I gave Trung my Facebook.
Trung typed and swiped on his phone. “I saw your photo. Ah, I have read quite a few from you. Um hum, Pham Cong Thien, it sounds the name I have also heard somewhere else before.”
“Yeah, a philosopher and writer in the South before 1975. I like him very much.”
“What did he write?”
“Poems, among others. He wrote about Viet Nam, his pain as a Vietnamese, an artist and a dreamer.”
“Sounds tempting. What book do I need to read of him?” Trung asked.
“New Concept in Art and Philosophy. A should read book; he wrote it when he was under 20 years old. And he admired his youth, a little bit too much.” I smiled slightly.
“What is it in the book?”
“He wrote about different authors. About Kafka and Hemingway, for example.”
“How is that Kafka, a strange name?”
“A German writer. Kafka wrote about human failure facing its destiny, about our loneliness and about our lost in the bureaucratic maze of life.”
“I have to go. I have an important party organizational committee meeting at 10 am.”
“Good, then go. Drive carefully.”