Sunday, January 28, 2007

Hi Haruki


'Literature is a mysterious smile.'

When I first started writing as a little girl in 1990, my writing teacher told me that 'simile' is the scantiest strategy. I was a neat drawer as a small person but I was not a competent narrator. My teacher was a modest storyteller. He roamed from place to place to meet small stories. He told me that writing was an agony. He said tiny timid flowers on the ground were more beautiful than those gorgeous ones without fear. He passed away one day early in summer of 1994. I was eleven. When I heard about his death, and went to the funeral, and even after taking care of the memorial address as one of his most cherished pupils, the only thing I was recalling the whole time was his fart. After 18 years, I still remember that so clear. He was a very quiet man, with great politeness. My own mother put much respect on him as a teacher and a writer.

It was after a month when I burst into tears so suddenly in the class over his death. And that was it. All I could remember was his favorite tiny purple flower and his fart. He used to talk about the flower quite often but it was only one time that he farted in front of me. But actually it was only his fart which flashed on my mind when I heard about his death. I do not remember anymore if I could not hide my laughs when he farted or I thought about it seriously since it was something which feels inappropriate but in fact is natural. He did not say much about my writings. He told me that I should be as low as violet to be a beautiful person; many loud words are not refined. When I was writing a peom about the moon, the only thing he said to me was that the great poet talks about the moon without saying any words about the moon. I wanted him to be fair with my writings and that he demanded that the moon should be described without reference to the name of the moon was not regarded as fair to me.

Haruki talks about life without talking about it though. I shook my hands with him without rejection. His world did not seem lofty so I did not fear for this stranger. There is a thing that even death cannot overcome; the acceptance of life. It is just as low as violet. I have been sent to many great teachers but none of them taught me the secret of their stupendous skills. As a small person, I have dreamt of many splendid things that I might be able to do when I grow old. But they just told me to live my life. I shall know oneday, how to talk about life without talking about it, but only after living it fully. This strange connection between life and its rhetoric reveals the tears of beauty of life.

Because, Life is a mysterious simile.




after Murakami Haruki's Norwegian Wood
a photo of a lone trumpet in Prague CZ, Jan of 2005, taken by
Angel Hye-young Kim

3 Comments:

Blogger Nikki said...

Angel, you've been tagged. See my blog for the (simple) game rules.

4:44 PM  
Blogger Nikki said...

Angel, you've been tagged. See my blog for the (simple) game rules.

4:46 PM  
Blogger Nikki said...

Angel, you are tagged. Time to play along. See my blog for how to do it, 6 weird things about you.

4:51 PM  

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