《英文小说与电影》课程教学资源（书籍文献）The Joy Luck Club - Amy Tan

THEJOY LUCKCLUB七高茶果AMY TAN

SContentseForewordFeathers From a Thousand LI AwayJing-Mei Woo: The Joy Luck ClubAn-MeiHsu: ScarLindo Jong:The Red CandleYing-Ying St. Clair. The Moon LadyThe Twenty-Six Malignant GatesWaverly Jong. Rules ofthe GameLena St. Clair. The Voice from the WallRose Hsu Jordan: Halfand HalfJing-Mei Woo:Two KindsAmerican Translation

Contents eForeword Feathers From a Thousand LI Away Jing-Mei Woo: The Joy Luck Club An-Mei Hsu: Scar Lindo Jong: The Red Candle Ying-Ying St. Clair: The Moon Lady The Twenty-Six Malignant Gates Waverly Jong: Rules of the Game Lena St. Clair: The Voice from the Wall Rose Hsu Jordan: Half and Half Jing-Mei Woo: Two Kinds American Translation

Lena St. Clair. Rice HusbandWaverly Jong Four DirectionsRoseHsu Jordan:Without WoodJing-Mei Woo:Best OualityQueen Mother of the Western SkiesAn-MeiHsu:MagpiesYing-Ying St. Clair. Waiting Between the TreesLindo Jong.Double FaceJing-Mei Woo:A Pair of Tickets

Lena St. Clair: Rice Husband Waverly Jong: Four Directions Rose Hsu Jordan: Without Wood Jing-Mei Woo: Best Quality Queen Mother of the Western Skies An-Mei Hsu: Magpies Ying-Ying St. Clair: Waiting Between the Trees Lindo Jong: Double Face Jing-Mei Woo: A Pair of Tickets

The Joy Luck ClubTHEDAUGHTERSThe MOTHERSSuyuan WooJing-mei“June" WooAn-mei HsuRose Hsu JordanLindo JongWaverly JongYing-ying St. ClairLena St. Clair

The Joy Luck Club The MOTHERS THE DAUGHTERS Suyuan Woo Jing-mei “June” Woo An-mei Hsu Rose Hsu Jordan Lindo Jong Waverly Jong Ying-ying St. Clair Lena St. Clair

OeForewordBorn in 1952 in Oakland, California to Chinese immigrant parents, Amy Tan followed her owrpath. Over the objections of her mother, she majored in college in writing and linguistics andpursued a career in business writing.Any Tan's relationship with her mother was very dificult. An opportunity to travel with hermother back to China brought a new perspective.Amy Tan's first fiction efforts were short stories. These attracted an agent, Sandra Dijkstra, whosold what became The Joy Luck Club to Putnam's. When published in 1986 The Joy Luck Clulspent 40 weeks on The New York Times Bestseller list. It was nominated for the National BookAward and the National Book Critics Circle Award and was a recipient of the CommonwealthGold Award and the Bay Area Book Award. The Joy Luck Club was adapted into a feature film ir1994, for which Amy Tan was a co-screenwriter with Ron Bass and a co-producer with Bass andWayne Wang.A stunning literary achievement. The Joy Luck Club explores the tender and tenacious bonobetween four daughters and their mothers. The daughters know one side of their mothers, but theydon't know about their earlier never-spoken of lives in China. The mothers want love andobedience from their daughters, but they don't know the gifts that the daughters keep to themselvesHeartwarming and bittersweet, this is a novel for mother, daughters, and those that love them.RosettaBooks is the leading publisher dedicated exclusively to electronic editions of greatworks of fiction and non-fiction that reflect our world. RosettaBooks is a committed e-publisher, maximizing the resources of the Web in opening a fresh dimension in the readingexperience. In this electronic reading environment, each RosettaBook will enhance theexperience through The RosettaBooks Connection. This gateway instantly delivers to thereader the opportunity to learn more about the title, the author, the content and the contextof each work, using the full resources of the Web.ToexperienceTheRosettaBooks Connection forThe JoyLuck Club:www.RosettaBooks.com/TheJoyLuckClub

