Top 10 Analytical Essays on Nguyen Tuan's Artistic Style in 'The Riverboat Captain of Da River'

Nguyễn Tuân must have been deeply inspired by the river poetry of that Polish poet. How else could the waters of his homeland flow through so many of his beautifully crafted pages, including the Đà River, which lent its name to a masterpiece of prose. I suspect it wasn’t merely the thrill of adventure or a wanderer’s spirit that led Nguyễn Tuân to this majestic flow of the Northwest mountains. There must have been an artistic premonition, a foresight that guided this talented artist to the inspiration of the Đà River decades before it became a prominent muse for music, painting, theater, poetry, and literature. And even now, despite countless others who have carved, painted, and sung about the Đà River, perhaps no one has surpassed Nguyễn Tuân in transforming that riverine landscape into art, into an immense source of inspiration.

Yet, to create such a profound sense of wonder about the Đà River, emotion and keen observation alone are not enough. Recall how Xuân Diệu passionately spoke of the necessity of erudition even in the most lyrical of arts, like poetry. I believe Nguyễn Tuân possessed such authority, perhaps even more so—within his domain of essays and随笔 (suibi)—to demonstrate how such erudition can elevate the wings of artistry. The more one reads Nguyễn Tuân’s works, the more one realizes that this unique writer was always unique in his erudition, that this exceptionally talented individual was also someone with an unparalleled understanding of the subjects he wrote about. The Đà River is a prime example.

It had to be Nguyễn Tuân, and perhaps only Nguyễn Tuân, who would painstakingly trace the river’s origins, uncovering its birthplace in Cảnh Đông District, and revealing its initial Chinese names, Li Tiên and Bả Biên Giang, which, despite their foreignness, evoke a certain romanticism. And it’s not easy to find someone like Nguyễn, who, to write just three sentences about the color of the Đà River’s waters, had to fly over the region multiple times. Only then could he assert with certainty that the river’s waters were not black; rather, they were jade-green in spring, unlike the Gấm and Lô Rivers, whose waters were “green like mussel shells” (what meticulous observation and word choice!). And in autumn, the river’s waters turned “a deep, ripe red, like the flushed face of a man drunk from wine.” Who would dare say that talented writers don’t labor over their craft? Who would claim that a dashing, romantic figure like Nguyễn Tuân could simply wait for inspiration to strike and, with a single stroke of the pen, produce a mesmerizing tapestry of words?

But let us not forget that Nguyễn Tuân was also a literary persona unlike any other, one that no one could hope to imitate. The pages of *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River* are beautiful because the author imprinted his unique identity onto the river’s waters, blending the subjective beauty of his soul and imagination with the objective beauty of the river. Gradually, under his pen, the Đà River flowed as a singular entity, bearing the distinct mark of the writer, a river conquered and shaped by the unique power of the wordsmith—a power Nguyễn Tuân possessed in abundance.

Take, for instance, one of many examples. At the beginning of the excerpt from *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River* in the 12th-grade literature textbook, there is a passage describing “the rocky banks forming fortress-like walls,” with towering cliffs squeezing the narrow riverbed. The narrowness of the river is depicted in various ways: “The river’s surface is only lit by the sun at noon,” or how a tiger or deer could leap across it, and how one could easily toss a stone from one bank to the other. Such descriptions are delightful, but they don’t yet inspire awe for Nguyễn Tuân’s skill as much as the final sentence of the passage: “Sitting in the boat’s cabin through that stretch, even in summer, one feels cold, as if standing at the entrance of an alley, gazing up at a window on some high floor where a light has just flickered on.” How could an ordinary imagination conjure such a precise, subtle, and startling comparison? Beside such writing, I’m sure many would feel impoverished in both vocabulary and ideas. It’s as if this writer, who often feared “becoming a stranded figure by a desolate river of words,” constantly rummaged through his vast store of impressions to find a way to stir the human soul.

Nguyễn Tuân is describing a ferocious Đà River. Such an observation wouldn’t be surprising if we didn’t see how much effort the writer expended to make that ferocity rise into tangible forms and roar in countless sounds. The reader is placed aboard a boat hurtling down the rapids, feeling the water’s roar on all sides and the rebellious rocks ahead, which seem to “rise up to seize the boat.”

It’s not hard to see in this passage how the writer employs extensive personification, giving human traits to the inanimate rocks. He uses the full sculptural power of language to breathe life into each stone. Few could see faces in the rocks like this: “One rock, when viewed sideways, looks as if it’s jutting its chin, demanding the boat declare its name before battle. Another rock steps back slightly, challenging the boat to approach if it dares.” I’m certain that words like “jutting its chin,” written so masterfully, either flashed into the writer’s mind like a divine spark of inspiration and immediately found their place in the sentence, or were painstakingly crafted through sheer effort.

The image of the rock jutting its chin looks insolent, brazen, and modernly thuggish. Yet, reading the entire passage, one feels that the author of *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River* seems to both seek harmony and compete with the twelfth song of the immortal *Odyssey*, the passage describing Ulysses’ ship passing between the monsters Scylla and Charybdis. Listen to the heroic echo of Homer from thousands of years ago: “We… rowed straight into the perilous strait, with Scylla on one side and Charybdis gulping down the sea. Each time it spewed the water back, the entire sea churned, boiling like water in a cauldron over a blazing fire… And when it swallowed the salty water again, the sea surged and roared; the surrounding cliffs echoed with terrifying screams, and the seabed was exposed with its black sand…” Could it be that we’ve encountered, in the ferocity of the Đà River today, much of the spirit of that ancient strait from distant antiquity?

They say that within great writers, there often remains a child, and that child helps the writer retain a pure, innocent, and emotional perspective that adults tend to lose on life’s arduous journey. The case of *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River* perhaps allows us to think further: in the eyes of this great writer today, there seems to glimmer not only the gaze of a human child but also that of humanity’s infancy. And of eras that, though ancient, feel closer to us. Reading the lines about the Đà River’s rocky battlefield, I can’t help but feel echoes of the serpent formations and eight trigrams, complete with gates of life and death, from old tales. Then I suddenly recall how Zhuge Liang once used rocks as soldiers. Thus, the Đà River’s ferocity is magnified through layers of association.

But the passage describing the rocks and rapids of the Đà River surrounding and intercepting a lone boat isn’t solely about ferocity. One can also sense Nguyễn Tuân as a conductor leading a grand symphony playing the majestic song of the rapids and waves. At first, the author begins with a prelude of soft, plaintive notes from the waterfall, “sounding like a complaint, then a plea, then a provocation.” Then, suddenly, the volume swells, the instruments roar into a wild, frenzied crescendo, with the chaotic echoes of the mountains joining in to depict the furious, rumbling collision of the rapids against the rocky banks.

The sound of the waterfall—the writer notes—“roars like a thousand raging bulls in a forest of bamboo and cane ablaze, breaking through the fiery forest, the forest of fire roaring alongside the herd of bulls with burning hides.” To dare use fire to describe water, which is its opposite, and to use the forest to depict the river—Nguyễn Tuân truly played the rogue in art. But his audacity rewards us: we gain a broader, more fascinating view of the interplay of natural forces. Similarly, I believe it’s worth admiring the majestic beauty of creation in lines like this: “Rounding the river’s bend, the waves’ foam already whitens the horizon of rocks.” And I imagine Nguyễn Tuân’s heart must have swelled with exhilaration as it resonated with “the sky-shaking battle of water and gongs.”

Above is the image of a nature that Nguyễn Tuân once wanted to “see as the face and heart of a prime enemy.” But it’s also accurate to say that this nature is the foremost celebrator of human value. Indeed, who would the riverboat captain of the Đà River be if his boat didn’t struggle against “the tiger-leopard rapids roaring with strength on the rocky river”? He might possess some beauty of a fisherman or boatman, but he couldn’t become the subject of an epic.

On the contrary, it’s the grandeur of the waves, the rapids, and the Đà River itself that elevates the man who dares to confront and conquer the river gods to the highest pinnacle of awe. The ancients regarded “riding the strong wind, taming the fierce waves” as a symbol of heroic living. Then this riverboat captain of the Đà River, under Nguyễn Tuân’s pen, is precisely that wind-riding, wave-taming figure, both literally and figuratively! The writer deliberately portrays the battle between the captain and the river as initially uneven. Around the lone man, “the water’s surface roars… rushing in to break the oars.” The waves “like desperate soldiers press close, striking with stones, thrusting knees into the boat’s belly and sides,” lifting the boat, flipping it midstream amidst the roaring rapids. The currents take turns “delivering heavy blows, precise strikes, and hidden hits” to the man’s most vulnerable spots… It would take much ink to recount the sheer volume of martial vocabulary that Nguyễn Tuân borrowed from the world of warfare and generously scattered across these pages!

And yet, what does the boatman have to oppose this? A fragile boat, on which the man seems so small amidst the raging rapids, his hands gripping the oars, his feet clamped to the rudder, his face twisted in pain from “suppressing his wounds” (Note how Nguyễn Tuân writes “twisted pale,” not “twisted ashen.” The brutal pain inflicted by the water even drains the color from his face).

