Bought a Balloon
by JO Kyung Ran (Jo Gyeong-nan)
Translated by Brother
Anthony of Taizé
Published in Koreana: Korean Art
& Culture (The Korea Foundation) Vol. 23, No.1 Spring 2009 pages 88 -
99 (see Introduction)
1.
One day I caught sight of myself reflected in the
Ray-Ban sunglasses a man was wearing. There was a tiny,
wretched-looking woman with a big head like a reflection in a convex
mirror. It took me quite a while to realize that the woman was me. At
that moment I felt convinced that the man and I would surely part
company. Assuming that I was gazing intently at him, the man adjusted
his sunglasses with a swagger. The body of the woman in the lenses went
soaring upward then came down again. I deliberately pretended to
stagger. I was forgetting one major fact. The fact that my will was at
least to some degree engaged in that encounter. Or perhaps I should
rather say my heart. It was Thomas who decided that I needed a change.
I quickly returned to my desk.
A great work of art speaks to me although it does
not know me. I reckon that the greatest artist I know is Nietzsche. It
is from him that I have been seeking answers to all the many questions
that I have about life. It’s a pity that he died a hundred years ago.
In the autumn of 1888 he said that when the year 2000 came, people
would be reading his books and discovering many things. The solitary
thinker scaling rocky heights. That’s what people called him. Fully
wrapped in a thick duffle-coat, I read books in a desolate, solitary
land. As he said, I used to start the day at five in the morning, then
when evening came I would eat a simple supper of ham and eggs and bread
sprinkled with black sesame seeds. In those days I was in the
springtime of my studies and reckoned I was pursuing truth like some
beautiful boy. Cold and solitary though I might be, clearly human
existence likewise went flowing away in mere poverty and illusion. Ten
years passed in a flash, like water pouring away. Yet strange to say, I
failed to gain any great courage or boldness concerning my life. All
that kept coming to mind was that image of a small,
impoverished-looking woman reflected in a man’s sunglasses. Supposing
that I needed a change, what should it be? The moment I said I was
going home, Thomas warned me. His warning was extremely brief and at
first quite relaxed, but as time passed it held me by the ankle like a
tightening noose. I reckoned that I needed to live more prudently.
Besides, I was tired of all the time using up too much energy
protecting myself. That was exactly ten years after my arrival in
Heidelberg. Before leaving for home, I filled a little glass bottle
with soil from the garden and sealed it tightly.
2.
“What’s this?”
The boy’s finger was pointing directly at me.
“Not ‘What’s this;’ you must ask, ‘Who is this person?’”
Thoughtlessly, my sister-in-law could not help
laughing. In fact the rest of the family were just as bad. In the past
ten years I had visited Seoul just twice. The first time had been for
my mother’s sixtieth birthday celebration; the other time was for my
brother’s wedding. It had been a full five years since my last visit.
“Hello. This is what is called your aunt.” Disheartened, I replied feebly.
In the plane that was taking me home, I reflected on
what I had. If I had nothing, I could make a new start any way I liked.
Leaving the in-flight meal unfinished, I rubbed my eyes vigorously. My
thirty-seven years felt as heavy as if I was carrying a camel on my
back. Going back and growing old together with my parents might not be
such a bad idea, after all. My brother, my only sibling, having moved
into his own place after marrying, there should be more room at my
disposal. I might even be able to have a large, high-ceilinged study
like Montaigne. I went so far as to shudder with an expectation I had
not felt before. That dream was shattered the moment I emerged from
Incheon airport after completing the immigration formalities.
“Let’s hope we get on well together.” My brother, who had come to meet me, squeezed my shoulders as he spoke.
I had never seriously thought about the many changes
that had occurred over the past ten years, so I just stared blankly at
my now balding older brother. I had two nephews, it seemed, not just
one, the first born twenty-eight months ago and already in his fourth
calendar year, the second born just over a hundred days back. Brother’s
mother-in-law was ailing and it was obvious that they would no longer
be able to count on her to look after her daughter’s children. When my
brother had suddenly quit his job and set up a joint venture with some
colleagues, she had provided more than half the capital. His wife was
working for a foreign pharmaceutical company with not a minute to call
her own. The only people available to look after the children were my
father and mother, and they accepted that as something obvious.
Finally, after a month or so, my brother and sister-in-law, who had
been rushing to and fro bringing and fetching the children, had packed
their belongings and come back to live at home. He explained that it
had all happened in the two months before my return. Removing the
bookshelves and desk from my room, they had installed a cot and a chest
of drawers and had the walls papered with a Winnie-the-Pooh design.
Ten years before, when I announced that I had
decided to leave for Germany, mother’s immediate reply had been:
“Philosophy? What do you mean, philosophy? Tut-tut, philosophers are
people who can’t see a problem when it’s right before their nose.” I
stood grasping the knob of the door to what had once been a utility
room.
“Hurry up; wash your hands and eat.” My sister-in-law gave my back a brisk slap in passing as she spoke.
It was not only the make-up of my family that had
changed. I roamed in confusion across the city of Seoul, where I had
spent twenty-seven years of my life, with a map of the bus-routes open
like a newly-arrived tourist. Bus-card, mobile phone, there were so
many new things I had to get, but there were even more things that I
could no longer buy. I gazed piercingly at my reflection in shop
windows as I passed, or in the mirror of café restrooms. How’s
it going? Are you ok? Perhaps I was hoping someone would ask me that.
With nearly all my money gone, I bought the French-brand bag I noticed
most frequently in the streets. No matter how many new things I covered
myself with, a squelching sound emerged from under my feet, as if I
were wearing shoes soaked in water.
Nietzsche said that people who do not have
two-thirds of the day for themselves are slaves to time, but it is
quite impossible to live as a free person in a house with two parents
over sixty, a three-year-old nephew and a hundred-day-old baby. After
eating breakfast-cum-lunch, I would escape from the house at about
three. Either I took a bus and went to look around downtown or walked
along briskly. I also went to visit a former fellow-student, Ch’a, now
living in Anyang, who had come back three years before me. She said she
had finally given up trying to find a job in a university and had
opened a paper store. Well, maybe so. Though she said she’d had no
choice, it looked as though some regrets remained, given that she had
named her store “Doctor’s Paper Store.” Even part-time lecturing won’t
be easy, she said as we were parting. Apart from her I had no-one to
meet. Walking and more walking. It was the method Caesar had employed
to fight off sickness and headaches. I really was suffering from
migraine, and I felt that there might be no better cure than walking. I
had nothing else to do. The biggest change of all was the fact that I
was now completely unemployed. People of leisure, useless people. Which
side was I on?
