The portrayal of the rural town at night in the story Two Children

An artistic analysis of Two Children by Thạch Lam

Sample essay: An artistic analysis of Two Children by Thạch Lam

Written Work

Surely, you've once surrendered yourself to the charm of Thạch Lam's refreshing and sweet prose, 'as delightful as a young butterfly,' while enjoying the depiction of rural life at dusk. Two Children was published in 1938 as part of the collection 'Sunshine in the Garden.' Bearing such a title, how could one expect the hustle and bustle of urban life? In the afternoon at the rural town, it's truly tranquil and desolate. The serene atmosphere is occasionally disrupted by the sounds of insects buzzing outside the grassy fields. 'Evening, it's evening. An evening as serene as a lullaby echoing the croak of frogs in the distant fields carried by the gentle breeze.' The rhythm of the prose feels sluggish, lingering, evoking a melancholic, inexplicable sadness. It's not the author suddenly realizing that evening is approaching, but perhaps the image of the evening has deeply ingrained itself in the soul, so the phrase 'evening, it's evening' reads merely three words but resonates throughout the entire work. The sounds of nature are expressed through the buzzing of mosquitoes, the croak of frogs by the fields... Thạch Lam uses dusk as the predominant background, the darkness of home covers the rural town, shrouding the lonely and miserable fate of some individuals. In Liên's eyes, the rural street seems deep, dark, the food stall of Bác Siêu, the blind singer's straw mat, or sister Tí's drink stand all filled with darkness. The dim lights flickering from the rural houses only intensify the darkness of the night.

However, beneath the delicate pen and deep attachment to the homeland, the rural scene appears simple and somewhat poetic. It's the impoverished rural life portrayed realistically, with sincere emotions evoking a deep sympathy for the fate of humanity.

The image of the impoverished children scavenging for anything left behind, the things discarded on the market ground, touched Liên's heart. She wanted to help them, but she also lacked money! Poverty and hunger had stolen three good intentions with traditional Vietnamese moral values of 'helping the needy.' And who knows how many other pitiful scenes were quietly unfolding in the background... There's Mother and daughter Tí packing up their goods, only to take them back home because no one cared to stop by for a drink. Sister Tí sits there, sitting to befriend the flies, sitting with hopes for something. Bác Phở Siêu is the same, in a land where people only dare to buy one piece of soap, his goods are indeed a luxury that no one dares to approach... They might only mention it with a nostalgic regret for a distant memory... Through the descriptive prose, we can also clearly see the desolation and boredom permeating the rural town at night. Perhaps more heartbreaking than anything is the family of the blind singer by the torn straw mat. In times when people no longer have compassion to care for themselves, how could the blind singer inspire compassion from others? He gropes through life in darkness, and it's even sadder when he can see the future ahead. Then suddenly, there's laughter in the story, a kind of second Chi Phèo. That's the slightly crazy old woman named Thi, a meaningless life filled with crazy laughter. It's a life entirely stagnant, neither happy nor sad, neither angry nor resentful. The rural town seems to be paralyzed or afflicted with autism. Liên and her sister are the same, finishing packing only to check the goods again, and then their makeshift stand with a few bars of soap and snacks becomes their 'stall.' The repetition and monotony make them indifferent to each other's thoughts and conversations. The rural market is strange indeed, they only ask each other and respond according to the situation because there's nothing left to say to each other. Around and around, it's still:

- Why are you packing so late today?

- Haven't you packed yet?

Then the responses seemed prearranged, sometimes bursting into laughter as soon as the question was asked, replying: 'Oh, what difference does it make whether it's early or late?' Their lives seem to deteriorate. The pattern of disjointed dialogue, the occasional startling response, makes one realize that people speak to prove something to each other and have nothing left to convey. Their lives condensed, closed, and oddly bland. It's as if impending decay is gnawing away at them if they don't have something, that is trust, hope. Yes, even in the bleakness of the night or the emptiness of failed endeavors, they still believe in something, albeit vague. When one encounters much suffering, one needs a belief to live; one needs hope even when feeling hopeless.