Yet, the three layers of the rocky battlefield, full of death gates, couldn’t destroy a lone boat with no retreat. The brave generals of old, if they entered the gate of life and struck out through it, would scatter the enemy’s formation. Nguyễn Tuân’s boatman is the same. Through this captain, the writer seems to invite us to ponder a philosophical truth: in a world of cruelty and cunning, a world full of wild strength and deceptive traps, humans still possess the ability to find a path to life. Nguyễn Tuân’s boatman has no magic. He doesn’t have the arms of Hercules to rival the strength of the Water God. But he “has mastered the tactics of the river and rock gods.” And the experience of navigating rivers, ascending rapids and descending waterfalls—no, the wisdom of a laborer—enables this boatman, armed only with an oar (a mere stick amidst the majestic waves!), to break through barriers like an undefeated general in the struggle against nature. A heroic inspiration has led Nguyễn Tuân’s pen to depict a routine crossing of the Đà River’s rapids as a mesmerizing, thrilling battle, a song praising the triumph of a hero. Is this excessive, surprising, especially from a writer known for his arrogance? I don’t think so. In my view, don’t think Nguyễn Tuân is merely praising one man. He is praising Labor, praising Humanity, and in his own way, making “the two words ‘Humanity’ ring out with such pride!” *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*—the writer intends—embodies humanity’s dominion over divine Nature.

And when, in Nguyễn Tuân’s essay, the boatman’s oar ceases its struggle against the rapids, the Đà River suddenly changes its appearance. Nguyễn’s prose now floats gently with the spring and autumn skies, where the author, looking down from a plane, sees “the river’s lines spreading across the ocean of rocks, faintly shadowed by clouds beneath his feet.” From there, the wandering artist waves his brush to paint an entire ink-wash landscape in a single sentence, a sentence that will linger in the souls of countless readers: “The Đà River flows long and endless like a strand of lyrical hair, its head and tail hidden in the Northwest’s clouds, blooming with February’s cotton flowers and swirling with the spring smoke of the Mèo people’s burnt fields.” If I may express a personal preference, my affection leans more toward the passage describing the lyrical Đà River. How could one not love Nguyễn’s writing in the section where he “looks at the Đà River like an old friend”?

At first, it’s just a vague feeling of “longing for open space,” after “being in the mountains and forests for too long,” even “forgetting that I’m about to emerge onto the Đà River.” Then the river appears, but only briefly, glinting mischievously, capturing the sensation of glimpsing the river from afar while still trekking through forests and over passes. Suddenly, upon recognizing the river—the old friend—it feels so profound, so wistful, in the “misty glow of March” tinged with the golden hues of Tang poetry. One can somewhat understand why the joy of reuniting with the Đà River feels like “reconnecting a broken dream.” But why does the author sense “the crispness of the sunlight…”? One only knows that once those three words are written, nothing could be more accurate, more beautiful, or different. And so, the “warm, gentle glow” of spring sunlight on the long-missed river deepens the happiness of living on this earth.

But even more miraculous, in my opinion, is the passage beginning with the sentence: “My boat drifts on the Đà River.” The sentence, written entirely in level tones, is as beautiful as a line of poetry. And that prose passage, why does it feel more poetic than many poems I’ve read? Surely some poets must envy the serene, dreamy stillness of a boat gliding between wild banks, the absolute silence that lulls the soul into an illusion of prehistoric life, a fairy-tale nostalgia, or memories of the Lý and Lê dynasties… It’s a stillness so dreamy that one waits for a jolt to awaken from the ancient dream, but none comes. The Đà River’s spring is revealed through tender shoots on a cornfield and the budding grass on the hills. And then the deer—how exquisite the image of “the gentle deer lifting its velvet head from the dewy grass.” Reflecting on this, Nguyễn Tuân was already in his fifties when he wrote *The Đà River*, and his literary soul had matured since *Vang Bóng Một Thời* and *Một Chuyến Đi*. Thinking of this makes one cherish even more the youthful freshness that blossomed in the writer beside a river, a new life.

And this precious emotion lingers in me with the melodic prose that truly deserves to be called “exquisite”: “Oh, traveler of the Đà River, did you too just hear a foghorn?” “A school of dầm xanh fish leaps from the river’s surface, their bellies white like falling silver… The river here flows languidly, as if mourning the distant rapids left behind in the Northwest’s upper reaches.” I feel that this poetic raft, woven from such prose, offers a rare literary delight that is hard to find in life.

But the author of *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River* is not merely an aesthete. We respect his sensitivity to beauty. But through this essay, we understand that what is even more worthy of respect is his deep love for his country’s nature and his reverence for human labor.

Nguyen Tuan is a renowned writer celebrated for his versatility across various genres, with essays standing out as one of his most exceptional and successful contributions to literature. Through relentless effort, Nguyen Tuan has masterfully showcased his talent in short stories, poetry, and essays, capturing satirical realism through the unfolding events in his works. One of the most representative pieces of his artistic brilliance is *The Riverboat Captain of the Da River*.

With his refined artistry in character and narrative construction, his short stories and essays carry distinctive features, epitomizing satirical realism through characters, essays, and reality. The free-spirited style of writing in *The Riverboat Captain of the Da River* showcases bold strokes of creativity, reflecting a lyrical and liberated approach that defines the author's unique expression.

Through his delicate artistry, each genre reveals its own creative nuances, earning admiration for its vivid imagery and captivating storytelling. His writing, rich in detail and individuality, brings out the essence of each subject, making every piece a masterpiece of descriptive value.

His liberal writing style, combined with meticulous detail and imagery, highlights unique artistic creativity, deeply rooted in his distinctive style and profound commentary. Each detail reflects a personal touch, rich and profound in expression, with every word and phrase carefully crafted to convey individuality.

With his unique style, Nguyen Tuan's essays are deeply rooted in the memoir genre, seamlessly blending subjective personality with lyrical expression. This genre carries an intellectual and narrative quality, vividly portraying literary techniques and profound expression. His works leave a lasting impression with their artistic excellence and bold, free-flowing writing.

Nguyen Tuan excels in using language, with words that carry a polemical edge, showcasing unique characteristics in expression. This approach delivers the best to readers, combining subtlety and depth in every detail, creating vivid imagery and a gentle, evocative tone that reflects the author's personal touch and creative ability.

With his keen observational skills, the author explores the depths of the reader's soul, offering unique and delicate perceptions. His work reflects a profound understanding of space and time, expressed through subtle imagery and a refined use of language, rich in evocative power and representative of his unique artistic style.

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Nguyen Tuan has used his talent to create remarkable works, highlighting artistic innovation and creative expression. His deep and subtle portrayal of characters and themes has brought him exceptional success.

"All rivers flow east, only the Đà River flows north." The beloved Đà River today provides hydroelectric power, bringing light to every corner of the nation. Over four decades ago, the writer Nguyễn Tuân penned *Sông Đà*, including the essay *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*, celebrating the majestic and splendid scenery of the mountains and rivers, as well as the courage and talent of the people of the Northwest. This piece is truly a "masterpiece," a "page of art," showcasing the distinctive features of Nguyễn Tuân's artistic style—a great artist representing modern Vietnamese prose: erudite, talented, and unique.

The essay features two characters—images that leave a deep aesthetic impression on readers: the Đà River and the riverboat captain. Centuries ago, the primary route to the Northwest was along the Đà River, as reflected in the folk verse: "The road to Mường Lễ is far, with 107 rapids and 103 waterfalls." The Đà River is both majestic and fierce, yet also poetic and beautiful. Nguyễn Tuân regards the Đà River as a close friend, a "dear old companion" filled with nostalgia and emotion. Readers learn that Li Tiên and Bả Biên Giang are ancient names of the Đà River, and its length is 883 kilometers, with a 500-kilometer stretch from the Vietnam-China border to the Trung Hà junction winding like a serpent.

The Đà River is fierce, with many rapids and waterfalls. Nguyễn Tuân, like an explorer-traveler, shares tales of numerous dangerous waterfalls with peculiar names: Thác En, Thác Giăng, Mó Tôm, Mó Nàng, Suối Hoa, Hót Gió, Thác Tiếu, Thác Bờ, and more. The writer notes that downstream from Thác Tiếu, the river becomes calm and peaceful, as the Thai people say: "Past Thác Tiếu, you can lay down a mat and rest."

At its upper reaches, the river narrows like a "throat," with cliffs rising like walls on either side, "where a deer or tiger could leap from one bank to the other." At Ghềnh Hát Loóng, "water crashes against rocks, rocks against waves, waves against wind, roaring and churning" for kilometers! There are deep whirlpools like concrete wells, "water gasping and gurgling like a clogged drain," with crows circling above, waiting for prey. The sound of the waterfall is terrifying and strange, like the roar of a thousand raging bulls in a burning bamboo forest. Nguyễn Tuân creates striking comparisons and associations, showcasing his keen observation and unique perspective on the Đà River's rapids and waterfalls.

