Kang Han Greek Lessons E ng l i s h
Greek Lessons (희랍어 시간) KL Publishing corp. / 52 p. For further information, please visit: http://library.klti.or.kr/node/772
This sample translation was produced with support from LTI Korea. Please contact the LTI Korea Library for further information. firstname.lastname@example.org
Greek Lessons Written by Han Kang
1 As his dying wish, Borges requested the epitaph “A knife lay between us”. Addressing the beautiful young Maria Kodama, a mixed-race Japanese who had been his private secretary. She had married Borges when the latter was already 87, and spent the next three months, his last, by his side. As the place of his passing he chose Geneva, the city where he had spent his youth and where he wished now to be buried. One researcher chose an alternative epitaph for Borges, which he included in his own book: “Blue symbol of a bright blade”. For him, the image of the blade was the key that would unlock the significance of Borges' writing – the knife that splits Borges' writing style from fundamental literary reality – whereas for me, the epitaph which Borges himself chose seemed an extremely quiet and private confession. The line was a quotation from medieval Northern European epic poetry. Both the first and last night a man and woman spend together, a sword was laid between the two and left there in the bed until the dawn. If that ‘blue burnished’ blade is not the blindness that had sundered the failing Borges from the world, then what? 2 Silence The woman brings her hands together in front of her chest. Frowns, and looks up at the blackboard. “Okay, now read”, says the man with the thick-lensed, silver-rimmed spectacles. He smiles.
The woman's lips twitch. She flicks the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, moistening it. In front of her chest, her hands are quietly restless. She opens her mouth, and closes it again. Her breath catches in her throat, and she makes an effort to draw it down deep into her lungs. The man steps back towards the blackboard and says, quite patiently, “read”. The woman’s eyelids tremble. Like stridulating insect's wings, only silent. The woman closes and opens her eyes, more emphatically than simply blinking. As if she hopes in the moment of opening her eyes to find herself transported to some other location. The man readjusts his glasses, his finger thickly floured with white chalk. “Come on now, out loud.”
The woman was wearing a high-necked black sweater and black trousers. The jacket she’d hung on the chair was black, and the scarf she’d put in her big, black canvas bag was made of black wool. Above that sombre uniform, which made her seem like a woman in mourning, her face was thin and drawn like the elongated features of a clay figure. She is a woman neither young nor particularly beautiful. Her eyes have an intelligent look, but this is mostly obscured by the constant spasming of her eyelids. She keeps her back and shoulders hunched, as if intending to hide herself away from the world inside her black clothes, and her fingernails are clipped back almost to the nub. She has a dark purple velvet hairband tied around her left wrist; a solitary point of colour on an otherwise monochrome figure. “Let’s all read it together.” The man cannot wait for the woman any longer. He gazes out at the baby-faced university student who sits in the same row as the woman, the elderly gentleman half hidden behind a pillar, the stocky young man sitting by the window, his chair slightly askew. “Emos, hemeteros, my, our. The three students mumble the words, their voices low
and shy. “Sos, humeteros. 'Your' singular, 'your' plural.” The teacher appears to be in his middle to late thirties. He is on the skinny side, with eye brows like bold accents over his eyes, and twin sharp creases joining the base of his nose to his upper lip. His mouth curves into a faint smile, restrained amusement. There are light brown leather elbow patches on his dark brown corduroy jacket. The sleeves are just that bit too short, leaving his wrists sticking out at the bottom. The woman gazes up at the scar which runs in a slender pale line from the edge of his left eyelid to the edge of his mouth. The first time she saw it, she'd thought of it as marking the path of a long-dried tear. Under the thick, pale green lenses, the man’s eyes are fixed on the firm, compressed line of the woman's mouth. The smile vanishes, his expression stiffens. He turns to the blackboard and dashes off a short sentence in Ancient Greek. Before he has time to add the diacritical marks, the chalk snaps and falls to the floor. * Late spring last year, the woman was standing at the front of the classroom with one chalk-dusted hand resting on the blackboard. When a minute or so had elapsed and found her still unable to produce the penultimate word, the students started to shift in their seats and mutter among themselves. She kept her eyes away from them, away from the ceiling and the window, glaring fiercely into the empty air in front of her. “Are you okay, Miss?” asked the young woman with the curly hair and lovely eyes, who sat at the very front of the class. The woman had tried to force a laugh, but all that happened was that her eyelids spasmed for a while. With her trembling lips pressed firmly together, she muttered to herself from somewhere deeper than her tongue and throat: it’s come back again. The students, a little over forty in number, looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Huh? What’s she up to? Whispered questions spread from desk to desk. At that point, the sole
