Interview #154 — Tiffany Tsao
by Whitney McIntosh
Tiffany Tsao is a writer and literary translator living in Sydney. She is the author of the novel Under Your Wings and the Oddfits fantasy series. She also translates poetry and prose from Indonesian to English; her translations include Norman Erikson Pasaribu’s poetry collection, Sergius Seeks Bacchus, for which she was awarded the 2017 PEN Presents prize and the 2018 PEN Translates prize.
Prior to her work in the publishing world, Tiffany received a Ph.D. in English Literature from University of California, Berkeley, and was a lecturer at University of Newcastle.
Tiffany spoke to Whitney McIntosh about fantasy fiction, the art of translating, and what you should be reading in 2021.
Also: read Tiffany’s ‘Completely Biased List of Fifteen Non-English-or-European-Language Books (Translated into English) I’ve Read and One I Really Want to Read’ here.
In your most recent novel, Under Your Wings (published in the U.S. as The Majesties), you present the story of two sisters who are hopelessly entangled in a web of familial obligations, pressures, and lies—but who often find solace in each other. What inspired you to write Under Your Wings?
There were a number of matters percolating in my mind at the time. One was that I wanted to write about familial secrecy and explore the idea of darkness/shadows/secrecy/deception as not an entirely malicious thing. That the harsh facts we keep hidden from those we love and ourselves are in fact what enables us to live with each other and ourselves. That secrecy can be merciful or simply make life more bearable. I’d been thinking a lot about this in the context of biblical passages where divine grace is compared to cool shade—hence part of the novel’s epigraph: ‘hide me in the shadow of your wings’.
Another thing was that I wanted to write a novel that drew on the Chinese-Indonesian part of my identity, which I’d begun to come to terms with and make sense of starting only in my twenties.
What questions about Chinese-Indonesian identity drove your narrative in Under Your Wings?
I struggled for a long time to make sense of how the immense economic privilege I enjoyed growing up fit in with what I learned later in life about state-sanctioned discrimination and violence against Chinese-Indonesians. I think, too often, the easiest way to deal with negative stereotypes about Chinese-Indonesians being rich, insular, unpatriotic, etc. is to dismiss or ignore them. But then, what do you do with the instances where stereotype and reality do converge: as with my family and many other families I know? I wanted to write a novel about characters who inhabit this space, and whose wealth enables them to avoid being victims of anti-Chinese racism, but who, ironically, then become the very stereotypes used to encourage the victimization of Chinese-Indonesians as a whole. Hence the insects throughout the novel: the migrating monarch butterflies, the silkworms, the ants, and of course, the gorgeously engineered bagatelles. What greater forces shape us as individuals, despite the autonomy we desire for our individual selves?
In Under Your Wings, the changing nature of global capitalism and the Asian Financial crisis hover in the background. How do you think about the power of individuals in the face of economic systems that often seem beyond our reach?
I used to think that one of the main reasons for an individual to take action was to effect change. But now, because I see there are so many factors that play into whether or not an individual, or a group of individuals, will effect change, regardless of how fervently they believe or how hard they try, I feel like the most important thing is to take a stand and act based on principle, and act in accordance with one’s ideals because it’s the right thing to do, not necessarily only because it will have an effect, because whether it does or not can be out of one’s control.
In the book, as well as some of your shorter essays like “inner beauty,” you often use eerie or unsettling depictions, which—at least for me—have sent shivers down my spine. Where do you draw from when you’re writing slightly surreal or fantasy fiction?
I’m not sure, actually! I think it’s just my natural impulse: almost everything I’ve written--or that I’ve been proudest of writing--ends up taking a surreal/fantastic turn. And those are the sort of stories I’ve always been most drawn to, as a child and even now: strange and dark and darkly humorous
Recently, you translated Sergius Seeks Bacchus (2019) by Norman Erikson Pasaribu from Indonesian into English. You’ve described the art of translating as akin to motherhood or “spirit-channeling.” How would you describe the difference between your experience of writing versus translating?
Writing is much harder for me on one level, but easier on another. With translation, someone else’s words are already in existence, and I can lose myself in how to best convey them. With my own writing, I have to start from scratch, so I really have to concentrate much more intensely and for prolonged periods of time, especially when creating a rough draft, because it’s fleshing out characters and worlds and workings of worlds for the first time. But on the other hand, with my own writing, I’m my own reference point; with translation, I feel I am responsible for faithfully representing another writer’s words, so I can get quite indecisive or anxious.
I feel like the most important thing is to take a stand and act based on principle, and act in accordance with one’s ideals because it’s the right thing to do, not necessarily only because it will have an effect, because whether it does or not can be out of one’s control.
A few years ago, you made the transition from academia to the world of publishing, fiction-writing, and translation. How do you reflect on that transition now that you’re a few years out?
Even the day after I made the decision to leave academia, I was happy. And progressively happier and happier each day subsequent. I always tell people, I felt like one of those ads for quitting smoking: “In n days, your sense of taste and smell will improve; in p weeks, there’s more oxygen in your heart; in q months, your lung capacity is larger; etc.” I didn’t realise how depressed I was and how academia made me feel so badly about my abilities and the worth of my ideas—precisely because it has very specific ways of measuring performance, and if anyone is unable to perform according to those standards, then they’re regarded as deficient or needing to try harder.
Now, a few years out, I’m still extremely happy I left, but I do miss the steadier salary. Though, since the reason I quit academia was because my existing contract hadn’t been renewed, I probably wouldn’t even have had that if I’d stayed. I used to miss interacting with students, but I’ve also realized that what I missed about my students was the human element of the interaction, and in many ways, I’m now much freer to humanely interact with people who need advice or mentorship.
