "philosophy" of my professor. His concern and guidance were often not "overly dramatic," yet contained both theoretical and practical significance. And most importantly, it helped researchers make appropriate choices. More profoundly, it was the aesthetics of poetry criticism research and a cultured way of behaving, a way of "playing fair" towards poetry in particular and literature in general.

Because he was so engrossed in his work, and it seemed that every time I went to his house I would find him diligently working at a desk cluttered with books and reference materials (yet still organized and with his own "logic," as he explained when anyone questioned the mess), he was always very busy. The time he had to prepare meals was also his only free time for "relaxation" (as he jokingly put it). Even so, he never begrudged the time to discuss professional matters and the authors and works he was interested in. During those times, he seemed much more lively and enthusiastic, his pensive and thoughtful demeanor replaced by relaxed smiles. During one such conversation, I mentioned a scientific paper titled "Youth, Revolution, and Poetry," which contained a vivid and colorful passage describing the artistic landscape of Truong Son – the cradle of the generation of poets who fought against the US and saved the country – that I knew very well: "Truong Son in the torrential rains and floods, in the scorching sun and the Laotian winds, in the roaring bombs and bullets…" After hearing this, Professor Le Dinh Ky calmly replied, "Ah, I 'stole' it from a student who was a police officer in his final year in that department. How could I possibly write something like that… You have to live and die with Truong Son to be able to write something like that." I understood that it was just a figure of speech, and it was the professor's genuine sincerity that made the conversation increasingly interesting and heartfelt. Not only me, but many others shared the same feeling that talking to Professor Le Dinh Ky was effortless, without any need for pretense or careful consideration of every word. Over time, those conversations always evoked a warm and carefree period of life. Those are memories I will never forget.

I remember, when I received my doctoral thesis topic on "Xuan Dieu's Poetry Before the August 1945 Revolution, through 'Poetry' and 'Sending Fragrance to the Wind,' from far-off Saigon, my professor sent me several books (among them, 'New Poetry - The Ups and Downs' and 'Poetry with Xuan Dieu, Hoai Thanh, and Che Lan Vien' became essential tools for me to read and ponder). He also reminded me to think deeply, not to repeat others, to find the unique color of "Xuan Dieu's self," and the difference between nature and soul in New Poetry and nature and the country in revolutionary poetry after 1945. Knowing that Professor Ha Minh Duc had accepted me as his thesis supervisor, he shared: "That's excellent. Professor Duc is very knowledgeable in this field. The topic is good but not easy to write; you have to try very hard." Before the official defense, I sent him a summary of my thesis for him to read and anxiously awaited the weighty evaluations from a leading expert on New Poetry. And unexpectedly, Professor read it very quickly and sent me a review via fax with kind words of praise and encouragement. This exceeded all expectations because, for me, just having him read my work was precious; I never imagined he would write a review for me. I called him, my voice choked with emotion, to thank him. He seemed very happy about the initial success of his former student. Then he asked me how many journal articles I had published, suggesting I gradually publish some parts of my dissertation before printing it as a monograph. He also said I needed to write much more because, whether I wanted to or not, having earned a university teaching position, completing my Associate Professor (back then it wasn't called a Doctorate) required preparing for the Associate Professor application… Now, sitting here rereading the review dated October 24, 1995, with its tiny, slanted handwriting that I've cherished and preserved for decades as a precious memento, and remembering his words of guidance, my eyes well up with tears. I am so indebted to my teacher, yet I have never had the chance to repay him…

I should have had an opportunity. The Educational Publishing House had a program to compile a collection of professorial works, and Ms. Nguyen Thi Be, Head of the Literature Department, kindly invited me to gather manuscripts, select works, and write an introduction for the most important book of Professor's life. I immediately accepted because it was a valuable opportunity to express my gratitude to him. However, for very valid reasons, the book was subsequently produced in Ho Chi Minh City. At that time, I was truly regretful and saddened, but objectively speaking, I felt that the staff at the Faculty of Literature – Vietnam National University Ho Chi Minh City would certainly do a better job because they had close relationships with Professor, lived with him, and understood him better.
And then, I never saw him again. One day in October 2009, he quietly departed this world to the other…

In my mind, Professor Le Dinh Ky was an exemplary scientist: combining the erudition and elegance of intellect with the depth and subtlety of emotion, sharp thinking with keen intuition. In my heart, he was a mentor with a big heart, kind, generous, and forgiving. Every time I remember him, I feel as if I am reliving the noble, warm, and gentle teacher-student relationship. It was a tranquil space, full of life and human connection, an indelible memory that keeps returning and radiating warmth within me.

Hanoi, April 11, 2014