thing which it was still within her power to do was to walk calmly out of the classroom. And so that was what she did, though she had to strain herself to the very limit to maintain her composure. The moment she stepped out into the corridor, it was like someone had flicked the switch on a loudspeaker, the students' voices exploding from whispers into a clamour that drowned out the sound of her shoes ringing against the stone floor. After graduating from university the woman had worked at a publishing and editorial company for a little over six years, followed by close on seven years lecturing in literature at a couple of universities in the capital and an arts secondary school. She wrote poetry, producing three collections in all, which came out at three or four year intervals, and for several years had contributed a column for a fortnightly literary review. Recently, as one of the founding members of a cultural magazine whose title had yet to be decided, she'd been attending committee meetings every Wednesday afternoon. Now that it had come back, she had no choice but to abandon all such things. There had been no symptoms leading up to it, and seemingly no underlying cause. Of course, it was true that sheâ€™d lost her mother six months ago, and that five months ago the three-part lawsuit which she'd entered into against her ex-husband had concluded with her losing the right to raise their nine year old son. The boy had since left her home, and the insomnia which had followed in the wake of his departure led to weekly meetings with a grizzled, matter-of-fact psychologist. The man had entirely failed to understand her refusal to acknowledge the causes of her psychological problems; causes which he saw as self-evident. No, she wrote, using the blank paper he'd taken to leaving on the table for their sessions. It isnâ€™t as simple as that. That was their final consultation. Psychological treatment would take too long if it had to conducted solely through writing, besides which it presented a not insignificant possibility of misunderstanding. She politely turned down his proposal to introduce her to
another psychiatrist, one who dealt specifically with language-related problems. More than anything else, she simply couldn't afford to continue with such expensive treatment. * As a young girl, the woman had apparently been 'bright' – something which her mother, during the final year of anti-cancer treatment, had taken every opportunity to remind her of. As though, before she died, she'd been absolutely determined to convince them both of it's truth. If there had been any truth in that word 'bright', then it was in relation to language. By the age of four, and entirely unsupervised, she had gotten the hang of hangeul, the Korean alphabet. Lacking any clear grasp of consonants and vowels, she'd memorised the individual letters as they occurred in combinations. The year she turned six, her older brother had already started school; borrowing his form teacher's words, he gave her a lecture on structure of hangeul one afternoon in early spring. It was intended as an explanation, but somehow left her feeling less certain than before. She ended up spending the entire afternoon squatting in the yard, harried by thoughts about consonants and vowels. There, she discovered the subtle difference between the 'ㄴ' sound when it appeared in the word
나, I, and when it appeared
as 니, you; following this was the realisation that 'ㅅ' sounded different in 사 from in 시. She attempted a mental run-through of all the possible diphthong combinations, discovering that the only one which didn't exist in Korean was 'ㅣ' plus 'ㅡ', in that order, which there was consequently no way of writing. Though undeniably trivial, those discoveries had been for her so intense, exciting, momentous, that when, almost twenty years later, the psychiatrist asked her about her most vivid memory, that which came to mind was none other than the sunlight that had beaten down on the yard that day. The heat on her back and the nape of her neck. The letters she had