eForeword Born in 1952 in Oakland, California to Chinese immigrant parents, Amy Tan followed her own path. Over the objections of her mother, she majored in college in writing and linguistics and pursued a career in business writing. Any Tan’s relationship with her mother was very difficult. An opportunity to travel with her mother back to China brought a new perspective. Amy Tan’s first fiction efforts were short stories. These attracted an agent, Sandra Dijkstra, who sold what became The Joy Luck Club to Putnam’s. When published in 1986 The Joy Luck Club spent 40 weeks on The New York Times Bestseller list. It was nominated for the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award and was a recipient of the Commonwealth Gold Award and the Bay Area Book Award. The Joy Luck Club was adapted into a feature film in 1994, for which Amy Tan was a co-screenwriter with Ron Bass and a co-producer with Bass and Wayne Wang. A stunning literary achievement, The Joy Luck Club explores the tender and tenacious bond between four daughters and their mothers. The daughters know one side of their mothers, but they don’t know about their earlier never-spoken of lives in China. The mothers want love and obedience from their daughters, but they don’t know the gifts that the daughters keep to themselves. Heartwarming and bittersweet, this is a novel for mother, daughters, and those that love them. RosettaBooks is the leading publisher dedicated exclusively to electronic editions of great works of fiction and non-fiction that reflect our world. RosettaBooks is a committed e￾publisher, maximizing the resources of the Web in opening a fresh dimension in the reading experience. In this electronic reading environment, each RosettaBook will enhance the experience through The RosettaBooks Connection. This gateway instantly delivers to the reader the opportunity to learn more about the title, the author, the content and the context of each work, using the full resources of the Web. To experience The RosettaBooks Connection for The Joy Luck Club: www.RosettaBooks.com/TheJoyLuckClub

Feathers From a Thousand LI Away

Feathers From a Thousand LI Away

The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for afoolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck inhopes of becoming a goose, and now look!-it is too beautiful to eat.Then the woman and the swan sailed across an ocean many thousands of li wide,stretching their necks toward America. On her journey she cooed to the swan: "In America 1will have a daughter just like me. But over there nobody will say her worth is measured by theloudness of her husband's belch. Over there nobody will look down on her, because I will makeher speak only perfect American English. And over there she will always betoo full to swalloyany sorrow! She will know my meaning, because I will give her this swana creature thatbecame more than what was hoped for."But when she arrived in the new country, the immigration officials pulled her swan awayfrom her, leaving the woman fluttering her arms and with only one swan feather for a memory.And then she had to fill out so many forms she forgot why she had come and what she had leftbehind.Now the woman was old. And she had a daughter who grew up speaking only English andswallowing more Coca-Cola than sorrow. For a long time now the woman had wanted to giveher daughter the single swan feather and tell her, "This feather may look worthless, but itcomes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions. " And she waited, year after year,forthe day she could tell her daughter this in perfect American English

The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose, and now look!—it is too beautiful to eat. Then the woman and the swan sailed across an ocean many thousands of li wide, stretching their necks toward America. On her journey she cooed to the swan: “In America I will have a daughter just like me. But over there nobody will say her worth is measured by the loudness of her husband’s belch. Over there nobody will look down on her, because I will make her speak only perfect American English. And over there she will always be too full to swallow any sorrow! She will know my meaning, because I will give her this swan—a creature that became more than what was hoped for.” But when she arrived in the new country, the immigration of icials pulled her swan away from her, leaving the woman fluttering her arms and with only one swan feather for a memory. And then she had to fill out so many forms she forgot why she had come and what she had left behind. Now the woman was old. And she had a daughter who grew up speaking only English and swallowing more Coca-Cola than sorrow. For a long time now the woman had wanted to give her daughter the single swan feather and tell her, “This feather may look worthless, but it comes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions.” And she waited, year after year, for the day she could tell her daughter this in perfect American English