The whole city-center grew bright like a great
Christmas-tree. Everywhere was crowded with people until it became
impossible to occupy a seat in a café reading a book. I had
nowhere at all to go. A huge illuminated tunnel began in front of
Sejong Cultural Center and the Cheonggyecheon stream.
“Luminarié.” They said it meant “festival of light.” I stopped,
feeling I was being swept along in a vast throng. The sound of camera
shutters clicking rose continuously like a soft crackle of
fire-crackers. Idly, I sprang lightly on tiptoe amidst the fragments of
light.
It was not a bag that I needed at present, it was
conversation and relaxation in friendship and trust. I sold the bag and
used the money to buy a parrot.
3.
It really is hard to put up for long with the sound
of a baby crying. Besides, I had never before had the experience of
hearing a baby crying at such close quarters. Having nowhere to flee
to, I had no choice but to listen to my nephew crying. As I did so, I
made one new discovery. If I listened with sympathy to the baby crying,
I could feel the dreadful psychological strength contained within a
baby. At first, the baby’s crying sounds as though it means, “I am
here.” But as the sound suddenly grows louder and more insistent, it
gives me the feeling of a kind of fundamental fury or pain. An
uncontrollable destructive urge, even. The problem was that I had too
much time. The moment I grew used to living with my nephews, I grew
accustomed to the crying too. The only problem was that I did not at
all like the sound of crying. Because there was no kind of grammar to
the crying. The children would cry for no apparent reason at any hour
of the day or night. I soon learned to be clever and on days when my
sister-in-law was at home I would bring out walnuts and raisins for the
three-year-old and make muffins or suchlike. Although I was living in
my parents’ home, I had a strong impression, rightly or wrongly, that I
was there as a dependant of my brother’s family. I really have no idea.
As before, I reckoned that Nietzsche’s life
principles were my life principles. Sleeping lightly, walking with a
peaceful, relaxed posture, not drinking alcohol, not covetous of honor,
not indulging in greed, while always striving to accomplish something,
treating myself harshly, others gently. Only at present I was in a
situation where nothing that might be termed others’ lives was
available. I had no friends and no former lovers who still remained
friends. Seventeen years before, when I was twenty, I was alone, and I
had been alone ten years before that, too. Now here I am, thirty-seven,
and I am as alone as if I have just been born. Once I thought I was
lucky to have a family, then suddenly mother said: “Study? What do you
mean, study? Now put all that behind you and get married,” producing
several photos of unfamiliar men, and that in the presence of everyone,
father, brother and sister-in-law, so that I really wanted to rush out
of the house, slamming the front gate behind me. But where else could I
go? My sister-in-law seems to be speaking the truth. “Why, nothing else
really matters, so long as your heights match.” Even though I sullenly
protest, “Mother, how can you say such a thing?” I am really listening
carefully to what mother and sister-in-law say. “If a man’s chin
touches the girl’s forehead, it’s a sure sign of marital harmony, fine,
no need to look any further, like you and dad. Oh, mother!” Come to
think of it, I never met a man whose chin touched my forehead. I no
longer remember how tall the first man was; the third was similar to
me, a little over the average height for a woman. Nietzsche was very
short. “How much longer are you going to be wandering around shaking
your head like an old goat, eh?” Mother shouted behind my back as I was
stealthily leaving. No matter how great a person may be, very few
receive recognition from the members of their family. It was his family
who first mentioned Montaigne’s distress at constantly farting in the
presence of others. There was something beside getting married that I
wanted to do, and my family did not know it. Even if they reckoned they
knew, still they wouldn’t let on. Anyway, now let’s bake some muffins.
While I mixed and kneaded flour and eggs, at my side my nephew would
croon in a deliberately merry voice the theme song from a cartoon where
the main character was a muffin, “Do you know Muffin Man?” When I
finally pulled the baked muffins from the oven, he would ignore me
completely. A muffin starring in a cartoon! There were far too many
things I did not know in the world. I used to pick out the raisins and
walnuts from the muffins and throw them to Hans.
The parrot I bought was a scarlet macaw of the kind
known as a hans macaw. It was only three months old, an infant but just
the right age for a parrot to be taught to speak. It had a green body
with big, black, intelligent eyes. I was told that when it grew bigger,
red down would appear on the underside of its green wings. I called it
Hans. The day I entered the house carrying the birdcage, mother pinched
my forearm hard, exclaiming, “What an idea, bringing a bird into a
house where there’s a baby!” and putting me down in front of my
sister-in-law. If my other nephew had not gone running all over the
house flapping his arms and shouting, “Yah yah yah! It’s a bird, a
bird!” I might have been forced to sell Hans and give up the idea. I
set my nephew on my knee and, pointing at Hans, taught him the word
“friend.” But I was not the person who taught the parrot to talk, it
was my nephew who had recently begun calling me “Missie!” over and over
again, imitating my mother. My quick-witted nephew, perfectly aware
that it was not the correct way for him to address me, was all the time
shouting, “Missie, time to eat!” “Missie, time to get up!” Since my
nephew liked birds, I was allowed to keep Hans, which was lucky. But I
was completely at a loss as to what word I should teach Hans first and
while I procrastinated I thought of Socrates before his death.
Socrates, having been found guilty by the citizens of Athens, was
allowed to speak in his defense before the jury for the time it took
for the water in a jar to trickle down into a jar placed below it, no
longer. Socrates had spoken a lot of words in his life, but the time
allotted there was far too short. Language may express truth, but there
are times when it brings about misunderstanding and misfortune. I
needed someone to talk to, yet I felt no inclination to teach Hans to
talk. Instead I decided to sing Hans a song. What would Nietzsche have
thought about raising a parrot? So long as he did not start to say
“Hello, Missie.”
It was on the Wednesday of the first week in December that my friend Ch’a phoned me.
