I've been meaning to ask you (interviews)

I would send my love to those who have forgotten how to love, who lost the capacity or never learned it at all.

I've been meaning to ask Yasuko Thanh

May 19, 2025

What is your first memory of existing?

I remember wondering, as many kids do, Where was I before I was born? The answer reminds me of an exercise meant to help sighted people imagine complete blindness. Most people close their eyes, and think darkness. The exercise goes like this: raise both arms out to your sides, then slowly move them back until they disappear from your peripheral vision. Now ask yourself: What color is the air behind your head? It’s easier to imagine the dark than nothing at all.

In short, in wondering where I existed before I existed, I suppose, I understood, by negation that I existed.

But my first real memory of existing, the first time I became “I” is much clearer. I was sitting with my family, and recall the sledgehammer hit of realising: I will only ever see the world through these eyes. I can’t step into my mother’s mind or borrow my father’s eyes—a fact that struck me as utterly absurd. There’s a developmental term for the moment a child realizes they’re separate from their parents—but I can’t think of it. I just remember what came next: a wave of sadness, loneliness, and desperation—like waking up in a prison where each inmate is kept alone, and no one ever gets out.

What is your first memory of being creative?

Turning myself into a bird. As a child, perched on my mother’s kitchen table, I saw no reason why I couldn’t fly off its edge if I flapped hard enough, if I meant it. It seemed simple. Obvious, even. If creativity means to see something in the mind and then take steps to make it real, then my first creative act was that launch into the air.

What is the best or worst dream you ever had?

The worst dream I’ve ever had? What stays with me are two things: the image of small hands, and the silence — not a single word is spoken.

A long ladder stretches across a steep canyon, water rushing far below. My child dangles from one of the rungs. I’m above them, close enough to see — not their face, not their body — just their two small hands, clinging to life hundreds of feet in the air.

I reach down to save them.

But I’m too late.

Their hands slip.

They let go.

And the silence stays.

What do you cherish most about this world?

Water. Swimming in it. Watching it change color. The sound when it crashes. Salt on a sunburn. A rock, blurred by a sheet of it. Lake smell. River smell. Ocean smell. Things that live in it just out of sight.

What would you like to change about this world?

I’d give the world new eyes. I’m reminded of two quotes. The first suggests that if people could see into their enemy’s secret heart, it would be enough to end all wars. It has a ring to it, and I believed it for a long time. Much art aspires to this—to humanize the other, to dismantle stereotypes. Literature, in particular, excels at this, giving readers access to the inner lives of others in a way that real life rarely permits.

The second quote comes from Iris Murdoch, the British writer and philosopher, who spoke about the cultivation of “true sight.” To have true sight, she said, is to apprehend that other people truly exist. While the first quote assumes an innate goodness that, once awakened, will lead us to do right, the second proposes that such goodness is not innate— so if I could wave a wand, I’d give the world truly-seeing eyes.

Do you believe in ghosts? Why or why not?

I believe in ghosts—because it's a harmless belief that hurts no one.

In Mexico City, I stayed in an old building near the Zócalo, still riddled with bullet holes from the 1913 revolution. Our room had more people than beds, so I was sleeping on the floor when I heard footsteps approaching. With my ear to the ground, the sound was loud enough to rouse me. It's easy to judge distance by sound, like knowing from your bedroom whether someone’s in the kitchen or living room. These footsteps were about twenty feet away, through an open door. But no one was there, and our door was bolted shut.

The next morning, I asked if the building was haunted. I was told it was—by three different ghosts.

My current house, built in 1936, is in the oldest residential neighborhood of Victoria, BC. The toaster oven used to turn on by itself, until we started wondering if someone unseen was hungry. My child began making toast for the ghost, leaving it on top of the oven with a folded construction paper place card that read “Toast Ghost,” so no one else would eat it by mistake. After that, the oven calmed down.

We called our guest the Toast Ghost—until a friend saw a little girl ahead of her on the stairs. The girl, who shared my daughter’s hair color and age, walked into the kitchen. But when my friend stepped in, the girl was gone. My daughter hadn’t been upstairs.

After that, I began calling her Little Ghost. “Little Ghost,” I’ll say, “where are my glasses? My wallet? My car keys?” I don’t stress—I laugh at her mischief. Sometimes I use a firm voice: “Little Ghost, Little Ghost. You must return my keys now. I’m late.” More often than not, the object reappears.

Maybe it’s absent-mindedness. Faulty wiring. Sound distortions. But I believe in ghosts—because the belief makes me happy.

If you could send your love to anyone, who would it be and why?

I would send my love to those who have forgotten how to love, who lost the capacity or never learned it at all. To those who gave up because it once bit them, or who found themselves drowning in it and felt they had no choice but to swim to shore. To those who think love is too hard, a hassle, too heavy to hold. Who see it as something you fall into like a swimming pool, rather than a conscious decision to treat others well. Love is what gratitude looks like when it moves. It’s an action. It springs from gratitude—that we woke up this morning with breath in our lungs. Desire, attachment, fear— those things exist, but I wouldn’t call them love.

Tell us about your latest book project.

The Falling Maria

a novel by Yasuko Thanh

A LYRICAL, MULTILAYERED AND SHOCKING TALE FROM THE AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF MYSTERIOUS FRAGRANCE OF THE YELLOW MOUNTAINS

What happens when a woman refuses to conform to the expectations of her gender? In 1920, Maria Mandapat, veteran female WWI fighter pilot and international celebrity, is tried and executed for serial murder, for exacting revenge on her male abusers. But at the very moment the noose tightens, her soul continues its journey, slipping right through her stockings and out the soles of her shoes. She finds herself seated on a train—to Heaven.

The afterlife is unlike any Heaven Maria imagined. It is a dreary bureaucracy little distinguishable from Earth’s, populated by busybody angels, well-meaning but ineffectual saints, and the listless dregs of souls waiting in futility for promised salvation. Maria, a controversial figure in death and in life, is quickly put on trial—but this time, St. Adelaide of Rome, patron saint of abused women, has taken a personal interest in Maria’s case, because her heavenly trial is not for the crime of murder, but for a much graver sin.

The Falling Maria explores motherhood and freedom, and the tensions between dirtiness and holiness, right and wrong, disobedience and survival, and the lives of the forgotten. It serves as a meditation on suffering and the bonds between mothers and daughters, as well as the many meanings of falling: falling from God, from grace, through the air, into death, and toward a form of holiness and liberation.

What is something you’d like to support?

Join Victoria II Palestine – Stand in Solidarity for a Free Palestine

We invite you to stand with us every Saturday at 2 PM at the Parliament Buildings in Victoria, BC as we rally for justice, peace, and a Free Palestine.

Victoria II Palestine is a welcoming community united in solidarity with the Palestinian people. Whether you're new to activism or a longtime supporter, your presence matters.

Come raise your voice. All are welcome!

Victoria-II-Palestine on Instagram

Victoria-II-Palestine on FB

Support Send My Love to Anyone

Support Send My Love to Anyone by signing up for a monthly or yearly subscription, liking this post, or sharing it

Big heartfelt thanks to all of the subscribers and contributors who make this project possible!

Connect