Cyril Wong
Cyril Wong
Singaporean Poet
Full Name and Common Aliases
Cyril Wong is a Singaporean poet, writer, and translator known by his full name, Cyril Liew Kok-Hong.
Birth and Death Dates
Born in 1977, Cyril Wong's exact birthdate is not publicly available. There is no record of him passing away.
Nationality and Profession(s)
Wong is a Singaporean national, holding citizenship in the country he calls home. He identifies as a poet and writer, with translation also being an integral part of his profession.
Early Life and Background
Growing up in Singapore, Wong's childhood was marked by an interest in writing and creative expression. His early life laid the foundation for his future career in literature. Little is known about his personal life beyond his professional achievements.
Major Accomplishments
Wong has received numerous awards for his work, including the National Arts Council (NAC) Young Artist Award in 2004 and the Singapore Literature Prize in 2008. His writing often explores themes of identity, history, and culture.
Notable Works or Actions
Some of Wong's notable works include The Rain Tree, a collection of poetry published in 2010; Other People’s Bees, another collection that appeared in 2014; and his translation of The Poetry of Joll Hofmeyr, which showcases his skill as a translator.
Impact and Legacy
Cyril Wong's work has had a significant impact on the literary scene in Singapore. His writing often sparks discussion about the country's history, culture, and identity. As a result, he is widely regarded as one of the most important voices in contemporary Singaporean literature.
Why They Are Widely Quoted or Remembered
Wong's quotes are often sought after for their thought-provoking insights into the complexities of human experience. His unique perspective on the world, shaped by his experiences growing up in Singapore, has made him a respected voice in both literary and cultural circles.
Quotes by Cyril Wong
Cyril Wong's insights on:
What does it mean to write a story of your own life in your head? We all do that whether we are writers or not. We all have a story about who we are: what gender we are, what experiences we have . . . all sorts of stories and narratives we allow ourselves to believe in and create as we go along.
It is the teacher's and the lawmaker's responsibility to allow the child to express his feelings about growing up. What happens to a child at that particular age? It is a terribly vulnerable time, and if we provide youths with an environment to be free, to be expressive, without embarrassing them, without shaming them, they would grow up to be healthy, compassionate adults. Instead, if we force them to “belong, belong, belong,” they all become repressed. There is a complete absence of options.
Soon we were downloading ourselvesinto laptops, phones or pads, freerthan we had hoped,floating centrifugally across the Internetto swim alongside forgottenselfies, spam emails and porn
Names are what you can hear or see, but cannot smell or touch. I don't need a name, as name stand for things they are not, and I am what all names stand for. If you gave me a name, it would mean that we are separate, you and I, when we are not.- The Blind Girl and the Talking Moon
I mostly believe, deep in my bones, that life is very simply beyond description; regardless of what one makes of it, life always spills over the parameters of how anyone has chosen to define it.
Soon I find myself squatting on the floor. I am still striking my face; not with my fists this time, but with wide-open hands. I am slapping myself. The sounds I make when my palms meet my cheeks are like an unrelenting round of applause. I am clapping myself. Or clapping for myself. I start to giggle.All the voices are receding now. I am no longer filled with rage or disappointment. I clap and clap and simply cannot stop.
If this turns to friendship, it only meansThat one of us will suffer.That when we meet after the worst of endings,There will only be this skein of words between us—Most of them for boredom, fewer for loneliness—Rising out of our mutual space of breath, leavingBehind a bluer sky each moment of departure.And one of us will cling on to its blue,Hung on partings like a muted cloud, whileThe other rides on a wing of word away from here.
There was no love that I could see or feel between the men and the women; only boredom. Yet, paradoxically, I could also tell that this was what everyone wanted: a family structure they could be unhappy in; at least it formed the basis of a stable home, a baseline to a life that would otherwise not be tethered to anything.