scratched in the dirt with a stick. The wondrous promise of the phonemes, the sheer heady thrill of their combinations. After starting primary school, she developed the habit of jotting down vocabulary in the back of her diary. These were words which, divorced from both meaning and context, nevertheless made a deep impression on her, and the one which she prized most highly was '숲', forest. On the page, this single-syllable word resembled a medieval pagoda, with the ㅍ as the stylobate, the ㅜ as the main body, and the ㅅ as the upper section. She liked the feeling when she pronounced it, ㅅ, ㅜ, ㅍ, that initial pursing of the lips followed by a slow, careful plosive motion. And then the closing of the lips. Following the rules of Korean pronunciation, the final 'ㅍ' sound was 'swallowed', left unpronounced, and thus it was a word whose completed form could only be achieved through silence. Losing herself in the word's perfection, a word whose pronunciation, form and meaning were all cloaked in stillness, she wrote. 숲. 숲. And yet, contrary to her mother's memory of her having been a 'really bright' child, none of her teachers any took any particular interest in her. She wasn't a troublemaker, or a class 'character'. She did have a few friends, of course, but they weren't sufficiently close to get together outside school. Her personality could best be described as placid; unlike many of the other schoolgirls, the only time she spent in front of the mirror was when she was washing her hands, and vague longings for romance practically never troubled her. After the lessons were done for the day she would head to the nearby district library, read a book, often a study book, and check out some others which she would fall asleep reading later, curled up under the quilt at home. The only person who had any inkling of how intensely fulfilled she felt was she herself. The words she'd jotted down in the back of her diary would come alive, wriggling about of their own volition and formed unfamiliar sentences. Now and then, language would thrust its way into her sleep like a skewer through meat, startling her awake
several times a night. She got less and less sleep, her mental state became ever more precarious, and sometimes an inexplicable pain burned against her solar plexus like heated iron. The most agonising thing was how horrifyingly distinct the words sounded when she opened her mouth and spat them out one by one. Completeness and incompleteness, truth and lies, beauty and ugliness, were outlined clear and sharp as shards of ice in even the most unassuming sentence. Spun out white as spider's silk between her tongue and hand, those sentences were a humiliation and a disgrace. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to scream.
Things finally came to a head the winter she'd just turned seventeen. All of a sudden, without warning, the language that had been like clothes stuck with thousands of needles, hemming her in, harassing, harrying, disappeared. There was nothing wrong with her hearing, but it was like there was a warm, dense layer of silence plugging the passages between her cochleas and brain. Wrapped in that stunned silence, the memories of the tongue and lips that had once been used to form speech, of the hand that had firmly gripped the pencil, lay untouched and unused. She no longer thought in words. The world was moved through and comprehended entirely without language. Absorbing the flow of time like cotton, just as it had before she first learned to speak, no, when her life was yet a quickening, the silence sealed off her body both outside and in. The psychiatrist, to whom her stunned mother had taken her, gave her tablets which she hid under her tongue and later buried in the flowerbed at home, and two seasons went by with her squatting in that corner of the yard where she'd first gotten her head around consonants and vowels, all that time ago, and soaking up the afternoon sunlight. Before summer was over the nape of her neck was tanned dark, and an angry-looking rash broke out on the base of her nose, which was permanently slick with sweat. By the time dark red
stamens began to sprout from the salvia in the flowerbed, which had been nourished by her buried medicine, a consultation between the doctor and her mother had resulted in her being sent back to school. It was clear that being cooped up at home hadn't helped her condition, and in any case it was time for her to move up a year. As it turned out, it wasn't until February when she received a summons notice from a public secondary school. The yard was uniformly bleak and drab, the curriculum fairly raced along, far too fast for her to keep up, and the teachers were all equally authoritative figures, irrespective of their different ages. Not one of her peers took the slightest interest in her, which was hardly surprising given that she never said a single word the whole time she was there. When she was called on to read from a textbook or to give the commands during P.E., she would merely stare up at the teacher who, without exception, would either send her to the back of the classroom or give her a short sharp slap on the cheek. Her doctor and mother had hoped that being surrounded by others would form at least a hairline fracture in her silence, but it was not to be. On the contrary, the dark vessel of her body came to be filled with a stillness yet more profound. She was weightless on the walk home, moving through the crowded streets as though encased in a huge soap bubble. She looked out from inside this dazzling silence, like submerged eyes gazing up at the world above the water's surface, to where the cars raced by with engines roaring, and pedestrians' elbows jabbed her swiftly in the side before vanishing as though they never were.