4.
The initial lecture was planned for the Friday of
the first week of December in the culture center of a department store.
An older male acquaintance of Ch’a’s had been asked to give a series of
lectures on “Philosophy made easy” but it seemed that they were obliged
to find a replacement on account of his having had a traffic accident.
I could not decide if I should thank my friend for contacting me or
pretend I had not heard and refuse. One thing was clear, I did not feel
like doing it and was in a bad mood. But I concluded it was better than
becoming a gardener.
Once, Nietsche had thought of becoming a
professional gardener. You have time to spare, it does not cause mental
strain, and it’s a job that leaves you feeling sufficiently tired. I
needed something like that, but at present I was exhausted from
wandering around helplessly downtown. The reason why Nietsche gave up
the idea of becoming a gardener after three weeks was because bending
over was too hard for him. If mother had known that, she would have
been sure to comment: “You bookworms are all the same.” Listening to
Ch’a’s voice, who clearly felt she was doing me a favor, was unbearable
in just the same way. Suppressing a momentary sense of shame, I said I
would teach the class. After talking with the person in charge, I
changed the title to “Nietzsche made easy.” Arriving at the department
store in the southern part of Seoul for my first class, I went up to
the culture center on the ninth floor and found men and women in pairs
performing a folk dance just in front of the lecture hall. “Safe
bodyline yoga,” “Appreciating opera and the media,” “Real estate
investment strategies,” “Tight skin make-up” --among such regular
lecture topics, the announcement of the newly inaugurated “Nietzsche
made easy” class looked as utterly out-of-place as the weeds in the
garden I could not look after. Luckily there were students who had
registered.
From the second class I no longer lectured on
Nietzsche’s thought and ideals. Instead of talking about Nietzsche and
Schopenhauer or Nietzsche and Wagner, I talked about Nietzsche and
Cosima, Nietzsche and Lou Salome. The atmosphere in the class improved
immensely but I could not avoid feeling that I was munching away at an
apple with a worm inside it. Would I have done better to become a
gardener? Hans remained wordless. I still had five weeks of class left.
Meanwhile there was the first heavy fall of snow, there were traffic
accidents here and there in the downtown area, farmers’ plastic houses
collapsed. That evening twenty or so people were stranded for four
hours from 9:00pm in the lookout pavilion high up on the hilltop skyway
overlooking Seoul and I really thought about those people. Nothing
happened to me.
My class consisted entirely of housewives living in
the apartment blocks in the neighborhood of the department store. Among
the twenty, he naturally stood out. First of all because he was young.
From the start he sat at the very back of the class, and like the
others, would nod off and then, perhaps hoping to drive away the
sleepiness, join his cupped hands together and rub his face hard. When
class was over the young man came up to me, explained that he had come
to hear the talk in place of his mother, who had suddenly had something
else to do, then asked if it would be alright for him to keep coming? I
hoped he would keep coming even if I said no. I merely replied, Well .
. . . Cupping his chin in his hand, he went on: Mother sent me because
there are no refunds, she said there was no point in me being idle.
As someone who is able to show us better
possibilities, Nietzsche gave us three examples: the first, reconciling
humanity and nature, a Rousseau-esque person who maintains that
civilization must go back to nature, the second a Goethe-like person
who with a deeply considerate and sagacious temperament experiences
life’s various conditions without tension, and the third is like
Schopenhauer, for whom all human order is tragic, and everyday life is
full of conflict. The first time I saw him, I reckoned he must be the
Goethe type. The fact that between him and the rest of the class there
was an age gap of ten years at least, twenty years at most, seemed not
to pose the slightest problem to that twenty-seven year old young man.
He always behaved with deep consideration toward the members of the
class who were his mother’s age, and seemed to experience no tensions.
After he joined the class, we all went out to dinner together for the
first time. With unconscious caution, I had my eye on him.
My heart began to beat at a rate and rhythm I had
long forgotten. Tossing a walnut to Hans, I asked: Do you know what
this unusual feeling is?
He kept attending the lectures but the dozing and
waking remained constant. During class on the Friday before Christmas
Eve he used a thick felt pen to draw closed eyes on his left palm, open
eyes on his right palm, raised his hands to the level of his ears then
began opening and closing them alternately in my direction; that was
the day we went out together on our first “date.” The people I had met
previously had always been reading books, liked wearing black and white
clothes, and mostly had serious or stern looking faces. Perhaps I was
the same. I found out a surprising number of things on that first date.
Some of them were amusing and a lot of others were not. One amusing
fact was that he had previously been a member of the national handball
team. He told me that his position had been that of goalkeeper, with a
major, decisive role in winning or losing games. At that point he
adopted a slightly boasting tone. Oddly enough, men mostly tend to look
the same when they are boasting. Unfortunately, I knew nothing about
any ball-games and there was nothing I could say about handball.
Perhaps on that account, the only thing I could find to say was,
“Fantastic hands you must have.” Then during a national tournament that
might have earned him a place in the Olympic team he was knocked out by
a ball thrown by a member of the opposing team and they lost the match.
Feeling that it had been his fault, he had given up playing. That was
as much as I knew, but I had the impression he reckoned that one whole
part of his life had been ruined. The problem was that so far he had
not realized that there might be something more.
I was soon obliged to revise my opinion that he was
a Goethe-type. For very often people who are eager to be friends with
others are incapable of believing that they have earned the other
person’s trust. Mostly, people who assume trust do not greatly value
friendship. As Nietzsche said, trying never to hurt another’s feelings
and never to be a bother to others is not simply an inborn
character-trait, it may well be a sign of great timidity. I
provisionally assigned him to the pessimistic Schopenhauer-type. On
that first date, neither of us seemed to have any problem. The problem
emerged too quickly, though, on our second date.
5.
