“Who is the best English writer in the world, past and or present?”

She’d never seen him before. There was no opening nicety, he’d just marched into her peripheral vision, leaned over her suitcase and demanded it.

She stammered, “But I’m not an English teacher, or anything like that.”

Looking around, she saw that she was the only non-local person in the store. She put down the beach read she was considering. “Do you—are you looking for a book recommendation?”

“No, no books,” he said firmly. “Just tell me: the best, the very best. Who is it?”

Now she saw a kind of resolve in his eyes, as though he’d determined that she, and only she was going to give him the right answer. She saw that resolve mirrored in the other browsing customers too, who were staring at her with impatience: are you going to make him repeat his question a third time?

She turned quickly to the fiction section, a mercy that it was right behind her, a squat bookcase that came up to her chin. She began scanning, weighing and discarding names as fast as she could, Austen Booth Fitzgerald Hosseini Ishiguro Tan—she was in Asia after all—Woolf Salinger Pamuk J—

Past, present and future, was what he used to say, in perpetuity. It was the only class she didn’t mind sitting front row in, even though the back wall was the preferred recipient of his forceful gaze, as he smacked one open palm onto the other, pleading with them not to throw their annotated copies out the window—

“Joyce,” she said, not without a lingering dreaminess. “James.”

He frowned.

“James Joyce,” she said hurriedly, having just seen a whole shelf underneath that was end to end Shakespeare. “Oh god, that’s the one. James Joyce.” Who organized these shelves?

“He’s the best?” The man said. “James Joyce?”

Yes seemed to suffice for him. She was so relieved that nobody challenged her, or even asked her to explain. She joined in on the nodding; even the cashier was nodding. There was nothing more pleasant than not having to rush. Who would’ve thought that planning ahead for her flight would result in such an agreeable encounter? Their circle was broken by a tall, balding man wheeling in his golf bag, who, for some reason when he made eye contact with her, gave her a little smile, as though he knew and approved. She suddenly felt that it was unbearable to stay there any longer.

“Good luck,” she said with feeling to the local man, and left, hoping that she’d at least see a magazine kiosk before reaching her gate. She would, in the approaching new year, fix her resolution on an ambitious reading list that would be nearly impossible to achieve. The man, a ramp worker, went home to his wife after his shift. She was barely able to open her eyes, but she looked up at him with relief, then expectation. She’d finally gotten their infant son to sleep. In whispers, they determined that neither James, nor even Joyce, was a suitable balance for its Chinese equivalent – the two were meant to fit together as a well-rounded whole, acknowledging the arts and science, both pen and the sword, acting as prognosis and benediction. In the end, it was his wife’s idea. They did a quick search, and found that if it didn’t belong to their child wholly, then he shared it only with a very few. They were so pleased with their decision that they registered it officially the next day. Which was how Jamesjoyce, or JJ Tam, as some of his classmates liked to call him, received his name.

Or at least how I imagine it.

Mr. Tam came to me for a letter of introduction a few days ago. The request was less a shock for my colleagues and I than his abrupt turnaround, at the beginning of the fall term. I’ve taught him History for the last two years, and he’s always known to be unusually bright, though hampered by his awareness of it to such an extent that he drags it into every room like a ball and chain, scraping the ground so loudly that it smothers all else. Then a few months ago he came to me, wanting an explanation on the workings of parliament during Peter the Great, who is not covered by our curriculum. I sent him off with a few leads, which he digested, then returned with more questions. His Econ teacher thinks his interest in Russia came from video games, and indeed I recall that he was curious about infantry formations. All I can say is that he used to look as if there was a surplus of energy existing right underneath his skin that would give him random tics and smirks, that is now instead funneled, steadily and calmly, through proper channels as he considers implications of public opinion and casus belli, and writes responses that are not required homework, a changed phenomenon at least in character if not also in work ethic that is reported by other teachers across the board. His leadership qualities too, formerly used for nefarious, boyish purposes, have slowly seen a maturation as he dedicates himself to student government, and other roles as enumerated in the beginning of this letter. And now as he seeks a true higher education in your program, where he’ll be a worthwhile presence, I can only offer my fullest support. An unusual candidate calls for an unusual letter. I wish him all my best. 

Regards, 

Y.Y.

*The first part of this letter is no longer extant. Along with others, this document is collected in the correspondence section of chapter 9 in Unusual Candidate: a biography of Jamesjoyce Tam.