Click HERE to read all entries in Cha on Tongueless.
Lau Yee-Wa (author), Jennifer Feeley (translator), Tongueless, The Feminist Press, 2024. 280 pgs.
The best way to start the review of a book like Tongueless, which has been described in many surprising and frankly implausible ways, is by spelling out what Lau Yee-Wa's first novel is not. So, this is not a "psychological thriller"; and neither is it a "contemporary Hong Kong noir" (though it does take place in contemporary Hong Kong) or a "horror novel". Quite simply, the story lacks any of the basic elements (stylistic, plot-related or otherwise—not even if taken in a very loose form) which would justify any of those characterisations.
But what really matters is that Tongueless is not about language and identity either. The main event (the decision by the principal of a secondary school to conduct classes in Mandarin rather than in Cantonese) appears strangely out of focus. Dealt with rather sketchily in the first part of the book, its wider implications are never fully explored, and shifted distinctly to the background in the second half, after the gruesome suicide of Wai (the one teacher who seemed to genuinely care about improving her Mandarin), when the narration focuses on Ling, one of her colleagues.
Even more: the author frames the proposed change narrowly, as a pedagogical matter notable only for its impact on a group of teachers who meekly accept it as a fait accompli (symbolised by how eagerly they switch to speaking in Mandarin to impress a supervisor) and who are just too keen to ignore any repercussions beyond their career prospects. This creates a parallel with one of the novel's literary references, Lu Xun's short story "A Small Incident" (δΈδ»Άε°δΊ), in that Lau Yee-Wa's teachers also face their ε°δΊ in the context of a much larger ε€§δΊ - whose wider impact they refuse to contemplate, much like Lu Xun's narrator. However, leaving the details of the ε€§δΊ undefined works in a short story but amounts to a missed opportunity in a full-length novel, which would have allowed a much more detailed exploration of language as a source of cultural identity (something that instead remains tangential to the narration, briefly alluded to once during a casual lunchtime conversation about what Hong Kong's identity might be).
All this to say that Tongueless is not the heroic tale of, for example, a group of people determined to preserve their language; nor is it a lament for a deeply-felt tradition. And, on the opposite side of the argument, neither is it a study of those intent on ushering the change. In the end, it does not substantiate the possible consequences either of transitioning to Mandarin or continuing to teach in Cantonese. In fact, a reader unaware of Hong Kong's recent history would be forgiven for thinking that the whole issue is nothing but a bureaucratic technicality, possibly influenced by corruption (the principal's dealings with mainland property developers) but ultimately without any real significance beyond Sing Din Secondary School. And those familiar with Hong Kong's social and cultural context will not find in this novel a rallying cry in favour of Cantonese (either as a medium of teaching or more widely as a language).
PLASTIC SOCIETY
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This means that, rather than for its insights into the new policy itself (the reasons behind it, the reactions that it provokes, the motivations of those who favour it and those who oppose it, its wider implications), Tongueless is best read as a commentary on the society where a change of such magnitude becomes inexorable very quickly and surreptitiously.
By shining a light on the social issues that ultimately facilitate the new policy, the novel says something important not about language as a source of identity but about the shallowness and materialism of a city whose most enduring symbols are branded goods, plastic surgery and credit cards.
Ling in particular comes to epitomise this superficiality: she spends most of her free time buying expensive brand-name items and readily admits: "I'm that shallow. Don't waste your breath. Just tell me the direction of where to go for plastic surgery." Not that she derives much pleasure from her consumerism, which she uses as a way to compensate for the frustrations and the monotony of her job. Just as importantly, this venality precludes any sincere and meaningful human connections: Ivy, the principal's secretary with whom Ling bonds, receives a commission from the clinic that she has recommended.
And in truth, acquiring such outward signs of materialism does not amount to actual financial security: Ling accumulates debt and is unable to get on the property ladder by herself. Her position at the school remains precarious because, like most of her colleagues, she has to renew her contract annually. In fact, this might be Tongueless's most important insight: a reminder that unconcern and materiality are created (but not excused) by a social system based on precarity.
INTERGENERATIONAL STRIFE
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This pervasive pettiness is filtered through the contrast between three generations: Ling's mother, the migrant from the mainland who managed to improve her economic condition; Ling herself, who lives the social and economic pressures faced by those who are middle-age now; and the students, whose most rebellious stance is exemplified by Tsui Siu-hin ("I don't need you adults to define my future!" he shouts during a meeting with the teachers) but who for the most part appear to be quite disengaged and play a marginal role in the narrative.
There are limited opportunities for dialogue and comprehension, as evident in the way teachers relate to students—which is to say, without seeming to care that much—and also in Ling's ambivalent relation with her mother: to a large extent stereotypical, at least in the way the old lady pressures her daughter to achieve economic success, it is characterised by contrasting sentiments such as filial love, convenience and frustration.