At times, he likens the fierce Đà River to a "face and heart" of humanity's number one enemy. It is wild, cunning, and treacherous, with countless "rock formations" and "layers of traps," guarded by fierce stone generals standing at "gates of death" and "gates of life," ready to sink and shatter any passing boat. Yet, the Đà River also has its seasons and stretches of beauty: "In spring, its waters are emerald green... In autumn, the river's face turns red like a man flushed from wine..." In late February and early March, the ban and gạo flowers bloom across the Northwest mountains, and "the Đà River flows endlessly like a strand of lyrical hair..." Images of deer grazing on reeds, lush cornfields, and dầm xanh fish leaping from the water, "their bellies white like silver ingots," evoke the wild and enchanting beauty of the Đà River.

Nguyễn Tuân writes exquisite passages about the river's primal beauty: "My boat drifts on the Đà River. The riverside here is silent... The banks are wild, like a prehistoric shore. The riverbanks of old." The Đà River becomes even more poetic with "swallow-tailed boats" in the midstream and "broad-beamed sailboats" downstream. Reading *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*, one deeply feels the epigraph: "How beautiful is the song on the river." With the love of a talented artist, Nguyễn Tuân portrays the Đà River in diverse, ever-changing hues. The artistic space and aesthetic time, both real and dreamlike, evoke a profound love for the Đà River—a sacred soul of the homeland.

The image of the riverboat captain is uniquely depicted. This man guides us up and down the river, navigating rapids and waterfalls. He is a skilled worker, adept at handling the waters. With his six-oared boat, he maneuvers through the river's battlefield, "mastering the tactics of the River God and the Rock God." He steers the boat through many gates of death to reach the gates of life, sailing downstream in peace. For over a decade, he has ferried up and down the Đà River, his voice "roaring like the water before the rapids." His hair has turned gray, but his head remains strong, "set on a tall, sturdy frame, compact like horn or ebony." His arms are "youthful"; looking at this seventy-year-old man, one might mistake him for a robust young man. His shoulders and chest bear "brown marks," the scars of years spent navigating rapids. Nguyễn Tuân calls these "superior labor medals."

The writer delves into the captain's navigation through three rock formations on the river battlefield. The rapids are incredibly fierce and terrifying. At times, he describes the waterfall through its sounds; at others, he depicts the whirlpools as if filming a close-up scene. Inspired, the writer employs a rich vocabulary to describe the captain's battle with the River God and the Rock God. The scene of navigating rapids, with its myriad shapes, colors, faces, and sounds, hidden and revealed, is portrayed on a grand scale, highlighting the role of the brave and talented captain who overcomes the cunning schemes of the River and Rock Gods. His wit, courage, and decisiveness define his extraordinary character. At times, the boat is like an arrow, "whizzing" through the water of the rock formations. At others, he "grips the mane of the wave," seizing the current, darting through gates of death to reach the gates of life... There are moments when he is struck by the water's "unpredictable" blows, his eyes flashing with sparks, yet he remains calm, steering the boat to safety!

Nguyễn Tuân not only portrays the captain during his battles with the rapids but also depicts him after a day of combat, highlighting the calm and ease of a seasoned river captain. When he stops rowing, lights a fire in a cave, and roasts a tube of sticky rice, the captain speaks only of "cá anh vũ, cá dầm xanh," and the summer fish that explode like mines. To him, navigating rapids is nothing thrilling or memorable. Nguyễn Tuân is a master of language. The sound of the waterfall is vividly described with an astonishingly rich vocabulary. On the rapids, "water crashes against rocks, rocks against waves, waves against wind..." The whirlpools gurgle "like pouring boiling oil." The distant roar of the waterfall is terrifying, "like a complaint... like a plea... like a taunt... a mocking tone," at times roaring like a thousand raging bulls in a burning forest!

Nguyễn Tuân draws on his vast knowledge of geography, history, military strategy, sports, and arts like cinema, music, and painting, even the slang of river workers, to create beautiful, captivating passages. Terms like "precision strikes," "ambushes," "flanking maneuvers," "rock formations," "bunkers," "gates of life," "gates of death," "fortresses," "reinforcements," "frontline," "rear guard," and "midfield" are used with precision. His phrasing is flexible, varied, and engaging.

Onomatopoeia, synonymous phrases, comparisons, and personification are creatively and freshly employed, imbued with meaning and beauty. Hồ Xuân Hương wrote: "Piercing the clouds, how many rocks?" ("Self-Reflection") or "The green rocks, moss-covered" ("Ba Dội Pass"). Lady Thanh Quan penned: "The rocks stand firm against time—the water still frowns at the vicissitudes." These are exquisite verses about rocks, rich in meaning. Nguyễn Tuân also writes beautifully about rocks and the river's formations: "In coordination with the rocks, the waterfall roars in support of the majestic, imposing stones..."

Nguyễn Tuân is an erudite and talented writer, adept at using his vast literary knowledge. A foreign poem, an ancient verse used as an epigraph—who knows its origin?—adds elegance to the essay. He recalls folk verses about the legend of Sơn Tinh and Thủy Tinh vying for a beauty, deepening his love for Tản Mountain and the Đà River:

"The mountain is high, the river long,

Year after year seeking revenge, generation after generation in jealousy."

The author borrows a line from Tản Đà to enhance the river's poetic beauty:

"The Đà River, its foam drifting,

As many scenes, as many emotions."

The spring scenery on the Đà River is as beautiful as the misty flowers on the Yangtze River over a thousand years ago, during the Tang Dynasty, when the poet Lý Bạch bid farewell to his friend Mạnh Hạo Nhan on his way to Quảng Lăng: "Amidst the misty flowers of March, heading to Yangzhou." Speaking of the heroic tradition of the Northwest people, the writer includes two lines from Nguyễn Quang Bích—a steadfast scholar resisting the French in the late 19th century:

"A loyal heart cannot abandon the West,

Holding onto the Thao and Đà Rivers' upper reaches."

Thus, reading *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*, one gains valuable insights into the natural beauty of the Northwest, its geography, history, and revolutionary traditions. The essay enriches the reader's soul, intellect, and imagination. *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River* is indeed a masterpiece that Nguyễn Tuân contributed to the garden of Vietnamese literature.

Those who have read *Vang Bóng Một Thời* can appreciate Nguyễn Tuân's sharpness, talent, and sophistication when he writes about tea drinking, flower appreciation, bonsai, wordplay, poetry, and lantern festivals of the past—elegant, refined pursuits that reflect a beautiful lifestyle and the essence of Vietnamese culture over thousands of years.

Reading *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*, one discovers a Nguyễn Tuân who is erudite, talented, and unique. His descriptions of nature are ever-changing, across seasons, time, and space, rich in tone and texture when depicting rapids and waterfalls... His associations are poetic, filled with vivid sensations, colors, and angles, drawing from a vast reservoir of words. Nguyễn Tuân's prose is like the honey of a flower-loving bee, diligent and creative, bringing sweetness to life. His prose, at times echoing the roar of rapids, at others carrying the fragrance of mountain flowers.

Reading *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*, one grows to love the brave, hardworking, and talented Vietnamese people and takes pride in the majestic and splendid landscapes of the homeland. The Đà River is truly a gift of nature:

"Oh, the rivers that begin somewhere,

And when they reach our land, they sing,

People sing—while rowing boats, pulling vessels through rapids,

Evoking a hundred hues on a hundred river shapes."

Nguyễn Tuân is an outstanding writer in Vietnamese literature, renowned for his many remarkable works, particularly *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*, where he masterfully showcases his artistic style. His talent shines through in the essay genre, a form he poured his heart and passion into, demonstrating his poetic prowess. His essays are rich in thoughtful reflection, blending elements that create a beautiful and romantic style, earning him national pride for his unique talent. His distinctive approach to essays is unparalleled, making him a singular figure in Vietnamese literature.

With a deep love for his country's natural beauty, Nguyễn Tuân expresses his free-spirited writing in *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*. His intense passion fuels vivid emotions, painting a colorful portrait of the Đà River, which emerges as both fierce and majestic. Through his pen, the river takes on diverse personalities, vividly depicted through the imagery of the river and its captain. Readers can visualize these scenes through his flexible writing style, which captures the river's many moods—sometimes gentle, other times roaring like a wild beast. The Đà River stands as a historical symbol of national pride, and Nguyễn Tuân's portrayal evokes indescribable emotions in readers.

Nguyễn Tuân uncovers the beauty of his homeland's nature, expressing his profound love through the free-spirited depiction of the Đà River. His rich, evocative writing style leaves readers in awe, as he skillfully reveals hidden emotions and the deep connection between people and nature. His refined perception of nature enhances his unique style, leaving readers with a sense of admiration for his talent and sensitivity. His bold, unhesitant strokes bring to life the river's beauty, showcasing his literary genius.

Nguyễn Tuân's spontaneous emotions create a river that is both captivating and elusive, with moments that challenge readers to keep up. His writing goes beyond surface-level descriptions, hiding layers of brilliance and erudition beneath the words. He proves his literary audacity and skill, leaving readers in awe of his mastery of the essay form. His rich, vivid descriptions of the Đà River draw readers in, showcasing his ability to use his unique style to create a mesmerizing narrative.