How have you found that your experience in academia has informed your creative practice?
I think I tend to apply a ‘literary criticism’ lens to whatever I’ve written and whatever I’m translating, which can be handy. But I try to balance it with ‘feeling’—because I’ve realised, since starting to write and translate full time, that there really is something irreducible, organic, and inexplicable about the mental and emotional space one enters to write.
You have written extensively about the layers of gatekeeping that block the entry of Indonesian writing into the Western world. From your experience, what could be done to diminish these barriers?
At this moment, I feel discouraged. I feel like very large changes need to take place--much larger than I had first anticipated. But basically: I think there needs to be a greater variety of Indonesian-to-English translators, more mentoring and financial support for such translators, and active interest and open mindedness from Western publishers and readers in and towards Indonesian literature. Around and in the wake of the London Book Fair, there was a lot of buzz around Indonesian literature because Indonesia was the guest of honor, but then, well, I guess people moved on. And I’ve had some dispiriting experiences making pitches and submitting as a translator where it’s become clear that editors are looking for something very specific in terms of content or aesthetic that they want from Indonesian writing: overtly Indonesian settings (code for “tropical” or “exotic”), for example; or narratives that provide a sense of what Indonesia is like. While I understand the impulse, I am a bit annoyed that Western readers’ consumption of Indonesian literature so far is tied up with how much it can teach them about local culture, history, food, feel, etc. Ultimately, literature isn’t a tourist guidebook.
If you were to add five books to the English “canon” taught in universities what would they be?
Any five books not originally written in English or a European language. I hesitate to make specific recommendations because I think I’ve learned so much by simply having more time and space to read exploratorily and on a whim—which I didn’t when I was doing my English lit degree because I was so focused on reading ‘important’ and ‘relevant’ works.
Could I change the number, maybe? Any twenty books, any thirty books, instead of five. You’ll learn so much just through searching for specific languages and countries about what’s out there.
We asked Tiffany for her ‘completely biased list of fifteen non-english, non-european-language books she’s read in her life and liked’. Read Tiffany’s list of Translated Books here.
Even the day after I made the decision to leave academia, I was happy. And progressively happier and happier each day subsequent.
I’ve noted that often in your public writing you haven’t been afraid to admit when you’ve been wrong. For instance, in your translator’s note in Sergius Seeks Bacchus, you talk about your difficulties in overcoming internalized heteronormativity and binary notions of gender. How do you think about the place of humility in what pundits call an increasingly polarized age?
I find it important for me, personally, to be honest about my shortcomings and mistakes, but I’m also a bit wary of saying that everyone should be humble because enforcing humility can be and has been used by powerful people to harm powerless or less powerful people by keeping them down.
Do you have any advice for emerging writers or translators?
Argh. I don’t know if I am a good person to give advice. I guess, maybe, for emerging writers: write what you want and what makes you happy, but grow a thick skin. And for emerging translators: if you can, translate what you love, be conscious of doing the original justice, and always respect and communicate with your author insofar as it is possible--especially if you’re translating from a language that is very underrepresented and if your translation could have a big impact on their visibility.
Who are you inspired by?
I sometimes think of all the people who live and have lived on this earth who have done good and kind things whose names we will never know.
What are you listening to?
An ‘Acoustic Massage’ playlist on Spotify. How embarrassing for me.
What are you reading?
I’m just finishing Sreedhevi Iyer’s The Tiniest House of Time, which is a really cool historical novel set between colonial Burma and late-1990s Malaysia about a grandmother and granddaughter from an ethnic Indian family, and their separate but parallel experiences of racism and racial violence.
How do you practice self-care?
Long hot showers. I hop in for a moment, and then when I come out, somehow it’s 45 minutes to an hour later. It’s like a time machine. It’s a bit scary.
What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?
This is a hard question. On the one hand, I’ve been here a little under a decade now, and with each passing year, I definitely feel more like Sydney is home. My husband and I are permanent residents now, and both my kids were born here and are Australian citizens. I feel more comfortable here than I ever did in the US when I moved there from Southeast Asia (I grew up in Singapore and Indonesia): there are more visible Singaporean, Indonesian, Malaysian communities and resources here, which I appreciate very much.
At the same time, I’d also say that I don’t entirely feel at home yet in either Australia or the Asian-Australian community. I felt this acutely, actually, when Under Your Wings first came out in mid-2018 with Penguin Random House Australia. There was a bit of favourable press by mainstream media outlets--short reviews in newspapers, a spot on The Book Shelf on ABC Radio. But by and large, I would say it came and went, and there was no acknowledgement of it from the Asian-Australian writing community either, so I felt a bit sad. Yet I don’t know what I was expecting, because I hadn’t ever made a huge effort to participate in the Australian or Asian-Australian writing networks either. So perhaps this was understandable.
I guess, I still feel more just “Asian” than “Asian-Australian.” So in short, it’s a bit complicated. I’m happy living here, but I also feel that in my heart I’ve never left Southeast Asia, though I know that if I were to move back, I would also feel out of place because I’ve been away for so long.
I find it important for me, personally, to be honest about my shortcomings and mistakes, but I’m also a bit wary of saying that everyone should be humble because enforcing humility can be and has been used by powerful people to harm powerless or less powerful people by keeping them down.
Interview by Whitney McIntosh
Illustrations by Lily Nie of PaperLily Studio