This intergenerational clash takes place in an atmosphere of marked decline. This is a society where social advancement was possible—once. The protagonist's mother survived the Cultural Revolution in mainland China, then moved to Hong Kong to make a living as a hawker and managed to build a real estate portfolio. She achieved her success through expediency and harshness—and, it should be said, by exploiting tenants—but her sheer tenacity is undeniable.
In contrast, Ling seems to be stuck. For all her ambivalence and frustration, she is guided by the same values as her mother: she has not chosen a job out of passion or calling (something she admits to when asked why she became a teacher in the first place) and she never shows much interest in Hong Kong's social issues. Tellingly, she finds the protestors "uninteresting", and, for all her education, she is oblivious to the plight of recent immigrants, to whom she only offers petty moralising—all the while continuing to be a stranger in her own city, or at least in the areas where the immigrants and Wai live.
And her attitude remains the same throughout the novel. To go back to the parallel with "A Small Incident": Lu Xun's narrator recalls his ε°δΊ with remorse, showing a degree of compassion and self-awareness that makes the small incident a turning point in his consciousness, albeit after a considerable period of time.
The events at the school, instead, simply confirm Ling as self-centred and disengaged. In the end, her life is characterised by the same materialism as her mother's but, because of the uncertainty of her financial and professional position, lacks the conviction that genuine social advancement might be within reach.
TONGUELESSNESS
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In such a context, what does being tongueless mean? Taken literally, of course it refers to the specifics of Cantonese and Mandarin. On a more abstract level, however, it denotes the absence (or the loss, to get closer to the Chinese original title of the book) of a medium of communication that allows real dialogue and understanding. Without it, lazy stereotyping and divisions proliferate, as evident in the casually dismissive—if not downright derogatory—remarks about mainlanders: frustrated by an interaction with a tenant from China, Ling thinks to herself "if you are going to speak it [Cantonese] so unpleasantly, then don't speak it". She also belittles Wai in front of the other teachers by calling her a mainlander. And vice versa: "Hong Kong people like to take shortcuts and only care about making money," says Master Chan, a face reader; "compared to Mandarin, Cantonese is just a dialect, and too vulgar," the head of department proffers.
On a private level, another dimension of this "tonguelessness" is the inability or unwillingness to express one's real feelings and opinions. Ling's frustration is almost always only formulated in her thoughts, never voiced openly. Instead, she says what she believes other people want to hear rather than what she really thinks: she might be a good conversationalist, as the narrator claims, but she only ever talks to flatter.
In the end, does being tongueless, or lacking the power of speech, even matter? A reader is inclined to feel that it should—but no one in the novel appears to be genuinely bothered by the implications of the new policy. Not the teachers: too precarious and sycophantic to challenge the principal's directives, they quickly adjust to (or make plans for) teaching in Mandarin. Not the shallow main character: Ling is only interested in buying the latest brand-name items and mending her current diminished status in the school's hierarchy. And neither the parents, who, just like Ling's mother, accept the practicality of learning in Mandarin; and not even the majority of students, who are generally a marginal and passive presence (Tsui Siu-hin stands out for being outspoken, but his outbursts come across mostly as teenage angst).
And maybe this is the issue: there might be those who genuinely care but they are not part of this story because they are not the ones who determine the outcome of the new policy. Ultimately, the reforms are bound to succeed because there will always be people like the characters in this story (materialistic, self-centred, uninterested) who will simply comply with any proposed new policy.
PORTRAITS OF A COMPROMISED CITY
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The idea that social precarity creates self-interest and connivence has become a common theme in contemporary Hong Kong literature, and Tongueless calls to mind Dorothy Tse's Owlish, another story about an impending change made inevitable by the indifference of a city where morality is substituted by superficiality and where too many people worry only about themselves.
Tongueless is the more conventional of the two novels in both form and message and delivers its key points in a fairly direct way. For example, the main character's materialism is rendered through numerous references to the brands that she purchases on credit: Celine is mentioned 28 times (actually, CΓ©line, the brand's old spelling, is used); Valentino, 17 times. These repetitions do bring out Ling's personality but also make the reading experience tiresome, especially in the second part of the book. Moreover, a story of such pettiness and ordinary but despicable individuals could do with the irony and surreal premise that make Owlish such a compelling read.
This is a pity because Lau Yee-Wa's novel is an important addition to Hong Kong's contemporary literature: one that, without offering much original insight into language as a source of identity, or even a deeper appreciation of its importance, still provides the reader with a better understanding of how significant social changes take place.
How to cite: Griseri, Luca. "The Tale of A Material City: Lau Yee-wa's Tongueless." Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 8 Aug. 2024, chajournal.blog/2024/08/08/lau-tongueless.
Luca Griseri (he/him) studied history and postmodern philosophy in his native Italy. After obtaining an MBA from the University of Warwick (UK), he embarked on a career in marketing and over 18 years lived in London, Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. He is currently based in Penang, where he indulges in his passions: running, hiking in the forests and eating street food. [All contributions by Luca Griseri.]
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