The recurring artistic elements in his work highlight his deep understanding of the lives of laborers, particularly the riverboat captain. He portrays the captain's bravery and resilience, reflecting Nguyễn Tuân's own boldness and individuality, which became even more pronounced after the August Revolution. His works carry a personal touch, contributing to his distinctive artistic style.

With his talent, Nguyễn Tuân crafts a vivid portrayal of the Đà River, capturing its dual nature—both fierce and gentle. Readers are struck by the river's contrasting moods, from its raging waves to its serene moments, reminiscent of a Gypsy girl's charm. The riverboat captain, too, stands as a symbol of courage, navigating invisible currents with unwavering determination. This artistic brilliance leaves a lasting impression on readers.

Those who delve into Nguyễn Tuân's works recognize him as a talented and noble figure, not only for his love of nature but also for his audacious literary style. Post-revolution, his boldness became even more evident, as seen in his comparison of the Đà River to "strands of lyrical hair." This reflects the diversity of his style, offering a multi-dimensional perspective that goes beyond a single viewpoint, embracing the river's many facets in a lyrical narrative.

Nguyễn Tuân, a literary genius, reveals himself as a deeply reflective individual. His talent is vividly displayed through his portrayal of the Đà River, likened to strands of lyrical hair that captivate readers' hearts.

“The Northwest? Is it only the Northwest? When our hearts have turned into ships, When the homeland sings from all directions, Our souls become the Northwest, nothing else.” (The Song of the Ship – Chế Lan Viên)

During the days when the entire nation eagerly responded to the call of the “soul of the Northwest” to rebuild a part of the homeland, many writers and poets underwent a transformation to align with the revolution. Among these patriotic artists was Nguyễn Tuân—a unique figure in Vietnamese literature, who brought fragrant pages of art to life. Nguyễn Tuân ventured into the Northwest through his essay *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*, a work that vividly and profoundly reflects his distinctive artistic style.

For Nguyễn Tuân, engaging with art meant pursuing exploration and creativity. He believed that “a writer is someone who recreates the world.” He feared becoming stagnant, repeating himself, and falling into mediocrity. Thus, he adopted “wanderlust” as a theme for his works and a purpose for his life. To live was to travel, to discover new wonders. Before the revolution, with just a suitcase, Nguyễn wandered across many regions of the country, but with the mindset of someone “lacking a homeland,” disillusioned with life—a sentiment shared by his era. After the revolution, he continued to travel extensively, but now with the spirit of someone deeply in love with their homeland, eager to contribute to the nation’s reconstruction. As he once said, his journey to the Northwest was to “seek the golden essence of the region’s landscapes, and especially the golden essence within the minds of those passionately dedicated to building a brighter, happier, and more stable Northwest.” With this profound love for his homeland and fervent enthusiasm, Nguyễn Tuân skillfully wielded his rich linguistic talent to craft beautiful pages about the people and nature of this mountainous region.

The author often sought intense sensations for his senses. Thus, his writings frequently carry the rhythm of storms and tempests. Yet, they do not lose their gentle, poetic charm. Through Nguyễn Tuân’s pen, the Đà River emerges as both fierce and lyrical. It embodies the cunning malice of a formidable enemy, capable of claiming the lives of anyone who falls into its “rock formations.” “The Đà River roars as if boiling at a hundred degrees… the rocks here have lain in ambush for millennia within the riverbed,” and when a boat ventures in, they “rise up to seize it.” Yet, this ferocity does not strip the river of its lyrical beauty. Describing the river in its calmer stretches, Nguyễn Tuân’s prose becomes soft, fluid, and deeply poetic.

“The Đà River flows endlessly like a strand of lyrical hair, its head and tail hidden in the Northwest’s clouds, blooming with ban flowers and gạo blossoms in February, and swirling with the spring smoke of the Mèo people’s burnt fields.” On this river, the boatman appears, fierce and extraordinary. In the life-and-death struggle with the rapids, the author reveals the captain’s remarkable skill and courage. The riverboat captain embodies the author himself, drawn to dangerous battles with the wild river rather than peaceful journeys on calm waters. Nguyễn Tuân’s voice is natural and unrestrained as he portrays the contrasting states of the same entity. The Đà River is both lyrical and fierce, both an “enemy” and an “old friend.” Under the author’s pen, the river is not static but dynamic, vivid, and intense, using evocative language that strikes the reader’s senses. The boatman, too, emerges vividly, sharply, and distinctly.

For Nguyễn Tuân, “if it is literature, it must first be beautiful.” Literature must be refined and polished. This pursuit of beauty shapes the author’s perspective throughout the work. People and objects, through Nguyễn Tuân’s pen, are explored through the lens of artistry and talent. The beauty of the Đà River is a masterpiece of creation, both majestic and poetic. It is beautiful in form and color. The lyrical strands of hair of a young woman inspire countless poets and writers. The river’s waters, too, are captivating. “In spring, the stream is emerald green,” and “in autumn, the Đà River’s waters turn a deep red, like the flushed face of a man drunk from wine.” To the author, the river is not merely a natural landscape but deeply evocative. It stirs longing in those who have encountered it and then departed. Reuniting with the Đà River, the author feels his soul uplifted with joy, as if meeting an old friend. “Oh, seeing the river is as joyful as the crisp sunlight after days of rain, as joyful as reconnecting a broken dream.”

Amidst the beauty and poetry of nature, humans emerge as talented artists. The boatman maneuvers his craft with skill and precision. He always stands above the raging waves, forcing them to surrender. “Gripping the mane of the wave in the right current, he steers firmly, holding onto the correct flow, speeding into the gate of life, rowing steadily toward the rock gate.” Nguyễn Tuân describes the boatman’s control of the boat as if he were a violinist playing his instrument. *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River* marks a significant shift in Nguyễn Tuân’s style. Before the revolution, the author often sought inspiration by looking to the past, to a bygone era of glory. His characters, like Huấn Cao and the prison warden, carried the mindset of those who “knew not who ruled above.” The “figures of a bygone era” were heroes who roamed freely, “disdainful to the extreme.”

But after the revolution, Nguyễn Tuân found artistic talent in the most ordinary, humble laborers. Huấn Cao faded into the past, replaced by a boatman who dedicated his life to his work and livelihood. The image of the boatman drifting on the waves, battling death with a small pole, stirs deep emotions in readers. Nguyễn Tuân awards him the medal of a labor hero, a sacred pride. The boatman appears before us as a talented, courageous artist. In depicting this ordinary boatman, Nguyễn Tuân expresses deep respect and admiration for those contributing to the nation’s construction.

In recreating the landscapes of the Northwest and the boatman, Nguyễn Tuân combines techniques from various arts: painting, sculpture, cinema, music. Everything comes alive, vivid and towering before our eyes. “Rounding the river’s bend, the foam already whitens the horizon of rocks.” The sound of waves crashing against rocks and the boat’s sides, the rising waves forming rapids, “a daring filmmaker… courageously sat in a shaky round boat” and plunged into the “depths of the Đà River” to film… Everything the writer describes, imagines, and creates feels vividly real to the reader. Engaging with Nguyễn Tuân’s *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*, we feel as though we are standing before the river, witnessing the boatman’s struggle with the rapids, observing the treacherous stretches of water, jagged with hidden and visible rocks, and the serene, lyrical sections.

In his writing, Nguyễn Tuân employs knowledge of military strategy and martial arts. The battle between the boatman and the Đà River’s rock formations unfolds thrillingly and suspensefully: “The water’s surface roars,” the waves “strike with stones, thrusting knees into the boat’s belly and sides.” They “cling to the boat like a wrestler grabbing the boatman’s waist, trying to flip him over.” All these military and martial terms vividly recreate the scene of a dangerous, gripping battle. Nguyễn Tuân is renowned as a writer of talent and erudition. His vast knowledge of history, science, geography, and biology flows abundantly through his works. With *The Riverboat Captain of the Đà River*, the author takes us to a part of the homeland. The Đà River’s location and history are introduced with “erudite” prose. Many place names, such as Tà Mường Vát, Sơn La, and Hát Loóng, are mentioned, showcasing the author’s deep and broad understanding of the Đà River.

Nguyễn Tuân’s expressive ability and linguistic repertoire are remarkably rich. Each word in his sentences seems carefully selected and polished. He creates many new, unique expressions. His tone, sometimes rough and sprawling, is also concise and natural. Nguyễn Tuân not only writes pages of refined and sophisticated prose but also crafts poetic lines for life. Reading his lyrical descriptions of the Đà River, one cannot help but marvel at the gentle, poetic tone of his writing. Writing about the riverboat captain and a part of the homeland, Nguyễn Tuân expresses profound love for the laborers and the nation’s nature. The more beautiful and vibrant the Đà River becomes, the more courageous and resilient the boatman appears in his work, revealing the writer’s deep humanitarian spirit. The laborer in Nguyễn Tuân’s work is humble in both task and appearance, yet he is a hero in the author’s eyes. Nguyễn Tuân discovers the artistic talent in this ordinary man, who dares to face towering waves to steer his boat across the river. The boatman emerges as a diligent, selfless worker.