They say that everyone is good at something, but it
looks as though I am no good at teaching. Watching me open the fridge,
my nephew pointed at the cheese and asked, “What’s that?” I handed him
the cheese, teaching him, “This is called cheese.” To which his reply
was, “What’s cheese?” What was cheese? I was as much at a loss as if he
had asked why the table had four legs. For I reckoned he would never be
able to understand if I explained that cheese was made by a process
that involved coagulating then fermenting milk. I gently replied to my
nephew, “It’s your friend.” He repeated, “My friend,” with a satisfied
smile. “Friend” was a word that served as a magic key enabling my
nephew to understand everything. The Lego-built elephant or giraffe was
a friend, shoes and bananas were friends, to say nothing of panties. If
he wet his panties, that were decorated with cartoon characters, mother
would scold him: “You’ve made Anpan Man wet, quickly, tell him you’re
sorry.” Then my nephew would briefly press his puckered lips to the wet
panties, repeating, “Sorry, sorry.” Therefore I unthinkingly told him
that cheese was his friend. Consternation set in as soon as I cut that
cheese in half and prepared to put it in my mouth. Suddenly his
expression wavered, then he burst into tears. “My friend’s been cut
up!” He screamed so that the whole house rang. Door after door opened,
heads appeared, my parents, sister-in-law, even my brother, all of them
wondering what on earth had happened now. I do not understand why these
kinds of things always have to happen when my sister-in-law is home. I
was sitting on a dining-chair with my head bowed, holding the two cut
pieces of the cheese, one in each hand. “My friend’s been cut up,
daddy, my friend’s been cut up.” He blubbered, pointing at the pieces
of cheese I was holding, as he hurled himself at his father’s breast.
“At least the two of them are at the same level,” my brother tutted.
“Really, Missie, why must you keep teaching him that everything’s his
friend?” My sister-in-law pinched my shoulder hard. I seem to be tired.
If I happened to come back from shopping, it would be, “Really, you
should buy mackerel with eyes wide open; really, you should buy
bracken-fronds that are slender and crooked,” as if I only had to read
a newspaper to know everything. Behind her, mother spoke up to say that
she was a fine one to talk, she too having no idea about how to buy
things properly, indirectly taking my side. There are times when I feel
that I am completely useless. I cannot tell if it is only when I am
with my family, or if it is simply when I am at home. After all, I
spent ten years studying, didn’t I?
My nephew gave a good kick at the birdcage holding
Hans and stared at me with a triumphant air. He seemed to reckon that
Hans was my friend. Once my brother went into his room carrying my
nephew, the living room grew quiet again. I put the cheese I had cut
into my mouth and muttered. As my sister-in-law said, I had used the
word friend pointlessly. A lot of things suddenly went sweeping though
my heart, as if a branch that no one could break were being shaken
wildly in my breast. Furtively observing Hans out of the corner of my
eye, I tried muttering, “I’m tired.” Thomas used to ask, “Is that
better, then?” Saying I’m tired when I’m feeling down. I find it odd
that it was Jay who made me write a letter to Thomas.
That young man who had previously been goalkeeper in
the national handball team, Jay with his longish arms and legs, who
never read a book and did not look as though he would put on a dark
suit to attend a wedding. Still barely twenty-seven. Yet I kept
thinking of things I wanted to tell him. Will it be ok? What? Damn it!
Why don’t you say something? Like my nephew, I took it out on Hans.
We went to watch a movie.
It was the last day of December. I followed Jay as
he strode ahead, thinking that I had usually gone to watch a movie on a
second date. If you have been away from Seoul for ten years and not
lived there, then wonder what people mostly do together on the last day
of the year, going to a cinema is not the first idea that comes to
mind. Jay also admitted that because of his years of training, this
would be the first time he went to a movie on the last day of December.
Almost all the seats were already sold, he could not get the “aisle
seats halfway back” he wanted. He was the first man I had ever heard
snap out that he wanted “aisle seats halfway back” when buying the
tickets.
In the time it took to use the toilets, the lights
had gone down and it was dark inside. I briefly grabbed his sleeve.
Except for our seats in the middle, it was packed, the seats on either
side were taken. He gave a loud gasp. As soon as we had squeezed into
our seats I could feel that his back was damp and I saw that his
forehead was shiny with sweat. Just as the movie was starting, he
whispered in my ear, “I have a hard time when I’m in a place like this
with so many people, Miss.” I thought he was joking. “Well, there sure
are a lot of people.” I replied unfalteringly. “I think it will be
alright if you hold my hand,” he said in a gloomy voice. “You’re a real
sportsman,” I answered frivolously. I glanced at his chin, his tightly
clenched lips. He was looking excessively grim for a guy who had just
asked to hold my hand. After fumbling cautiously with the arm-rest he
grasped my hand. His rough hand somehow reminded me of a crocodile but
I kept still and did not try to pull my hand away. It was because I had
a feeling that it was not about holding hands but rather a matter of
grabbing at anything in order to survive. The movie began with a girl,
the youngest of four siblings, discovering another world, “Narnia,”
through the back of a wardrobe. The combat between the witch and the
lion for control over Narnia was about to begin. I realized that the
sound of Jay’s breathing was growing increasingly loud, as he continued
to hold my hand. “You ok?” I asked, but he could not even say he
wasn’t. Reining in the biggest gestures and obviously making a great
effort not to hurry, he finally left his seat. But I had heard it all:
the sound as he inhaled loudly like a suffering lion, then the sound as
he exhaled, the sound of teeth being ground together in the effort not
to groan aloud. I did not follow him out but stayed sitting there. The
combat was beginning. Spears and arrows flew, pillars of fire leaped
aloft. The witch, the lion, and the four children pursued and were
pursued. Could I fight like that if I had something to protect? I
recalled how one day Jay, who had been dozing during the class, had
suddenly woken up with a great shriek almost like a scream. What had he
shouted that day? Eyes wide with fear, that was what I thought I had
seen that day. I went out. It was not just that he was afraid of
crowded places, he was probably not able to go out without someone to
look after him.
He was lying almost flat, leaning his upper body
against the back of an empty chair in the cinema lobby. His limbs were
shaking, he was clutching his chest as he gasped for breath, huh huh
huh. It was odd. I had the impression I had been seeing him like that
for a long time already. Give him ten minutes, I thought to myself. I
seized his great hand, which had once been capable of stopping a ball
moving at 110 kph and was now clasping his chest in a panic attack.
There was not much I could do to help him as he struggled with his
pain. In order to get a better grip on his hand I bent my fingers so
that they were nestling in his palm. Like when mountain climbers rescue
one another, one pulling the other up, that was how I held on. “. . . I
thought I’d got over it now,” he said as soon as the pain subsided. He
also apologized to me. I reassured him. Because he had not said, “I’m
going to die.” I did not let go of the hand I was holding. On account
of this natural, necessary desire I somehow felt like crying a bit.
