Celebrated Writer Anna Moi: “Art is a view that often deviates from the straight line”

Although you’ve lived abroad for many years, the settings in your work are often rooted in Vietnam, particularly a Vietnam of the past. Why this choice? Are you trying to reimagine history in your own way?

I don’t think that’s the case. For me, childhood and adolescence are the periods when one’s character is shaped, when one’s sensitivity is at its peak. Later in life, people continue to relate to those formative years, whether they’re aware of it or not. For me, that is a precious reservoir. And Vietnam is where it’s kept.

In an interview, you said that “illegitimacy” doesn’t equate to a loss of identity, but rather “a feeling of not belonging to a territory.” When you returned to Vietnam, by then legally a foreigner, what was it, in the space, the people or the experience, that gave you such a profound sense of belonging that it restored this feeling of “legitimacy”?

I’m not religious, but I do lean towards animism. I feel deeply connected to animals, plants, rocks. I was born of this land. My flesh, my blood, my bones, they’re formed from the ancient jungle trees, the dew-touched flowers, the stone cliffs of Ha Long. The moment I stepped back onto Vietnamese soil, I reconnected with these natural elements. At my core, I felt I had come home. In truth, I didn’t feel “illegitimate” because I lacked attachment to a particular place, but rather because I hadn’t yet crossed into the realm of literature. Writing came to me late. My first short story collection wasn’t published until I was 46.

I noticed a common point: in novels like Riz Noir (Black Rice), The Butterfly’s Venom, or Douze Palais de Mémoire (12 Memory Palaces), your characters are often girls on the cusp between childhood and adolescence. Why do you frequently focus on this age group?

It is often said that writers return to the same story, again and again. Marguerite Duras, for instance, offered countless—perhaps unconscious—variations on her first novel The Sea Wall, such as The Lover, The North China Lover. The wounds of adolescence often linger far longer than we expect. They either never fully heal, or they do so only much later in life. The girls in my stories may well be versions of myself, or of people dear to me who served as inspiration. Writing about them allows me to nurture a tenderness toward that part of the past that remains unresolved.

In your writing, how do the everyday moments and personal experiences of characters such as Xuan, Ba, and Ma in The Butterfly’s Venom speak to the larger upheavals of history? Where does the power of small details lie?

Literature, I believe, is about how we observe. What sets it apart is not only the subject matter but the choice of what to reveal. Art lives in the details. A photographer faced with an expansive landscape may decide to focus instead on something minute; a droplet clinging to a leaf, for example. That is what I aim to offer readers: those droplets, magnified by a lens that distorts gently, revealing a broader world. Art is a perspective that often strays from the straight line. These small details, in fact, are never insignificant; they become powerful when seen through the writer’s lens. By shining a light on them, we also imply the unsaid, the silences and subtext.

Your novel Black Rice tells the story of two young women imprisoned in Con Dao, where swarms of flies overwhelm their rice bowls, turning them into “black rice.” What moved you to revisit such a harrowing tale, one that evokes both torture and the suffering of women?

I’m particularly affected by the fate of women. I have a deep empathy for those  physically or socially perceived as weak, such as women and children. Yet my stories show they are often stronger than they appear.

Read more: Tia Thuy Nguyen: The art of reviving Hanoi’s lost memories

What role does literary fiction play in exploring history, compared to other storytelling forms like journalism or historical writing? How do you navigate the line between telling a compelling story and remaining faithful to lived experience?

Journalism and literary fiction serve very different purposes. Journalists are often witnesses to their own time. They record events thoroughly, providing context so readers may understand the full scope of what is being reported.

Writers, by contrast, follow a narrative. There is always an unspoken “agenda.” The events chosen must serve the story and deepen its resonance.

In my case, the central theme is often the passage from childhood to adulthood. I choose to spotlight the moments that mark that transition, while leaving out what doesn’t serve it—politics or historical developments, for example.

That said, for my novel Rapaces, I carried out extensive research. I even visited the National Library in Hanoi to view 1950s newspaper articles on microfilm. The novel was sparked by a set of love letters written by General Vo Nguyen Giap, which I found profoundly moving. That emotion led me to explore the famine of 1949–1950. My stories always begin with a feeling that takes me by surprise.

Thanks for sharing, writer Anna Moi!

This article was adapted from the original content published in the July 2025 issue of Tatler Vietnam.

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