After a long time had passed, she began to wonder. If that perfectly ordinary lesson, that winter just before the holidays, if that perfectly ordinary French word hadnâ€™t done something to her, quickened her. If she hadnâ€™t inadvertedly remembered language, as though recalling the existence of a now atrophied organ.
Perhaps it was because it had been not Classical Chinese or English but none other than French, an entirely unfamiliar foreign language that she’d picked as a secondary school course. Her gaze had lifted blankly to the blackboard as usual, but there it had snagged on something. The French teacher, short and half-bald, was pointing to the word and pronouncing it at the same time. Caught of her guard, her lips trembled into motion like those of a small child. Bibliotheque. The mumbled sound came from some deeper place than tongue and throat. There was no way for her to appreciate, at the time, the true significance of that moment. The terror was still only vague. The pain was still hesitating, on the cusp of birthing a packet of heat from the stomach of the silence. At the place where spelling, prosody and loose meaning meet, the slow-burning fuse of joy and guilt was lit.
The woman rests both hands on the desk. Her neck is bent at a stiff angle, as though she is a child waiting to have their fingernails examined. She listens to the man’s voice filling the lecture room. “In addition to the passive and the active voice, there is a third voice in Ancient Greek, which I briefly explained in the previous lesson, yes?” A young man sitting in the same row as the woman nods slowly. He’s a second-year Philosophy student, whose chubby cheeks and pimply forehead make him seem younger, and somehow mischievous. The woman turns to look over towards the window. Her gaze passes over the profile of a college student, who scraped a pass in the premedical course but decided that being
responsible for the lives of others wasn't for him, so gave it up to study for a Bachelor of Medicine. His easygoing character was apparent at first glance, with his chubby face and round, black, horn-rimmed glasses, and he spends every break with the pimpled student, batting silly jokes back and forth in a loud voice. But the instant the lesson begins, his behaviour undergoes a complete transformation. Anyone can see how tense he is, terrified of making a mistake. â€œThis voice, which we call the middle voice, expresses an action which relates to the subject reflexively.â€? Outside the window, sporadic points of orange illuminated the ugly tenement houses. The darkness hides the bare outline of the young broadleaf trees' skinny black branches, whose leaves have yet to appear. Her gaze passes silently over that desolate scene, the frightened features of the hulking college student, the pale wrists of the Greek lecturer. Unlike before, the silence which has now returned after a period of twenty years is neither warm, dense, nor clear. If that original silence had been not unlike that which exists before birth, this new silence is more like that which follows death. Whereas in the past she had been submerged underwater, staring up at the flickering world above, she now seems to have become a shadow, riding on the cold hard surface of the earth and stars, an outside observer of that life which is now contained in an enormous water tank. All language is parsed by being broken down into its constituent parts; her lips cannot crack open, no sound can come out. Like a shadow bereft of physical form, like the hollow interior of a dead tree, like that dark blank interstitial space between one meteorite and another, it is a cold, thin silence. Twenty years ago, she had failed to predict that an unfamiliar foreign language, one with little or no resemblace to her mother tongue, might provide her with the tools to break her own silence. She has chosen to learn Ancient Greek at this private academy because she
wants to find her way back to language through her own volition. She is almost entirely uninterested in the literature of Homer, Plato and Herodotus, or the literature of the later period, written in demotic Greek, which her fellow students want to be able to read in the original. Had a lecture course been offered in Burmese or Sanskrit, languages which use an even more unfamiliar script, she would have chosen them instead. 11 “For example, if we write the middle voice for the verb ‘to buy’, it means that 'X is bought' and so, ultimately, 'I had X'. If we write the middle voice for the verb ‘to love’, it means 'X is loved' and, by extension, this affected me. There is an expression in English, ‘kill himself’, right? Ancient Greek doesn't need to say 'himself' – if we use the middle voice, the same meaning can be expressed in a single word. Like this,” the lecturer says, and writes on the blackboard: διεφθάρθαι. Musing over the letters on the blackboard, she picks up her pencil and writes the word in her notebook. A language like this one, with such strict rules, isn't one she could just piece together from examples. The verbs change their form according to, variously: the subject's status, gender, and number; the tense, of which there are various grades; and the voice, of which there are three distinct types. But it is thanks to these unusually elaborate and meticulous rules that the individual sentences are in fact simple and clear. There is no definite need to write the subject, or even to keep to a strict word order. Given that the subject is a singular, third-person male, the meaning ‘He had at some time tried to kill himself’ can be compressed into this one word, modified in line with the rules regarding the middle voice, and written in the perfect tense, which describes something which occurred at some point in the past. Around the time when the child she had given birth to eight years ago first learned to speak, the child for whom she had now been deemed unfit to care, she had dreamed of a
single word in which all human language was encompassed. It was a nightmare so vivid as to leave her back drenched in sweat. One single word, bonded with a tremendous density and gravity. A word that would explode and expand as all matter had at the universe's beginning, the moment someone opened their mouth and pronounced it. Every time she put her tired, fretful child to bed and watched him drift into a light sleep, she would dream that the tremendous mass of that word had crystallised, and was primed like a chill explosive in the centre of her hot heart, encased in her pulsing ventricles. She bites down on that sensation, the mere memory of which is chilling, and writes: διεφθάρθαι A word as cold and hard as a pillar of ice. A word which can form a command without needing to be combined with any other, a supremely self-sufficient word. A word which will eventually part the lips only after irrevocably determining cause and effect and attitude.