Jing-Mei WooThe Joy Luck ClubMy father has asked me to be the fourth corner at the Joy Luck Club. I am to replace my motherwhose seat at the mah jong table has been empty since she died two months ago. My father thinksshe was killed by her own thoughts.“She had a new idea inside her head," said my father. “But before it could come out of hermouth, the thought grew too big and burst. It must have been a very bad idea."The doctor said she died of a cerebral aneurysm. And her friends at the Joy Luck Club saicshe died just like a rabbit: quickly and with unfinished business left behind. My mother wassupposed to host the next meeting of the Joy Luck Club.The week before she died, she called me, full of pride, full of life: “Auntie Lin cooked redbean soupfor JoyLuck.I'mgoingtocookblack sesame-seed soup."“Don't show off," I said.“It's not showoff." She said the two soups were almost the same, chabudwo. Or maybe shesaid butong, not the same thing at all. It was one of those Chinese expressions that means the betterhalf of mixed intentions. I can never remember things I didn't understand in the first placeCMy mother started the San Francisco version of the Joy Luck Club in 1949, two years before I waborn. This was the year my mother and father left China with one stiffleather trunk filled only withfancy silk dresses. There was no time to pack anything else, my mother had explained to my fatherafter they boarded the boat. Still his hands swam frantically between the slippery silks, looking forhis cotton shirts and wool pantsWhen they arrived in San Francisco, my father made her hide those shiny clothes. She worethe same brown-checked Chinese dress until the Refugee Welcome Society gave her two hand-medown dresses,all too large in sizes for American women The society was composed ofa group ofwhite-hairedAmericanmissionaryladiesfromtheFirstChineseBaptistChurchAndbecauseotheir gifts, my parents could not refuse their invitation to join the church Nor could they ignore theold ladies'practical advice to improve their English through Bible study class on Wednesdaynights and, later, through choir practice on Saturday mornings. This was how my parents met theHsus, the Jongs, and the St. Clairs. My mother could sense that the women of these families alsc

Jing-Mei Woo The Joy Luck Club My father has asked me to be the fourth corner at the Joy Luck Club. I am to replace my mother, whose seat at the mah jong table has been empty since she died two months ago. My father thinks she was killed by her own thoughts. “She had a new idea inside her head,” said my father. “But before it could come out of her mouth, the thought grew too big and burst. It must have been a very bad idea.” The doctor said she died of a cerebral aneurysm. And her friends at the Joy Luck Club said she died just like a rabbit: quickly and with unfinished business left behind. My mother was supposed to host the next meeting of the Joy Luck Club. The week before she died, she called me, full of pride, full of life: “Auntie Lin cooked red bean soup for Joy Luck. I’m going to cook black sesame-seed soup.” “Don’t show off,” I said. “It’s not showoff.” She said the two soups were almost the same, chabudwo. Or maybe she said butong, not the same thing at all. It was one of those Chinese expressions that means the better half of mixed intentions. I can never remember things I didn’t understand in the first place. My mother started the San Francisco version of the Joy Luck Club in 1949, two years before I was born. This was the year my mother and father left China with one stiff leather trunk filled only with fancy silk dresses. There was no time to pack anything else, my mother had explained to my father after they boarded the boat. Still his hands swam frantically between the slippery silks, looking for his cotton shirts and wool pants. When they arrived in San Francisco, my father made her hide those shiny clothes. She wore the same brown-checked Chinese dress until the Refugee Welcome Society gave her two hand-me￾down dresses, all too large in sizes for American women. The society was composed of a group of white-haired American missionary ladies from the First Chinese Baptist Church. And because of their gifts, my parents could not refuse their invitation to join the church. Nor could they ignore the old ladies’ practical advice to improve their English through Bible study class on Wednesday nights and, later, through choir practice on Saturday mornings. This was how my parents met the Hsus, the Jongs, and the St. Clairs. My mother could sense that the women of these families also

