The characters in “A Thousand Years of Good Prayers” spend much of the story finding ways to communicate with each other across various barriers—linguistic, emotional, and cultural. The story suggests that while such barriers can prevent people from communicating with one another, true understanding ultimately transcends language. Mr. Shi’s relationships demonstrate that speaking a common language, especially when emotional and cultural barriers interfere, does not mean that people always understand each other. With his daughter in particular, Mr. Shi struggles to make himself understood and to understand her because she grew up accustomed to his silence as a way of concealing the truth about his work, which makes her distrust his words. Words spoken in a shared language are not enough to make oneself understood; trust and willingness to listen are also necessary.
Lack of a shared language can also prevent understanding. For example, Mr. Shi’s daughter does not know how to speak to him about her feelings in Chinese, which prevents them from feeling close to each other. Additionally, Mr. Shi makes numerous assumptions about Madam because he cannot understand many of the words she speaks to him. At the same time, lack of a shared language does not necessarily hinder understanding: Mr. Shi feels he has an intimate friendship with Madam despite the fact that they both speak only limited English. Even if they cannot understand what the other person is saying, they become close companions because of their shared joy in spending time with each other. Understanding through communication—even nonverbal communication—is therefore crucial for intimacy. This ability to understand without a common language suggests that, sometimes, nonverbal communication can say more than words.
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Language, Communication, and Understanding Quotes in A Thousand Years of Good Prayers
“I love America. Good country for everybody.”
“Yes, yes. A rocket scientist I am in China. But very poor. Rocket scientist, you know?” Mr. Shi says, his hands making a peak.
“I love China. China a good country, very old,” the woman says.
“America is young country, like young people.”
“America a happy country.”
“Young people are more happy than old people,” Mr. Shi says, and then realizes that it is too abrupt a conclusion.
Women in their marriageable twenties and early thirties are like lychees that have been picked from the tree; each passing day makes them less fresh and less desirable, and only too soon will they lose their value, and have to be gotten rid of at a sale price. Mr. Shi knows enough not to mention the sale price. Still, he cannot help but lecture on the fruitfulness of life. The more he talks, the more he is moved by his own patience.
Her eyes behind her glasses, wide open and unrelenting, remind him of her in her younger years. When she was four or five, she went after him every possible moment, asking questions and demanding answers. The eyes remind him of her mother too; at one time in their marriage, she gazed at him with this questioning look, waiting for an answer he did not have for her.
“In China we say, Xiu bai shi ke tong zhou,” Mr. Shi says when Madam stops. It takes three hundred years of prayers to have the chance to cross a river with someone in the same boat, he thinks of explaining to Madam in English, but then, what’s the difference between the languages? Madam would understand him, with or without the translation.
He feels disappointed in his daughter, someone he shares a language with but with whom he can no longer share a dear moment. After a long pause, he says, “You know, a woman shouldn’t ask such direct questions. A good woman is deferential and knows how to make people talk.”
Truly it was his mistake, never establishing a habit of talking to his daughter. But then, he argues for himself—in his time, a man like him, among the few chosen to work for a grand cause, he had to bear more duties toward his work than his family. Honorable and sad, but honorable more than sad.
He listens to her speak English on the phone, her voice shriller than he has ever known it to be. She speaks fast and laughs often. He does not understand her words, but even more, he does not understand her manner. Her voice, too sharp, too loud, too immodest, is so unpleasant to his ears that for a moment he feels as if he had accidentally caught a glimpse of her naked body, a total stranger, not the daughter he knows.
“Baba, if you grew up in a language that you never used to express your feelings, it would be easier to take up another language and talk more in the new language. It makes you a new person.”
“Talking is like riding with an unreined horse, you don’t know where you end up and you don’t have to think about it. That’s what our talking was like, but we weren’t having an affair as they said. We were never in love,” Mr. Shi says, and then, for a short moment, is confused by his own words. What kind of love is he talking about? Surely they were in love, not the love they were suspected of having—he always kept a respectful distance, their hands never touched. But a love in which they talked freely, a love in which their minds touched—wasn’t it love, too?