The night is disturbed. Coming from the main road half a block away, the engine roars make incisions in her eardrums like the countless tracks sliced into the ice by a single pair of skates. The lily magnolia is lit by the glow from the street lights, scattering its many-scarred petals to the winds. She walks through the spring night air, which seems to give off a sweet scent, from the suggestiveness of the crushed flowers, scattered from the soughing branches. She occassionally raises her hands to her face, despite the knowledge that her cheeks are dry.
Passing by the letter box, which is stuffed full with leaflets and tax notices, she slides the key into the lock of the ground floor front door, a ponderous, enduring presence next to the cold gleam of the lift. The apartment is filled with traces of the child, things she'd refused to put away, convinced that one more lawsuit would be sufficient to get him back. The low bookcase next to the old fabric sofa is stuffed full of picture books, which he read from the age of three, while a variety of Lego accessories are kept in corrugated cardboard boxes, decorated with animal stickers. They'd chosen this place many years ago, on a lower floor so it would be safe for their son to play. But he had shown no desire to stamp his feet or run about. When she told him it was okay to use the skipping rope in the living room, he asked: But won't it be noisy for the worms and snails? He was small for his age, with delicate bone structure. A scary scene in a book he was reading would raise his temperature to near 38 degrees, and if he was feeling tense about something he would vomit or have diarrhoea. Because he was both the eldest grandson by the first-born son and the only male child, because he was not so very young anymore, because her ex-husband unswervingly maintained that she was too highly strung and that this was a bad influence on the boy â€“ the records of the psychiatry treatment sheâ€™d received in her teens was presented as evidence â€“ because compared to him, who had recently been officially promoted to the bank's head office, her income was both paltry and irregular, the hearing eventually resulted in a comprehensive thrashing. Now, since even that meagre salary was no longer forthcoming, mounting a further case was impossible.
She sits down on the front door sill without removing her shoes. She puts her bag down beside her, which contains the thick Greek textbook and dictionary, her exercise book and a flat pencil case. She keeps her eyes closed and waits until the yellow sensor light switches off. As soon as it goes dark, she opens her eyes. She looks at her shoes, which appear black in the darkness, the black curtain, the black veranda sunk in stillness. Very slowly, she opens her lips then presses them together. No fireworks have burst out from the chilly explosives primed in her heart. The interior of her mouth is as empty as inside her veins, through which the blood no longer flows, empty as a lift shaft where the lift has ceased to operate. She wipes her cheeks, dry as ever, with the back of her hand. If only sheâ€™d made a map of the route her tears used to take. If only sheâ€™d used a needle to engrave marks, or even just traces of blood, over the route where the words used to flow. But, she muttered, from a place deeper than tongue and throat, that route was too grim to contemplate.
It was the beginning of the summer when she was fifteen. It was a Sunday night, and the full moon kept on being momentarily veiled by the dark, uneven cloud cover. I was walking along the darkened road, looking up at that full moon, which was like a silver spoon that no amount of polishing will make shine. One moment, the lunar halo threw a purple circle like a mysterious, disquieting code, and spread over the clouds.