had unspeakable tragedies they had left behind in China and hopes they couldn't begin to expressin their fragile English Or at least, my mother recognized the numbness in these women's faces.And she saw how quickly their eyes moved when she told them her idea for the Joy Luck Club.Joy Luck was an idea my mother remembered from the days of her first marriage in Kweilinbefore the Japanese came. That's why I think of Joy Luck as her Kweilin story. It was the story shewould always tell me when she was bored, when there was nothing to do, when every bowl hadbeen washed and the Formica table had been wiped down twice, when my father sat reading thenewspaper and smoking one Pall Mall cigarette after another, a warning not to disturb him. This iswhen my mother would take out a box of old ski sweaters sent to us by unseen relatives fromVancouver. She would snip the bottom of a sweater and pull out a kinky thread of yarn, anchoringit to a piece of cardboard. And as she began to roll with one sweeping rhythm, she would start herstory. Over the years, she told me the same story, except for the ending, which grew darker, castinglong shadows into her life, and eventually into mine."I dreamed about Kweilin before I ever saw it,'" my mother began, speaking Chinese. “I dreameof jagged peaks lining a curving river, with magic moss greening the banks. At the tops of thesepeaks were white mists. And if you could float down this river and eat the moss for food, youwould be strong enough to climb the peak. If you slipped, you would only fall into a bed of softmoss and laugh And once you reached the top, you would be able to see everything and feel suchhappiness it would be enough to never have worries in your life ever again.“In China, everybody dreamed about Kweilin. And when I arrived, I realized how shabby mydreams were, how poor my thoughts. When I saw the hills, I laughed and shuddered at the sametime. The peaks looked like giant fried fish heads trying to jump out of a vat of oil. Behind eachhill, I could see shadows of another fish, and then another and another. And then the clouds wouldmove just a little and the hills would suddenly become monstrous elephants marching slowlytoward me! Can you see this? And at the root of the hill were secret caves. Inside grew hangingrock gardens in the shapes and colors of cabbage, winter melons, turnips, and onions. These werethings so strange and beautiful you can't ever imagine them.“But I didn't come to Kweilin to see how beautiful it was. The man who was my husbanobrought me and our two babies to Kweilin because he thought we would be safe. He was anofficer with the Kuomintang, and after he put us down in a small room in a two-story house, hewent off to the northwest, to Chungking.We knew the Japanese were winning, even when the newspapers said they were not. Everyday, every hour, thousands of people poured into the city, crowding the sidewalks, looking forplaces to live.They came from the East, West, North, and South They were rich and poorShanghainese, Cantonese, northerners, and not just Chinese, but foreigners and missionaries oevery religion. And there was, of course, the Kuomintang and their army officers who thought theywere top level to everyone else.“We were a city of leftovers mixed together. If it hadn't been for the Japanese, there wouldhave been plenty of reason for fighting to break out among these different people. Can you see it?Shanghai people with north-water peasants, bankers with barbers, rickshaw pullers with Burmarefugees. Everybody looked down on someone else. It didn't matter that everybody shared the