Amidst this simple life, the writer brings us a fresh, wondrous world. Nguyễn Tuân is also a creator, contributing to the world’s renewal. His literature opens a unique, captivating horizon of beauty, talent, and erudition.

Extracted from the collection 'Sông Đà' by Nguyễn Tuân, written in 1960, 'Người lái đò Sông Đà' is the fruit of the author's 1958 expedition to the Northwest. The region's lifestyle and people are vividly captured in the pages, imbued with a pervasive joy of life, interspersed with lyrical impressions and emotions before the majestic and peculiar beauty of the Northwest's landscape.

The work centers on the boatman as the protagonist of the Sông Đà narrative, yet it truly reflects Nguyễn Tuân's thoughts, observations, and creative musings. Through the voice of the old boatman, the author himself describes the river from various angles, revealing his deep emotional connection to the river, which symbolizes the nature and people of the Northwest.

With Nguyễn Tuân's unique writing style, Sông Đà becomes Sông Đà – Nguyễn Tuân. It is a river with a rich history, creating its own heroes. Sông Đà is depicted with a masterfully transformative and unique brush, showing the author's profound bond with his country at the deepest level of his soul.

Sông Đà is fierce, Sông Đà is an epic, such is its nature. The writer's talent further highlights this essence. Sông Đà is violent in sections with fierce rapids, narrow river stretches squeezed between high cliffs, or places with terrifying whirlpools that suck everything down to the riverbed.

This section contains many precise, scientific details mixed with the author's lyrical emotions. Sông Đà is sometimes dangerously majestic: it narrows into a throat, cliffs stand towering, midday sun barely visible... summer still cold... At times, it carries a hint of myth in its poetic features, like a deer or tiger leaping from one bank to another, as if the river were just a strip of silk in ancient folk songs.

Everything about Sông Đà is fierce. Sand, wind, rocks, rapids, and waves combine: water pushes rocks, rocks push waves, waves push wind, and the wind swirls in gusts. Just the sound of water in rapids is enough to terrify. The water's roar sounds like a complaint, then a plea, then a taunt, a mocking tone... Then suddenly, it roars like a thousand raging bulls. Or sometimes it boils as if at a hundred degrees, ready to toss a boat like a lid on a giant boiling pot. But nowhere is the water's sound as strange as in the whirlpools, where it gurgles like oil being poured.

The sound of the water is terrifying, but its force is even more fearsome. The wave's surface has potholes like a dry road, entering a pothole, the boat jerks down and up. Entering the water stream means certain death, or missing the stream's heart is still a near-death experience. The treacherous sections of Sông Đà bear the face and nature of man's number one enemy: fierce, cunning, and deceitful.

Sông Đà's ferocity is indeed as rumored. Sand, rocks, water, wind, and waves conspire to trap people to their death. Nguyễn Tuân used a multicolored brush to describe a series of different images, always apt, both intellectual and graphic, far beyond the techniques commonly called personification, delving into the deepest, most unique essence of things, creating unpredictably transformative writings. Thus, the ferocity of Sông Đà becomes an incredibly unique epic environment.

Sông Đà is fierce but also very lyrical. This is seen in the gentle paddling sections. Seen from a plane, Sông Đà flows like a lyrical strand of hair, its ends hidden in the Northwest's clouds, blooming with February's flowers and swirling with spring's mountain smoke.

Sông Đà's water color changes with the seasons: spring's emerald green,... autumn's deep red. On the river, boats with swallow tails drift downstream, giving the river its own romantic charm. It's a river that speaks volumes to people. Nguyễn Tuân looks at Sông Đà like an old friend, a long-lost relative. The writer is captivated by the crisp amber sunlight on the river, reminiscent of the March sunlight in Du Fu's poetry 'Yên hoa tam nguyệt há Dương Châu' from the poem 'At Yellow Crane Tower Seeing Off Meng Haoran to Guangling' by the Tang dynasty poet Li Bai from China.

Above is the attitude towards Sông Đà, here is the author's feelings towards the people, the products of that river. The boatman is a product of Sông Đà, described by the author in his struggle with the river's rapids. The ferocity of Sông Đà has been tamed by him. The image of the boatman: suppressing wounds, legs tightly gripping the rudder, face twisted but still riding the rapids, gripping the mane of the waves, reining in, charging to split the rapids... is vivid and impressive.

Ascending rapids requires poling. On the boatman's shoulder, the pole leaves a bruise, a real image. The author comments: The blood-coin is also a precious image of a super-class labor medal awarded to the Sông Đà boatman. The brave, intelligent man has conquered fierce nature. In this boatman, what is not marked by the river, not a product of Sông Đà? Sông Đà is indeed an epic to him, which he knows down to the punctuation and line breaks, the boatman has become a talented artist in the art of navigating rapids. Nguyễn Tuân calls his skill a blossoming rudder.

Reading Nguyễn Tuân's literature, especially essays, some say it's like looking through a kaleidoscope. In fact, the author's pen is not just seven-colored but thousands of colors. Nguyễn Tuân delves deeply into the essence of things, events, and people to explore, discover, and grasp the core, the quintessence, the soul of it. At the same time, there is a combination of profound knowledge, quick, meticulous, scientific work style, hidden intellect, and deep lyrical emotions expressed in very unique, very Nguyễn Tuân creative language forms, unmistakable with anyone else.

The essay 'Sông Đà' partly proves the mature writing power and artistic style of writer Nguyễn Tuân – a giant in modern Vietnamese prose.

Fascinating! That was my feeling after learning about the author Nguyễn Tuân. Why? Firstly, his free-spirited lifestyle caused many 'upheavals' in his life. Secondly, his unique personality and relentless efforts to assert that uniqueness. Alongside works like 'Một chuyến đi' and 'Vang bóng một thời,' the essay 'Người lái đò sông Đà' (originally titled 'Sông Đà'), extracted from the collection 'Sông Đà' (1960), written after his 1958 expedition to the Northwest, stands as a testament to this.

As I mentioned earlier, the two aspects that intrigued me about Nguyễn Tuân led him to the essay genre, where he achieved remarkable success after experimenting with poetry, reportage, and satirical short stories. Recognizing his forte, Nguyễn Tuân tirelessly honed his craft, eventually becoming a master of the essay. His bond with the essay form was cemented by their shared traits of freedom and spontaneity. This genre, almost devoid of rigid rules, is deeply subjective and lyrical. It thrives on the 'solo performance' of the writer's personality. For someone like Nguyễn Tuân, whose individuality was highly pronounced, no other genre could have been more fitting.

However, not every personality is cherished. While the essay may seem easy to write at first glance, crafting one that is captivating is no simple task. It demands a truly unique, rich, and talented personality. Nguyễn Tuân possessed all these qualities. Thus, his essay 'Người lái đò sông Đà,' one of the most representative pieces in the collection 'Sông Đà,' quickly resonated with readers, leaving an indelible impression of the Northwest's nature and people. Through this work, we also glimpse a distinctive feature of Nguyễn Tuân's essay style: essays rich in reportage, seamlessly blending the subjective and lyrical essence of the essay with the objective, meticulous, and intellectual nature of reportage. The work not only allows readers to savor literary beauty but also grants them access to the author's vast reservoir of knowledge.

Even in a single excerpt from the textbook, we see Nguyễn Tuân's profound understanding of various cultural and artistic fields alongside literature. He consistently employs the perspectives of these disciplines to enhance the observational and descriptive power of his literary art. He also creates delicate, skillful, and unique imagery based on meticulous observation, imaginative associations, and comparisons, expressed through a rich and evocative language. All of this is vividly demonstrated in the excerpt 'Người lái đò sông Đà' (included in the textbook).

Initially, there is the musical knowledge depicted through the chaotic, terrifying symphony of the rapids: 'The water here breathes and roars like a clogged drain,' 'the water gurgles as if boiling oil has been poured in,' 'The sound of the waterfall seems to complain, then plead, then taunt, a mocking tone... Then suddenly, it roars like a thousand raging bulls.' The novel metaphors, expressive language, and rapid rhythm of the prose strongly impact the reader's mind, continuously escalating the sound of the fierce rapids to a climax, leaving one's mind stretched to its limit, only to relax as 'the waves hiss and dissolve in memory.' 'The river returns to peace.'

If we were to chart the frequency of Sông Đà's sounds, we would see a sharp rise followed by a sudden return to the baseline. Then, Nguyễn Tuân's refined pen helps us draw a descending line to depict the 'serene' scenery along the lower reaches of Sông Đà. In his associative realm, the writer seems to transcend time, returning to the past to perceive: 'It seems that since the Lý, Trần, and Lê dynasties, this stretch of the river has been just as tranquil,' to the point where 'one longs to be startled by the sound of a ship's horn' to return to the present riverbanks. The rhythm of the prose stretches out in harmony with the poetic stillness of the river. Nguyễn Tuân, with his talent and personality, draws the reader's consciousness along, only to abruptly awaken them with the sound of fish splashing—a sound not easily heard in everyday life. Only in this tranquil space can it 'chase away a herd of deer' and startle us awake. This sound nudges the frequency line slightly upward, creating a gentle emphasis before returning the lower river to its inherent serenity.