So I wrote to Thomas. I wanted to be brief. I wrote
about Jay. So the letter grew longer. On the envelope I painstakingly
wrote Thomas’s name in neat letters.
6.
“Shall we talk about the movie’s plot? But we didn’t see it all, did we?”
I dislike it when my sister treats me like an
infant, yet every time I meet Jay my way of speaking heads in that
direction.
“I saw it in a book, teacher.”
“You mean you read books?”
“I read the Chronicles of Narnia in a comic book.”
“My nephew likes comics, too.”
I was about to talk about Muffin Man.
“Do you think children have intellectual capabilities too?”
“Do you mean me?”
He looked at me with an expression that seemed to be asking if there was something wrong with being old.
“No, but they do, don’t they? Children seem quite convinced that the things that frighten them really exist.”
“Isn’t there anything you’re afraid of, Miss?”
He was looking at me. I had no choice.
“You’re more than half way through, it’ll be ok now. Try thinking it’s going to be ok.”
“Teacher, do you realize just how many different
kinds of fear there are in the world? There’s fear of birds. There’s
fear of toads. Some people are afraid of the number 8. There are people
who are afraid of women’s genitals. And there are lots of people who
are afraid of paper. There really are a lot of different kinds of fear.
Compared with them, mine’s nothing.”
Since he told me he’d been receiving therapy for a
long time, what he said was surely not wrong. He told me how, the
previous autumn, he’d safely gone all the way to Laos, where a maternal
uncle was living, six hours in a plane, after which he’d thought he was
fully cured and he’d been told by the doctors that he no longer needed
therapy. For someone with panic disorder, no enclosed space is more
frightening than a plane. Yet I felt I was waiting for him to tell me
something else. What could it be?
“Do you know the difference between being anxious and feeling fear?”
“Instead of asking me, it’ll be better if you just say.”
“When you feel anxious, you’re overwhelmed by the
idea that some kind of danger may be about to happen to you, but you
can’t be sure, and you become tense. Whereas with fear, since the
object inspiring fear is clear, you can avoid it. If the object
disappears, the fear does not continue. So it’s different from anxiety,
where you don’t even know what you should be avoiding.”
“Why, I thought you only knew about Nietzsche, Miss, but you know that too?”
If it’s merely a matter of exchanging words, a
parrot could do just as well. Hoping that Jay would not notice, I
laughed bitterly. Jay did not say what I was waiting to hear.
“Take the wardrobe in that movie. Everyone seems to
have at least one thing that serves as a link between reality and
illusion. What about you?”
“Do you think it would be good to have something like that?”
“It’s not just something that appears when you’re under pressure.”
“Can you sing that song again?”
“What song?”
“Why, that day, after we left the cinema and were
walking along, there was a song you were singing, wasn’t there?”
Jay wanted to see me laugh.
“You really want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
One thing I hate doing when I’m drinking is thinking
about the morning after, and one that I like doing is singing. I duly
hummed the song: “How does it feel? How does it feel? To be without a
home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone? How does it feel?”
“Great! Bob Dylan.”
“Sorry, it’s the only song I know.”
“Do you always cry so easily, Miss?”
“Your face is redder, too.”
“Stop looking at me, please.”
“But it is! If something comes and hits you again,
you’ll be able to be happy, thinking: I blocked a goal. One day.”
“Do you know what the best kind of goalkeeper is?”
“Is this a quiz game?”
“The best goalkeeper is one who never moves, always
blocks the goal. It just shows that he’s really chosen the best place.
“Ah, there’s philosophy in that, too.”
“Don’t worry yourself too much on my account, Miss. It’s not because of handball that I’m like this.”
“ . . . but just supposing. If the fear vanished, what would you like to do most of all?”
“What about you, Miss?”
“Well, suppose we went to eat a bowl of noodles? I’ll teach you how to use chopsticks again.”
“Really, there is something, Miss.”
“Hmm?”
“Can you wait, even if it takes some time?”
Then he told me about his dead father.
A reply came from Thomas. I wondered what was the
most precious thing I possessed. I decided to sell Hans. I was in the
bird shop when suddenly Hans shouted, “Eat up! Eat up!” They were the
first words I had ever heard him say. His manner of speaking was
similar to my nephew’s, who always said everything in a single breath.
What would the child say when he discovered Hans had gone? Would he say
that his friend had flown away? With the money I got from selling Hans
I bought balloons.
7.
I could have done this or that, I could have lived
with this person or that. But I chose to study Nietzsche and I’m alone.
It’s my choice. I can’t really explain that choice, but well, suppose I
put it like this. Someone I know was always full of questions about
every kind of thing, from early childhood on. All those questions
turned round and round and finally ended up fixing on metals, which
fascinated him. Why does it shine? Why is it soft? Why is it cold? Why
is it hard? In the end he became a chemist, while the guy who was
devoted to the 250 tuning forks he had collected became a piano tuner.
My own endless questions all ended up being about human life. People
who reckon that thinking is the biggest problem in life cannot do
without Nietzsche. Through him I hoped to find the answers to the
problems that preoccupied me. At first Nietzsche came to me hopefully
like a great door that was bound to open as I drew nearer. Like
Bertrand Russell, who believed that everything was controlled by
numbers. As a result, unable to become a chemist or a piano tuner, I
turned into a solitary single woman, not only penniless but jobless,
habitually getting slapped on the back by my family for laughing when I
shouldn’t while watching soaps on television.
After I met Jay, I found myself remembering just
why, long ago, I had chosen Nietzsche among all the possible
philosophers. It was because Nietzsche alone, among all the
philosophers, was the only one to say that, if you were someone who
demanded perfection of human life, you just had to accept completely
all life’s difficulties. I was confronted by a variety of difficulties,
some of which seemed insuperable. Nowadays, even without the help of
philosophy, I long to acknowledge my imperfections and be reconciled
with them. Because someone I want to care for has come along. In which
case the arrow is going to have to turn from pointing outward to
pointing inward.