had unspeakable tragedies they had left behind in China and hopes they couldn’t begin to express in their fragile English. Or at least, my mother recognized the numbness in these women’s faces. And she saw how quickly their eyes moved when she told them her idea for the Joy Luck Club. Joy Luck was an idea my mother remembered from the days of her first marriage in Kweilin, before the Japanese came. That’s why I think of Joy Luck as her Kweilin story. It was the story she would always tell me when she was bored, when there was nothing to do, when every bowl had been washed and the Formica table had been wiped down twice, when my father sat reading the newspaper and smoking one Pall Mall cigarette after another, a warning not to disturb him. This is when my mother would take out a box of old ski sweaters sent to us by unseen relatives from Vancouver. She would snip the bottom of a sweater and pull out a kinky thread of yarn, anchoring it to a piece of cardboard. And as she began to roll with one sweeping rhythm, she would start her story. Over the years, she told me the same story, except for the ending, which grew darker, casting long shadows into her life, and eventually into mine. “I dreamed about Kweilin before I ever saw it,” my mother began, speaking Chinese. “I dreamed of jagged peaks lining a curving river, with magic moss greening the banks. At the tops of these peaks were white mists. And if you could float down this river and eat the moss for food, you would be strong enough to climb the peak. If you slipped, you would only fall into a bed of soft moss and laugh. And once you reached the top, you would be able to see everything and feel such happiness it would be enough to never have worries in your life ever again. “In China, everybody dreamed about Kweilin. And when I arrived, I realized how shabby my dreams were, how poor my thoughts. When I saw the hills, I laughed and shuddered at the same time. The peaks looked like giant fried fish heads trying to jump out of a vat of oil. Behind each hill, I could see shadows of another fish, and then another and another. And then the clouds would move just a little and the hills would suddenly become monstrous elephants marching slowly toward me! Can you see this? And at the root of the hill were secret caves. Inside grew hanging rock gardens in the shapes and colors of cabbage, winter melons, turnips, and onions. These were things so strange and beautiful you can’t ever imagine them. “But I didn’t come to Kweilin to see how beautiful it was. The man who was my husband brought me and our two babies to Kweilin because he thought we would be safe. He was an officer with the Kuomintang, and after he put us down in a small room in a two-story house, he went off to the northwest, to Chungking. “We knew the Japanese were winning, even when the newspapers said they were not. Every day, every hour, thousands of people poured into the city, crowding the sidewalks, looking for places to live. They came from the East, West, North, and South. They were rich and poor, Shanghainese, Cantonese, northerners, and not just Chinese, but foreigners and missionaries of every religion. And there was, of course, the Kuomintang and their army officers who thought they were top level to everyone else. “We were a city of leftovers mixed together. If it hadn’t been for the Japanese, there would have been plenty of reason for fighting to break out among these different people. Can you see it? Shanghai people with north-water peasants, bankers with barbers, rickshaw pullers with Burma refugees. Everybody looked down on someone else. It didn’t matter that everybody shared the

same sidewalk to spit on and suffered the same fast-moving diarrhea. We all had the same stinkbut everybody complained someone else smelled the worst.Me? Oh, I hated the American aiforceoficers who said habba-habba sounds to make myface turnred.But the worst werethenorthern peasants who emptied their noses into their hands and pushed people around and gaveeverybodytheirdirtydiseases.“So you can see how quickly Kweilin lost its beauty for me. I no longer climbed the peaks tosay, How lovely are these hills! I only wondered which hills the Japanese had reached. I sat in thedark corners of my house with a baby under each arm, waiting with nervous feet. When the sirenscried out to warn us of bombers, my neighbors and I jumped to our feet and scurried to the deepcaves to hide like wild animals. But you can't stay in the dark for so long. Something inside of youstarts to fade and you become like a starving person, crazy-hungry for light. Outside I could hearthe bombing. Boom! Boom! And then the sound of raining rocks. And inside I was no longer hungryfor the cabbage or the turnips of the hanging rock garden. I could only see the dripping bowels ofan ancient hill that might collapse on top of me. Can you imagine how it is, to want to be neitherinside nor outside, to want to be nowhere and disappear?“So when the bombing sounds grew farther away, we would come back out like newbornkittens scratching our way back to the city. And always, I would be amazed to find the hills againstthe burning sky had not been torn apart."I thought up Joy Luck on a summer night that was so hot even the moths fainted to the groundtheir wings were so heavy with the damp heat. Every place was so crowded there was no room forfresh air. Unbearable smells from the sewers rose up to my second-story window and the stink hadnowhere else to go but into my nose. At all hours of the night and day, I heard screaming sounds. Ididn't know if it was a peasant slitting the throat of a runaway pig or an officer beating a half-deadpeasant for lying in his way on the sidewalk. I didn't go to the window to find out. What use wouldit have been? And that's when I thought I needed something to do to help me move.My idea was to have a gathering of four women, one for each corner of my mah jong table. Iknew which women I wanted to ask. They were all young like me, with wishful faces. One was ararmy officer's wife, like myself. Another was a girl with very fine manners from a rich family inShanghai. She had escaped with only a little money. And there was a girl from Nanking who hadthe blackest hair I have ever seen. She came from a low-class family, but she was pretty andpleasant and had married well, to an old man who died and left her with a better life.“Each week one of us would host a party to raise money and to raise our spirits. The hostesshad to serve special dyansyin foods to bring good fortune of all kinds-dumplings shaped likesilver money ingots, long rice noodles for long life, boiled peanuts for conceiving sons, and ofcourse, many good-luck oranges for a plentiful, sweet life."What fine food we treated ourselves to with our meager allowances! We didn't notice thatthe dumplings were stuffed mostly with stringy squash and that the oranges were spotted withwormy holes. We ate sparingly, not as if we didn't have enough, but to protest how we could noteat another bite, we had already bloated ourselves from earlier in the day. We knew we hadluxuries few people could afford. We were the lucky ones.“After filling our stomachs, we would then fill a bowl with money and put it where everyonecould see. Then we would sit down at the mah jong table. My table was from my family and was