Parallel to sound is imagery. With his rich knowledge of painting and sculpture, coupled with a unique imagination and keen observation expressed through a versatile and masterful language, the writer helps us envision the dizzying height of 'the riverbank cliffs standing like fortress walls,' evoking a sense of grandeur, wilderness, and even dread. Especially when 'the river narrows like a throat,' the water's force must be formidable and fierce! Nguyễn Tuân's fresh, unexpected comparisons and associations make readers feel as though they are sitting in the boat with him, shivering as they pass through that section. A few strokes, yet so evocative!

If the water is fierce, the rapids' rocks are even more unpleasant. Nguyễn Tuân's imagination shapes each rock's face: large and small rocks, 'Every rock face looks defiant, each more wrinkled and twisted than the water's surface here,' some 'majestic and imposing,' others 'with a sullen, greenish face.'

After carving, he paints. The writer pulls out his box of linguistic colors, aiming to convey the river's beauty as he meticulously observed it. If the rocks' ferocity makes them ugly and unappealing, the river's fierceness inadvertently enhances the sunlight's effect, giving it the luxurious, shimmering beauty of a 'whitewashed river surface,' 'glowing like a bay of fireflies rushing down to light the wave crests,' 'glistening like children playing with mirrors,' or 'flashing like the sunlight of March in Tang poetry.' Reading Nguyễn Tuân's descriptions, I can't help but think of the resplendent dress of the Sun Goddess in the epic 'Đam Săn.' Perhaps the river is just as beautiful now!? A beauty that leaves one in awe. Then, it evokes a quiet affection with its simple yet rich colors, changing with the seasons: 'In spring, the stream is emerald green, unlike the green of clams in the Gâm or Lô rivers. In autumn, the water slowly turns ripe red like the face of someone bruised from drinking.'

No wonder Nguyễn Tuân feels heartache and indignation when 'the French colonialists laid our river bare, poured Western ink into it, and gave it a shameless Western name, then casually marked it on the map.' The river captivates us with its 'long, lyrical flow like a strand of hair, its ends hidden in the Northwest's clouds, blooming with February's flowers and swirling with spring's mountain smoke.' Beautifully gentle yet seemingly shy. How endearing! The writer must have deeply loved Sông Đà to create such beautiful imagery with unique, skillful associations. He also keenly observes the fresh, poetic scenery along the river's lower reaches: 'cornfields sprouting their first leaves,' 'hill reeds budding with dewy shoots,' 'a herd of deer bowing to graze on the dewy reeds,' 'a school of fish leaping, their bellies flashing like silver.' And this bold, unexpected comparison: 'The wild riverbank resembles a prehistoric shore. The innocent riverbank feels like an ancient fairy tale.'

Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it captivating? A soulful painting crafted by literary artistry. What we are admiring is not just a work of music, painting, or sculpture but also a cinematic masterpiece. The writer sometimes 'sits in the boat' filming the riverbank rocks, the narrow river, and at other times 'sits in an airplane' capturing the panoramic view. For scenes too dangerous to film directly, the writer relies on imagination to 'sit in a round bamboo boat and descend into the river's whirlpool,' aiming the camera upward to capture close-ups of 'a well-like surface with walls made entirely of blue river water, a thick block of glass, a block of blue crystal about to shatter and engulf both the camera and the viewer.' Yet, he manages to convey its essence to the readers. Only a talented 'filmmaker' like Nguyễn Tuân could achieve this.

Moreover, he incorporates literary knowledge, quoting poems by Wladyslaw Broniewski, Nguyễn Quang Bích, Li Bai, and Tản Đà to affirm and glorify Sông Đà's beauty, while adding a touch of mystery through the mythical folk song 'Sơn Tinh Thủy Tinh.' Drawing from all these sources, it's clear that the writer invested deeply in Sông Đà. Ultimately, all this investment serves as a backdrop for the towering monument to the new laborer—the boatman—who stands firm and resolute. The harsher the nature, the more vividly the author portrays the boatman's experience, cunning, and bravery. This time, the author employs military and martial arts knowledge to describe the rocky battlefield and the boatman's arduous journey through the rapids. Readers can almost see before their eyes a 'rocky battlefield' meticulously arranged by fierce and seasoned 'stone warriors.'

They know how to deploy 'vanguard lines,' 'middle lines,' 'second lines'...; they are adept at tactics like 'ambush,' 'decoy,' 'flanking strikes, pinpoint strikes, and deadly blows'...; they fight fiercely and bravely: 'leaping up to seize the boat'; they even arrogantly 'challenge the boat to announce its name,' daring it to come closer... Not to mention their alliance with the equally combative, fierce, and cunning rapids: 'The water surface roars loudly... rushing in to break the oars, the weapons in their hands... risking their lives to press close, kicking the boat's sides and hull... lifting the boat... clinging to it like wrestlers grabbing a belt'... The boatman is in grave danger! Readers can't help but worry. But witnessing the entire rapids-crossing scene reveals that he is not easily 'bullied.' His physical endurance, sharp mind, 'mastery of the river and rock's tactics,' and 'knowledge of the ambush patterns in treacherous waters' enable him to 'charge into battle' like a 'wise and brave warrior,' successively breaking through encirclements and attacks.

Each of his movements is swift and decisive: 'dodging,' 'pressing forward,' 'steering diagonally,' 'shooting straight ahead'... The descriptive language, full of personality and rich in imagery, employs many novel terms and unexpected yet precise comparisons to depict the rocky battlefield, rapids, waves, and water. Now, it is used again to describe the equally fierce and determined movements of the boatman and his boat: 'gripping the wave's mane... the boatman pulls the reins,' 'the boat like a bamboo arrow piercing swiftly through the water'...

It's no exaggeration to say that Nguyễn Tuân has a special fascination for things that evoke intense sensations. Just look at the arduous rapids-crossing and his depiction of Sông Đà. If the rapids-crossing stretched our nerves to their limit, Sông Đà leaves an impression of being both 'fierce and lyrical,' with each aspect reaching its peak: in the upper reaches, it is supremely 'fierce' with the combined force of 'water pushing rocks, rocks pushing waves, waves pushing wind,' threatening to 'shatter' any boat passing by, posing an immense challenge to the river's inhabitants; yet, in the lower reaches, it creates a breathtakingly beautiful scene that captivates the soul. Nguyễn Tuân's talented and erudite pen breathes life into the inanimate river, making it come alive with character and emotion, becoming a 'character' with starkly contrasting traits, sometimes likened to 'the number one enemy,' other times to an 'old friend.'

And it's not just Sông Đà that receives the author's affection. Against the backdrop of Sông Đà, Nguyễn Tuân continues to use skillful comparisons, imaginative associations, rich and masterful language, and knowledge from various cultural and artistic fields, especially military and martial arts, to observe and describe reality, building a monument to the new laborer—the boatman—who masters nature. Though an ordinary man, in his 'ordinary' work, the boatman achieves true mastery, becoming a skilled artist in the art of navigating rapids. While exploring the artistic talent in people, Nguyễn Tuân not only sees it in exceptional figures like Huấn Cao in 'Chữ người tử tù,' written before the August 1945 Revolution, but also discovers it in the most ordinary individuals, like the boatman in 'Người lái đò sông Đà,' written after the Revolution. This reflects both the stability and evolution of Nguyễn Tuân's artistic style across the two periods before and after the August Revolution.

Another aspect of Nguyễn Tuân's post-Revolution style in the essay 'Người lái đò sông Đà' is that he no longer contrasts the past with the present or the ancient with the modern but finds a connection between past, present, and future. This is partly reflected in the writer's musings along the tranquil stretches of the lower Sông Đà. The writer follows the serene banks of the present to return to the past, recognizing the connection: 'It seems that since the Lý, Trần, and Lê dynasties, this stretch of the river has been just as tranquil'; then, from the present's tranquility, he looks to the future with 'the sound of a ship's horn from the first train on the Phú Thọ_Yên Bái_Lai Châu railway.' The question from the 'innocent deer': 'Dear traveler of Sông Đà, did you also just hear a foghorn?' indirectly expresses Nguyễn Tuân's faith in that future, a faith he never had before the Revolution.

I wonder if I have the capacity to appreciate Nguyễn Tuân's literature—a style that selects its readers. But 'Người lái đò sông Đà' truly embodies the unique style of Nguyễn Tuân; through it, we also see his love for the Northwest's nature and people, and deeper still, his patriotism and national spirit. Although some of his works have flaws, such as overly free-flowing prose that can be hard to follow, or sections that overly display knowledge and materials, making the reader feel burdened, these do not diminish the appeal of Nguyễn Tuân's literature to many readers, as each work is imbued with heartfelt dedication, carrying the writer's heart and mind.