Jay began to receive therapy again. It was a bare
three weeks before January 23, the day when his father had committed
suicide. When he killed himself, Jay’s father had been twenty-eight and
Jay had been just three; now Jay was twenty-eight. When I first saw
him, the thought struck me that despite his height and bulk, he looked
delicate; it was perhaps because after his father’s death he had grown
up in the care of his mother and sisters alone, all those years
painfully missing a man’s touch. Most men, in the absence of an
exemplary father, easily fall victim to a compulsion that obliges them
to create such a father for themselves. He was not inclined to follow
in his father’s footsteps, but he confessed that he had once tried to
die like his father. He said it had been a short while before meeting
me. I guessed that the fact of having reached his dead father’s age was
now the main source of his fear. There seems to be some truth in
Hippocrates’s idea about sickness, that sickness develops with time.
Every disease has a so-called start, then it slowly grows worse until
it reaches a crisis or climax. Just like a work of fiction, in fact.
After that, he said, you reach a happy ending or a fatal ending. That
was how Hippocrates introduced the notion of the “case history” into
medicine. Perhaps what Jay feared was not having reached his dead
father’s age, but that case history.
It was not easy to take the subway, go to the
movies, or ride an elevator with Jay, and every time we did so he would
furtively be keeping an eye on me. One day when he seemed to be in a
good mood, I told him what Thomas had told me about Shostakovich’s
secret. The great musician Shostakovich had a piece of metal,
apparently a bit of shrapnel, embedded in one side of his brain. Yet in
spite of the pain, he resolutely refused to have it removed. Because it
was there, he only had to tilt his head to the right and his mind would
fill with new melodies. By transcribing them onto musical staves he had
produced any number of classic compositions. X-rays had confirmed that
whenever Shostakovich turned his head the shrapnel moved with it and
pressed on the musical zone located in the temporal sphere. Luckily or
not, I’m not sure, he found such tales uninteresting and had never even
heard of Shostakovich. I could not figure out how best to say, “Don’t
be afraid,” so I went about frowning all the time. Likewise how was I
to say, “Perhaps anxiety or fear is what is currently sustaining me,
and your life, too. So you see, Jay, that is why I do not want you to
be completely cured. If all the fear vanishes, that may not be your
real life, either”? Still, there were times when we needed to think
seriously, like Epicurus, about what we needed in order to live healthy
lives.
His therapy seemed to be going neither smoothly nor
easily. Among the irksome duties his therapy required, the most
important was having to write a daily record card. For example, if the
doctor treating him gave him the assignment to “drive once round the
downtown area” that meant recording things like the time it took, who
was with him, and the estimated level of anxiety he felt before doing
the exercise. In addition, if he had a panic attack, how had he dealt
with it. When he was given the first assignment, “drive once round the
downtown area,” he drove directly to the alley where we lived, without
any warning, and obliged me to get into the front seat, when I had
barely woken up, was wearing horn-rimmed glasses because I had not had
time to put in my lenses, and had a mismatched pair of stockings on. It
was one in the afternoon. After a while, his heart began to beat
faster, his neck was showing signs of growing rigid, and he was
breathing harshly. It looked as though he was having a hard time
keeping to his lane. I just rolled my hair round my index finger. While
the other hand fumbled with a balloon I had put in my bag. We were
driving along the fairly busy Dosan Street when he admitted he had a
feeling that in a few minutes a huge cement-mixer truck was going to
come crashing into his car. I know that hand holding the wheel is
soaking wet. Look, if fear comes, try anticipating it and accepting it.
Try recognizing it, waiting, then rejecting it. Try concentrating on
what you can do at present. Next, acknowledge your success in enduring
the fear while doing things with it, accept that as a chance for you to
practice telling yourself you can endure your anxiety. Then anticipate
that the fear may well come back and accept that. I rapidly poured out
all the methods I knew for overcoming panic attacks. Those phrases that
I had previously thought using ‘break up’ instead of ‘fear,’ I added as
if joking, smiling bitterly. There are ups and down in any learning.
You . . . you’re not exceptional, but I don’t realize I have my mouth
tightly shut like someone furious. Because I do not know anything about
how to offer comfort. It’s odd but whenever something difficult
happens, I habitually start to wonder what Nietzsche would have done.
Whether it’s a matter of comforting or showing kindness, things that
ought to have been learned in one’s youth. I realized that I had had
almost no chance to practice such feelings. In order to comfort him, I
put on the warmest smile I could manage and looked at him. Fortunately
he did not scold me and ask, “Do you always cry this easily, Miss?” I
only saw later what he wrote in the space opposite the question, “When
a feeling of anxiety arises, what is your way of dealing with it?” In
large letters he had written, “A friend drives instead.”
That day, while I was still in the car before we
parted I said to Jay: “Jay, you have the right to make mistakes; the
right to ask for help; the right to feel angry; the right to cry; the
right to be surprised; the right to change your mind; and so long as
you do not infringe on the rights of someone else, Jay, you have the
right to be able to do anything that will make you happy; and you have
the right to hate someone else.” Finally I said, “And Jay, you have the
right to drive.”
It was really fortunate that he showed interest in
what I said. Sometimes I have the impression that I learned a lot of
the things I know, not from Nietzsche but from Thomas. My friend
Thomas, who used to grow ferns and eat Sunday brunch at eleven in the
Café Louise wearing the fur coat his dead mother had left him.
His friends could not understand the way he went around with his dead
mother’s fur coat on. If we became close, it was because I understood
his coat and Thomas understood the fear I had.
One day, Thomas told me: “Buy a balloon.” It was one
of the therapies recommended by Thomas, my friend and my physician,
later to become a doctor in the neuropsychiatric unit of the
Charité Hospital in Berlin. Every time I felt anxiety coming on,
every time my breathing became irregular, breathing deeply and quickly,
puff, puff, huff puff, and as I blew up the balloon, I would bring my
breathing back under control. It was one form of breathing exercise
designed to facilitate hyperventilation, in order to prevent a panic
attack occurring even after the breathing had begun to be irregular.
Thomas used to look at me absently with gloomy eyes where green and
gray were intermingled. Even now, they are still the most irritating,
sad eyes I ever saw, that ever looked at me. I blew up several thousand
balloons.