same sidewalk to spit on and suffered the same fast-moving diarrhea. We all had the same stink, but everybody complained someone else smelled the worst. Me? Oh, I hated the American air force officers who said habba-habba sounds to make my face turn red. But the worst were the northern peasants who emptied their noses into their hands and pushed people around and gave everybody their dirty diseases. “So you can see how quickly Kweilin lost its beauty for me. I no longer climbed the peaks to say, How lovely are these hills! I only wondered which hills the Japanese had reached. I sat in the dark corners of my house with a baby under each arm, waiting with nervous feet. When the sirens cried out to warn us of bombers, my neighbors and I jumped to our feet and scurried to the deep caves to hide like wild animals. But you can’t stay in the dark for so long. Something inside of you starts to fade and you become like a starving person, crazy-hungry for light. Outside I could hear the bombing. Boom! Boom! And then the sound of raining rocks. And inside I was no longer hungry for the cabbage or the turnips of the hanging rock garden. I could only see the dripping bowels of an ancient hill that might collapse on top of me. Can you imagine how it is, to want to be neither inside nor outside, to want to be nowhere and disappear? “So when the bombing sounds grew farther away, we would come back out like newborn kittens scratching our way back to the city. And always, I would be amazed to find the hills against the burning sky had not been torn apart. “I thought up Joy Luck on a summer night that was so hot even the moths fainted to the ground, their wings were so heavy with the damp heat. Every place was so crowded there was no room for fresh air. Unbearable smells from the sewers rose up to my second-story window and the stink had nowhere else to go but into my nose. At all hours of the night and day, I heard screaming sounds. I didn’t know if it was a peasant slitting the throat of a runaway pig or an officer beating a half-dead peasant for lying in his way on the sidewalk. I didn’t go to the window to find out. What use would it have been? And that’s when I thought I needed something to do to help me move. “My idea was to have a gathering of four women, one for each corner of my mah jong table. I knew which women I wanted to ask. They were all young like me, with wishful faces. One was an army officer’s wife, like myself. Another was a girl with very fine manners from a rich family in Shanghai. She had escaped with only a little money. And there was a girl from Nanking who had the blackest hair I have ever seen. She came from a low-class family, but she was pretty and pleasant and had married well, to an old man who died and left her with a better life. “Each week one of us would host a party to raise money and to raise our spirits. The hostess had to serve special dyansyin foods to bring good fortune of all kinds—dumplings shaped like silver money ingots, long rice noodles for long life, boiled peanuts for conceiving sons, and of course, many good-luck oranges for a plentiful, sweet life. “What fine food we treated ourselves to with our meager allowances! We didn’t notice that the dumplings were stuffed mostly with stringy squash and that the oranges were spotted with wormy holes. We ate sparingly, not as if we didn’t have enough, but to protest how we could not eat another bite, we had already bloated ourselves from earlier in the day. We knew we had luxuries few people could afford. We were the lucky ones. “After filling our stomachs, we would then fill a bowl with money and put it where everyone could see. Then we would sit down at the mah jong table. My table was from my family and was