Given such meticulous and laborious investment, Nguyễn Tuân indeed viewed art as a serious form of labor, and it's no surprise that a talented writer like him considered it a form of 'asceticism.' Nguyễn Tuân has made significant contributions to Vietnamese literature, both in terms of genre and language.

When mentioning Nguyễn Tuân, we recall a master of literary language. People also immediately think of him as the embodiment of the 'wanderlust' philosophy. Passionate about what he calls 'wandering,' he often writes about things that are never still: vehicles, boats, people with a nomadic spirit who love to travel. He also enjoys describing things that are intense and fierce: high mountain passes, deep abysses, vast seas, storms, violent rapids, and even beauty so sublime that it leaves the human mind in awe. Traveling extensively, he is also someone close to nature, deeply in love with it, while discovering many beauties and unique features of mountains, rivers, and plants across the country. The collection 'Sông Đà' and the essay 'Người lái đò sông Đà' are among such works.

Sông Đà is indeed a river that is both incredibly beautiful and fiercely wild. The author describes it as 'ferocious and lyrical': ferocious in sections with violent rapids, narrow stretches squeezed between towering cliffs, or deadly whirlpools... Here, Sông Đà has 'the face and soul of a human enemy: fierce, cunning, deceitful, and cruel...' Lyrical in the gentle paddling sections, the river flows like a 'strand of lyrical hair,' its waters changing colors with the seasons, creating a poetic landscape with swallow-tailed boats... In this aspect, Sông Đà becomes a cherished memory and a close friend, an 'old companion' (meaning an old friend).

'Người lái đò sông Đà' focuses on the boatman's struggle with the river. It is a truly intense scene. These are the kinds of scenes that strongly stimulate Nguyễn Tuân's artistic senses, inspiring him to unleash a wealth of rich, visually evocative language to capture every nuance, shape, face, sound, and the most complex, twisted situations in the battle between the exceptionally brave and intelligent boatman and the cunning, fierce rapids of Sông Đà. Just the sound of the waterfall alone showcases Nguyễn Tuân's rich vocabulary: the water's roar sometimes 'complains,' sometimes 'pleads,' sometimes 'taunts' with a 'mocking tone,' then 'roars like a thousand raging bulls in a forest of bamboo and rattan ablaze'... As for the boatman, he 'suppresses his wounds, legs tightly gripping the rudder, face twisted in pain,' 'ascends the rapids,' 'grips the mane of the waves,' 'reins in,' 'speeds forward,' 'cuts through the rapids,' 'rows swiftly,' 'charges forward to split the rapids'...

Another aspect of Nguyễn Tuân's style is his tendency to observe and explore objects from an artistic perspective and people from the angle of their artistic talent. Under Nguyễn Tuân's pen, Sông Đà is indeed a magnificent work of art by nature, 'flowing endlessly like a strand of lyrical hair, its ends hidden in the Northwest's clouds, blooming with February's flowers.' The river's colors in spring are 'emerald green,' in autumn 'deep red,' and at times reminiscent of the 'March sunlight in Tang poetry: Yên hoa tam nguyệt hạ Dương Châu'...

As for the boatman of Sông Đà, he becomes a skilled artist in the art of navigating rapids, mastering the 'tactics of the river and rock gods,' memorizing the life and death currents of the violent rapids, thus remaining in control in every situation, able to steer his boat swiftly through hundreds of chaotic, treacherous rocks... Nguyễn Tuân calls this 'a blossoming rudder.'

Nguyễn Tuân is also an exceptionally talented and sophisticated writer. When describing a phenomenon, he not only employs his knowledge of literary art but also skillfully combines the advantages of other techniques such as painting, sculpture, music, theater, dance, and cinema. The essay 'Người lái đò sông Đà' is a prime example of this stylistic trait.

For instance, he describes a terrifying whirlpool of Sông Đà using cinematic techniques: 'I shuddered at the thought of a daring filmmaker who, wanting to convey a strange sensation to the audience, bravely sat in a round bamboo boat and descended into the whirlpool of Sông Đà. From the bottom of the whirlpool, looking up at the towering walls, the water surface seemed to rise several fathoms high. Then, the camera rolled. The boat spun wildly, the color film spinning rapidly, the camera tilting upward (...) to capture a well-like surface with walls made entirely of blue river water, a thick block of glass, a block of blue crystal about to shatter and engulf both the camera and the viewer.'

In this essay about Sông Đà, Nguyễn Tuân also employs techniques rarely seen in literature: military and martial arts strategies. Terms like 'gates of life and death,' 'flanking strikes,' 'guerrilla tactics,' 'ambushes,' 'close combat,' 'pinpoint strikes,' 'deadly blows,' 'kicks,' 'knee strikes,' 'grappling'... Additionally, he incorporates knowledge from various scientific disciplines into his work—a rare and sophisticated cultural wealth—giving his essays high cultural value. Thanks to this, the essay 'Người lái đò sông Đà' helps readers understand many useful things about the history and geography of Sông Đà, the revolutionary history surrounding this river, its terrain, the various types of rapids, the natural resources of the Sông Đà region, the poems of Nguyễn Quang Bích and Tản Đà..., and about the river in the western part of our homeland.

We all know that Nguyễn Tuân is a writer with a unique style, a master of language. Reading 'Người lái đò sông Đà,' we clearly perceive the sharpness of the master artist's senses and his rich, visually evocative vocabulary, as well as his exceptionally talented prose. Thus, the essay not only holds literary value but also provides readers with fascinating insights about Sông Đà, the river in the Northwest of our homeland.

Nguyễn Tuân is a talented and sophisticated writer, 'well-versed in both ancient and modern knowledge.' His writings provide readers with a wealth of knowledge: culture, painting, sculpture, cinema, military, martial arts, and even scientific information. The essay 'Người lái đò sông Đà' vividly brings to life the reader's perception of Sông Đà as it truly is. Beyond offering aesthetic sensations, the essay also helps readers understand many useful things about history, geography, terrain, especially the various types of rapids, the country's natural resources, and the poems about Sông Đà by Nguyễn Quang Bích, Tản Đà, and Tang poetry...

The pages describing the rocky battlefield and the boatman's art of navigating the rapids have high visual value, akin to a close-up film. The rich military vocabulary is skillfully interspersed with archaic terms (flanking strikes, combat, gongs, pinpoint strikes...), giving readers the impression that this aquatic battle has been ongoing since ancient times. Nguyễn Tuân's style is revealed in 'Người lái đò sông Đà' through his perspective and way of describing nature. Nguyễn Tuân loves the unique, enjoys emphasizing the extraordinary, and delights in overwhelming his readers. This led him to Sông Đà. The river's intense ferocity and sublime, poetic beauty captivated the writer.

Nguyễn Tuân's pen roams freely in his beloved environment, often making it seem as though he forgets his readers. He is solely focused on Sông Đà, pouring his talent into making the river surge with waves and rocks. Sông Đà, in turn, seems to cling to Nguyễn Tuân's prose, thrashing and laughing. With his distinctive writing style, Sông Đà becomes Sông Đà - Nguyễn Tuân. The river is painted with a uniquely transformative brush. Sông Đà - fierce, Sông Đà - an epic, Sông Đà - poetic. Such is its nature. The writer's talent sharpens this essence. Under Nguyễn Tuân's pen, Sông Đà is not a lifeless natural scene but a vibrant entity, a character full of life, with a complex personality and mood.

The author describes it as both 'ferocious' and 'lyrical.' Sông Đà's 'ferocity' lies in its treacherous, violent, and deadly sections with towering cliffs, fierce waterfalls, 'water pushing rocks, rocks pushing waves, waves pushing wind, swirling gusts year-round,' 'ready to capsize any passing boat,' with whirlpools 'deep as wells, swirling violently, capable of dragging large rafts to the bottom and smashing them to pieces'... Nguyễn Tuân uses a colorful pen to depict a series of images that are both intellectual and visually evocative, far surpassing ordinary personification techniques. The river's ferocity becomes a uniquely heroic environment. Sông Đà also achieves a sublime level of lyricism.

Viewing nature through an artistic lens, Nguyễn Tuân sees Sông Đà as a magnificent natural masterpiece. The river flows like a 'strand of lyrical hair, its ends hidden in the Northwest's clouds, blooming with February's flowers.' Nguyễn Tuân observes Sông Đà and conveys it to readers through spring mists, autumn sunlight, and the changing colors of its waters, sometimes 'emerald green,' sometimes 'deep red.' He discovers the richness of poetry in Sông Đà's beauty, at times like a 'fairy tale,' at others 'flashing with the light of March in Tang poetry,' or like a 'stranger's lover.' Nguyễn Tuân always views and describes people from the perspective of artistic talent. If before the Revolution, he saw artistic talent in only a few individuals, after the Revolution, he finds it in all aspects of life.