8.
With the cold of early January, winter seemed to be
reaching its climax. Everything was frozen hard and the days passed
slowly. I spent my time meeting other people more often than Jay. I say
“other people,” although they were all students in my class, and there
were also fun moments drinking tea together and listening to what they
had to say. One said that I seemed not to know the ways of the world,
and I laughed, saying that she meant well, so I would not take it
seriously. Whether I was in the classroom or outside, I seemed not to
look like a teacher. Nonetheless, every week I was waiting for Friday.
As soon as the class was over I would always go rushing out of the
room. I just hoped he could understand that if things are really
difficult, there are times when it’s not good to be together. It is
something different from sharing sorrow together. Sometimes I would
visit “Doctor’s Paper Store” in Anyang and stay sitting there
dejectedly for several hours at a stretch. If a customer came while my
friend was out for a time, I even sold things like plastic trash bags.
It was not a matter of twelve hours spent reading, thinking, going for
walks, every twelve hours my head was on the verge of exploding from
thinking about Jay.
Seeing the empty cage, I would remember Hans. But I
know that sometimes, late at night, Hans comes flying into my room and
observes me as I sleep, his beak buried slantwise in his smooth
plumage. At such times I suddenly turn over and ask, “You ok?”
pretending to be talking in my sleep. I regret not having taught him
more words. When morning comes, sometimes I find a green feather has
fallen onto my pillow, but I have not been able to tell Jay that yet.
Nor that whenever we meet I put a balloon in my bag before going out.
I thought about the question Jay had thrown back at
me: if the anxiety goes away, what will you do first? It was something
I asked myself, and I had not realized it was such a fundamental one,
or one so capable of bringing me consolation. In order to think about
that, I could not help reflecting on my rights first. I still do not
know exactly what it is that Jay asked me to wait for. Once he took out
a pen and skillfully drew a fish in the back of my notebook. “This is a
rainbow trout, miss,” and I nodded, “Ah. Let’s go and see them some
day,” I responded. His ambiguous, twenty-seven year old expression
where confidence and uncertainty mingles, seeming to say: “This is my
dream.” The first thing I was waiting for was the anniversary of his
father’s death, and that would be the first bridge Jay had to cross. He
was already dreaming dreams where he was covering his face with his
hands and screaming: No! A ball heading for him at 110 kph. He was
going to have to field his father’s death with both hands. It’s ok,
Jay, you’re already half way across. I was muttering in my dream. Fear?
I was just the same.
“Tomorrow, let’s go for a ride on line 2 of the
subway,” Jay said. He explained that his new assignment was to ride one
full circuit on line 2, the circle line. I was curious what he might
find to write this time in the space opposite the question, “When a
feeling of anxiety arises, what is your way of dealing with it?”
9.
The books I had sent off by surface mail before I
left Heidelberg arrived four months later. When they did not come after
two months, I had given them up. For a while I had a pain as though
something inside me was broken. The moment I saw those nine boxes of
books, that I considered priceless, piled on the living-room floor, I
realized how urgently and longingly I had been waiting for them to
come. I failed to see that I was consumed by fear of that self who was
now incapable of reading the books with the enthusiasm and absorption
that had previously filled, indeed almost devoured me. The hefty
volumes occupying virtually the whole of the living room floor were
coaxing and urging me on. That made me aware of two obvious facts.
First, that four months had already gone by, and then that I was here
and not in Heidelberg. The books seemed to have a lot of other things
they wanted to say, too.
When I came back home, I had scattered the earth in
the bottle over the garden. If you often go traveling, even when you
come back home you can only sleep if you lock the door of your room
first. Now I no longer locked the door and I could not sleep. The
multipurpose room may be small, it offers no great obstacle to reading
books or thinking. I had no idea I would have to live there for so long
a time.
In my final class I talked about the idea of eternal
recurrence that came to Nietsche at the rock near Surlei. Also about
the meaning of the tears Nietsche shed there. I ended seven weeks of
lectures by introducing the maxims Nietzsche had left behind. Then I
went to a restaurant in the store with the students where we ate
dumplings and drank a cup of tea. Some briefly talked about Jay, who
had not come to the final class. One student, who claimed to be close
to Jay’s mother, said he was in Laos. Another said she had seem him
choosing a necktie on the first floor of the store just before class.
After laughing about how well Jay could tell a joke, and how he was the
youngest in the class, they changed the subject. I had not heard from
Jay. There are things I can tell even if he says nothing but there are
also things I absolutely cannot know if he does not say. Which one is
it now? Every time I thought of him I found myself recalling the
rainbow trout.
My mood on January 23 was a little different from
when I greeted January 22 but time passed accurately enough. At three
in the afternoon the telephone rang, a wrong number, and once it was
past five, somber dark green night began to fall. I was sitting on a
dining-chair looking toward the window. Once my eyes were accustomed to
the dark, I could see pale snowflakes beginning to fly. A cat could be
heard meowing and motorbikes delivering meals sped past down the alley.
It was an ordinary Sunday evening, no different from other days. I
slowly stood up, made some broth with tuna, washed mushrooms, spring
onions, greens and onions in cold water and wiped them dry. Once the
broth began to boil, I transferred it to the middle of the table. I
called out to father, mother, my brother and sister-in-law, who had
been playing cards in the main bedroom while the children were asleep.
The family gathered round the table. This evening I really wanted to
eat dumpling soup rather than casserole, or, If you’re going to make a
casserole you need to use a proper quantity of meat, surely, or, Isn’t
there any soju or something to drink? Each one added a little comment
as they picked up their spoons. The noise of spoons rattling against
the glass table-top, the sound of broth being slurped down, the sound
of water being poured into glasses, the noises succeeded one another. I
took a deep breath. I felt sure that somewhere at this very moment Jay
was having his supper too. It was not just wishful thinking, it was a
firm belief. I made up my mind not to wait for Jay any more.
February came. I found a job teaching basic German
three times a week in an institute in Chongno street. It had been my
friend Ch’a who had got me the job. “Why don’t you do it yourself?” I
asked. She simply replied that running a paper store suited her
personality and shook her head. What kind of person could have a
character suited to running a paper store? For the first time I treated
her to a meal and tea. Meanwhile, my nephew fell down in the living
room, hitting his head on the corner of the table and we celebrated the
offerings for paternal grandmother. On the day of the offerings, the
moment father lit the candles on the table holding the offerings, my
nephew, whose injured head was swathed in white gauze bandages so that
it looked like a pear in a box of fruit, exclaimed, “Wow, a birthday!”
and began to sing, “Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you,”
clapping his hands. Father did not know whether to laugh or cry, as he
muttered, “Aigu, that brat!” and before he could grab his grandson, who
was racing from room to room singing, his face was scarlet. I was
standing behind my brother as he offered the cup of wine. It struck me
that for some reason, ever since we were children, we had never been
arm-in-arm or hand-in-hand, never once had any physical contact.
Perhaps because in our youth we considered we were too unlike one
another, and on returning after ten years away, we seemed too old for
that. I did once put my arm through my brother’s, as though by
accident. My brother was growing more like my father with age, and
although I did not really feel it, I was probably growing more like
mother. Once the offerings were over, January was finished, February
was beginning. But even if one keeps standing in the same place, it
will still be too sad to say that March passed and April too. Gradually
the insides of my elbows felt warmer. I wondered if I might not try
talking about Jay with my brother. He stared at me and laughed. “Do you
think I’m going to free up my room if you talk like that?” His
expression said I was being nonsensical.
That night, Hans woke me up. He brought one piece of news.
10.
Just as philosophy for Nietzsche was like
voluntarily living on an ice-covered mountain, for me that was what
life was like. There were fears I had escaped from and those I had not,
but I always wanted to stay here, it was my choice. I did ask, but by
now I knew that there was no way I could enter his garden. I had not
been able to find the truth and I had not been able to jump. As
Nietzsche said, no river can become large and abundant on its own.
Absorbing many tributaries and constantly flowing on, that is what
makes a river. I was discovering that greatness of mind was a matter,
not of giving the right answer to questions, but of indicating a
direction. In which case, the great artist who showed me my life’s
direction was none other than Nietzsche. I began to think about a life
in which one has to endure, in which one has to cultivate, in which one
has to tend, a life bringing harmony. Concerning the unhappy events,
the predicaments, that arise in our lives, Nietzsche did not just think
they were bad and had to be eliminated. He said we had to tend our own
misfortunes and difficulties as we tend roots. That was the philosophy
that Nietzsche transmitted through his experience as a gardener.
Pay heed to the commands of reason. Nietzsche told me.
I thought about the rights I had. I have the right
to say I am sick; I have the right to read books; so long as I do not
infringe on the rights of another, I have the right to rely on that
person; I have the right to speak the truth; I have the right to sleep.
I have the right to resist Thomas’s comfort and advice; I have the
right to no longer feel sorry; I have the right to think about Jay. I
had to think a lot of other thoughts. Then finally I began to think
deeply about the arrow-like question I had fired at Jay and he had
turned back on me. Suppose that fear goes away . . .
“I want to write a book,” I said to Jay.
“I knew as much,” Jay replied brightly.
“What?”
“I told you I knew you would be waiting.”
“How’s it been, meanwhile?”
“I counted backward from a hundred, subtracting three each time:
ninety-seven, ninety-four, ninety-one . . . . I did that every time
things got difficult. I’ve already ridden the subway alone three times,
Miss.”
“Subtracting three, starting with one hundred?”
“Yes, it’s a really good method. When you have a headache from reading, you should try it.”
“It’s good, surely, but suppose, um, we blow up a balloon?”
“Like those people who forget everything the moment they start flying a
kite? Hey, I’d feel stupid, what do you mean, a balloon?”
“Huff, puff, come on, blow hard, puff, puff, puff . . .”
“Huff, puff, like this?”
“One boy, one girl, huff, puff.”
“Is that, huff, puff, a happy ending? Puff, puff.”
“It’s called, huff, puff, love.”
“It’s been a long time, huff, puff, since I blew up a balloon. Puff, puff.”
“There was a guy, huff, puff, who was really scared of heights, puff,
puff, puff. Then once he fell in love, huff, huff, he became a really
great rock-climber.”
“Who was it? Huff, puff.”
“Huff, puff, my friend. Puff.”
Jay and I stood watching as one yellow balloon and
one red balloon went wafting up into the sky. The wind is blowing. The
day Thomas succeeded his rock-climb, his whole body was shining a
coconut brown color. Before I left Heidelberg, he advised me: “You have
an advantage, in that you are not influenced by the outside world. That
will serve as a really big advantage if you plan to be a scholar. Only
precisely because of it, you may well find yourself fated to live in
isolation, for ever.”
For a long time, the little village and school where
I used to live were my whole world. The distant world outside was a
frightening, unknown world. Now it’s as though the knot that had been
tied round one ankle is loosening, I feel as though my soul is rising
higher little by little, like that yellow balloon and red balloon.
Thomas? There are two mysterious kinds of power in that knot. For some
people, the power can for ever be a curse. But for others, it can be a
blessing. Just like the system of rope-knot notation for the ancients.
Will Thomas understand if I talk like this? Thomas likes Wittgenstein,
who said that humanity has no gesture expressing hope. It is easy to
act like someone angry. Acting like someone happy is easy, acting like
someone overwhelmed with sorrow is easy. But hope? He declared it was
difficult. If Thomas could see Jay now he has blown up and loosed his
balloon, what would he say about him? And if he could see me, standing
here beside him?
“Miss, are you crying again?”
Jay’s rough hand brushed my cheek.
“Don’t sway about like that, stand straight for once.”
I seized Jay’s wrists with both hands and stood
facing him. He looked a bit stressed out. When Nietzsche wept by the
rock at Surlei, it was not simply from the joy of making a discovery;
they were tears of certainty as to the theory’s existential effect, a
groan of conviction. If ever I am fated to live in isolation, it will
be because of that that I have my individuality. I reckon that such
things are only produced from within. The balloons were gradually
drifting further away in the sky. The path to overcoming fear is not
something to look back on, it is something leading ahead, Jay. It may
well mean changing. If there is a special purpose in life that I could
not discover for myself, it may be something round and needing to be
inflated like a balloon. To bring my forehead against his chin, I
cautiously raise myself on tiptoe.