His writings instill pride in readers, showing that we are not only descendants of a hardworking, brave nation but also of a talented and artistic people. The boatman, through Nguyễn Tuân's eyes, is seen as an artist in the art of navigating Sông Đà's rapids. The boatman's skill lies in mastering the river's laws, memorizing the life and death currents of the violent rapids. He performs his craft with extraordinary precision, reaching the level of a refined, high-art artist, a 'blossoming rudder.' The laws of Sông Đà's rapids are extremely harsh. A slight inaccuracy, a moment of lost composure, a flash of blindness, or a misstep can cost one's life. In the rapids, the boatman is like a seasoned general. The aquatic battlefield is prearranged with traps, encircling waves, each wave guarded by cunning, monstrous rock generals.

The image of the boatman 'suppressing his wounds, legs tightly gripping the rudder,' face twisted in pain yet 'riding the waves, gripping the mane of the waves, reining in, charging forward to split the rapids' is truly an epic, a magnificent work of art. Nguyễn Tuân's style is also vividly expressed through his use of language. Some say: reading Nguyễn Tuân's prose is like looking through a kaleidoscope. Nguyễn Tuân delves deeply into understanding and exploring objects, grasping their essence, their spirit, and combining them with subjective emotions, erudition, rich intellect, and lyricism, expressing them in uniquely creative linguistic forms that are distinctly Nguyễn Tuân. When he describes, objects come to life with their full 'essence,' and only then does his prose fully embody 'Nguyễn's essence.' Conversely, the more his prose reveals 'Nguyễn's essence,' the more vivid and animated the objects become.

Reading a lengthy passage describing Sông Đà 'laying out a rocky battlefield to demand the boat's death,' yet ultimately yielding to the boatman's brave and skillful navigation, we not only see Sông Đà 'thrashing with waves' but also feel the prose 'thrashing' with exhilarating energy. There are countless challenges in this scene, challenges for the boatman and for the writer. Can the writer's talent and vocabulary capture Sông Đà in all its ferocity? Can he depict the boatman's extraordinary artistry in navigating the rapids? Nguyễn Tuân rises above these challenges. 'As soon as the rocky battlefield is set, the boat rushes in. Coordinating with the rocks, the waterfall roars in support of the enemy. The rocks stand majestic, imposing, and dignified. One rock, tilted, seems to demand the boat announce its name before battle. Another steps back, challenging the boat to come closer if it dares.'

Nguyễn Tuân captures the stubbornness and cunning of the 'rock generals,' the ferocious sound of the waterfall, and the violence of the water and rocks threatening humans. The boatman overcomes the rapids, and Nguyễn Tuân's prose overcomes the challenge. Only a talented writer like Nguyễn Tuân could bring Sông Đà's rapids to life and reveal a 'blossoming rudder' amidst the fierce and violent rapids. For Nguyễn Tuân, artistic language is both a means and an end for the artist. Through Nguyễn Tuân's hand, the Vietnamese language becomes a Rubik's cube, constantly transforming and bursting with artistic colors. Describing the sounds of Sông Đà's waterfalls, Nguyễn Tuân hears 'the waterfall's voice sometimes lamenting and complaining,' sometimes 'pleading,' sometimes 'taunting and mocking,' sometimes 'roaring like a thousand raging bulls'... For Nguyễn Tuân, language is truly an indispensable aesthetic object in his works. He uses language like a skilled circus performer, adept and fluent.

Nguyễn Tuân is indeed a circus artist of words. The passage describing the battle between the fierce rapids and the boatman is a prime example. Nguyễn Tuân eagerly showcases his erudition and talent, pouring out his rich vocabulary to compete with nature. The writer imbues Sông Đà with the personality of a ferocious and cunning water monster. He uses language to bring to life and animate the lifeless rocks, some 'majestic and imposing,' some 'defiant,' 'wrinkled and twisted,' some 'tilting as if demanding the boat announce its name before battle,' some 'sullen with a greenish face of disappointment'... Nguyễn Tuân throws into the battle between man and nature countless sharp words, offering readers unique and precise associations.

Nguyễn Tuân's works often evoke intense sensations, elevating readers' emotions as they engage with the described objects, allowing them to appreciate scenes that are either terrifyingly violent or sublimely poetic, or to witness talent reaching unparalleled heights. Nguyễn Tuân's style is both unique and rich. In 'Người lái đò sông Đà,' the writer's style is most evident in the sharpness of his artistic senses combined with a rich and colorful vocabulary. The essay also reveals a Nguyễn Tuân with a profound cultural background, sophistication, and talent, viewing the world through the lens of multiple arts.

Nguyễn Tuân's style brings unique values to his works: literary, cultural, and informational, while helping readers appreciate the natural beauty of the country, take pride in its talented laborers, and cherish the richness and beauty of the Vietnamese language.

Nguyễn Tuân is celebrated as a masterful and erudite artist, whose literary career is marked by distinctive and unique traits that set him apart from other artists. These traits are evident in the beauty of his artistic style, which is both unique and emblematic, particularly showcased in his work 'The River's Ferryman'.

Nguyễn Tuân, with his unparalleled artistic flair, stands out in modern Vietnamese literature. He is a talented artist who dedicated his life to uncovering the hidden and the beautiful in his artistic style. Most of his works reflect his erudition and his mastery in 'guiding the words'. In his essay 'The River's Ferryman', he clearly demonstrates his unique style. This piece, which he was deeply passionate about, allowed him to use his talent and virtue to create works rich in tragic beauty. The river in the ferryman's tale is one he observed deeply, seeing it not just as a symbol of human strength but as a river of historical significance. With his distinctive artistic talent, he crafted works that are both ancient and marked by strong impressions, using his genuine emotions to write this poem.

The image of the ferryman on the River Đà is vividly and skillfully portrayed through his artistic style. He applied his artistic creations to the people of the region, with the image of the homeland's river leaving a strong impression on him. He prominently displays these elements in his writing. The beautiful image of the homeland's river inspired him to write such an excellent essay. The author impressively introduces the river, creating strong impressions on the audience, and vividly imagines other distinctive details in the work.

The images of the river also carry the characteristics of real people, viewed through Nguyễn Tuân's lens, making everything appear beautiful and unique. The River Đà, under his exploratory pen, is at times fierce and at others lyrical, shifting characters through different circumstances. The river's image, like that of people, is described and observed through typical and representative traits. In this successful essay, the author clearly reveals a series of details depicting the fierce river, with cliffs blocking the River Đà like a throat.

All other details also clearly show this, with long stretches of water pushing rocks, rocks pushing waves, waves pushing wind, swirling... These details are like a thousand wild bulls rampaging through bamboo forests... Moreover, these details depict the image of the homeland's river, with the author using his talent to create such vivid and lively images. These images are wild, and with his masterful ability, he paints a picture of the river with majestic beauty, using lively comparisons to create an impressive essay that leaves a deep impression on readers. With apt and reasonable comparisons, the river's image is detailed and distinctive, leaving an impression on readers, with a series of uniquely impressive images. The images of our homeland appear increasingly beautiful, strongly attracting the reader's observation, providing a broad perspective and becoming a shining belief in the author's view of his creation.

He is a man of incredibly rich imagination, sometimes using techniques from the seventh art - cinema, and painting to highlight typical details in this work. He also personifies the river's images to describe and feel its fierce character. The river's images carry strong impressions in the author's writing style, with rugged rapids providing a deeper insight into these images. The River Đà's image is vividly and impressively portrayed by the author, not only strong in form but also creating different characters for readers. The river's image leaves a strong impression on the author due to its character and unique traits.

The hard-to-fade images of a wild and fierce river are deeply expressed in the writer. He used his talent to talk about these images, with deep and lively emotions when discussing his feelings about the river. Nguyễn Tuân praises this river, which appears unique and lively, with a lyrical and loving character that exists in the author's being. Besides the fierce river image, the gentle river image is also deeply expressed in this essay. The river is described as a girl with long hair, with colors changing distinctively in the poem. With the poem's rich and distinctive traits, the author highlights unique details and leaves strong impressions on himself.

It can be said that Nguyễn Tuân's art of building the ferryman's image is typical and reflects a heroic and wild atmosphere in the writer's view. Nguyễn Tuân is a writer who knows and utilizes images and details well to create the river's image through real details and a wild atmosphere with deep and resonant impressions. The images of a river with distinctive details fit the atmosphere and details the author uses here. With a view full of goodwill, it creates deep insights in the author's perspective, with comprehensive observation and strong, solemn impressions. The wonderful details the author shows in this work are clearly and detailedly described, with typical images of the author about these images. The images of the homeland and deep love for the homeland provide the author with a deeper insight, describing the river through his thorough perspective.

With undeniable talent and the art of language use, he expresses many gentle sentences, showing a special affection for the River Đà. Under the author's magical pen, the image becomes truly magnificent and incomparable. It can be said that the images of nature are also vividly expressed by the author, and the image of the ferryman on the River Đà is also detailed and distinctive. The writer compares the nature of the Northwest to a kind of ten-carat gold, precious in the eyes of the observer and the author's observation of these outstanding details.

The talent and the art of using language, which is extremely rich and deeply talented, give the author a more comprehensive view of the writer's creative style. The writer not only carries the beauty of a talented artist but also the beauty of a person with a deep view of life.