There were at most three bus stops on the road from the house in Suyu-ri to the crossroads with the 4.19 memorial, but I walked so slowly that it took me an awfully long time. By the time I reached the corner bookshop, the television screens in the display window of the electrical store were showing the start of the nine o'clock news. When I entered the shop the owner, a middle-aged guy with broad, flat braces over his wrinkled grey shirt, was just getting ready to close up. I got him to give me five minutes, and hastily scanned the bookshelves for anything that might catch my eye. One of the books I picked up then was none other than the one I'm holding now, a translated pocketbook edition of Borgesâ€™ public lectures on Buddhism. At the time, my idea of Buddhism was almost entirely gleaned from the most recent Buddha's birthday festival, around fifteen days previously, which I had spent with my mother and younger sister. That day and night, I had witnessed a spectacle which, all things considered, could be called the most visually stunning of my as-yet short life. Lanterns were swining in the yard in front of the temple's main hall, festooned with flowers which had been individually fashioned from thin strips of reddish-purple Korean paper. To mark the occasion, the temple distributed meals of fairly tasteless noodles, which we ate in the shade of the zelkova tree, in front of the offering space, before settling down and waiting for it to get dark. When the lanterns were eventually lit I was enraptured, robbed of my senses. The reds and whites of hundreds of flowers swaying row upon row in the inky darkness, warm candle light seeping silently out from inside. We have to go home now, my mother insisted, but I was rooted to the spot. Two months later, on the Sunday morning when my mother announced that we had to leave Korea, why was it that the image of those flowers came to clearly to my mind? Despite being vaguely aware that whatever impression those lights had made on me it was not quite the same as religious awe, that night when I went to buy an elementary German textbook and
conversation tape with the pocket money I'd saved, I greedily clutched the Sutta-Nipata, Dharmapada, Avatamska Sutra Lectures and Yeolbangyeong Lectures, which had brickpattern covers and were published by Hyeonam Temple. I must have cherished some kind of vague and superstitious hope that through transporting these books halfway around the world to Germany, the fate of my family would be secured. This slim volume of Borges made its way onto the list because I expected that, insofar as it had been written by a westerner, it would act as a very basic primer. At the time, I didn't pay much attention to the photo of him with his eyes half closed, both hands clasped in front of his chest as though praying or repenting, reproduced in black and white on the upper section of the green cover.
I read that book slowly and several times during the seventeen years I spent in Germany. One night, wanting nothing more than to run my eyes over the familiar contours of hangeul, I spent an hour without turning the page. On opening the book, it was as though I could feel again the cool, refreshing air of that early summer night in Suyu-ri. It was down to those books that I remembered how the moon had been like a tarnished silver spoon, its a purple halo a mysterious premonition of some unsettling happening. And so, the book that ended up being my favourite was the Avatamska Sutra Lectures from Hyeonam Temple (never again, in any of the books I subsequently read, did I encounter a system of thought constructed through such dazzling images). On the other hand, this book of Borges’ was, as I’d expected, easy and general, so I’d flicked through it relatively quickly and then put it aside. Some time later, when I went to university, I had to read his fiction and a critical biography in German; it was then that I opened this book again and read it with a fresh perspective.
This morning, recalling again this slim green book, I got it out of my suitcase in the storehouse. Flicking through page by page, I discovered a handwritten note. It read “the world is an illusion, and living is dreaming”, and had been written directly below a sentence by Borges: “How is that dream so vivid? How does blood flow and hot tears gush forth?” Below that, I could make out the trace of “life, life” scrawled in German and thickly 17
underlined. It was clearly my handwriting, and yet I had no memory of having written it. All I knew was that it was the same dark blue ink which German students use for note-taking. I opened the desk drawer and rummaged around for my old grey leather pencil case. Inside there was a fountain pen, just as I remembered. It was the selfsame pen I'd used when I first moved to Germany, sharpening the nib countless times until I finally laid it aside during my second year of university. I took off the lid which, apart from a few scratches, was intact, and carried the fountain pen to the bathroom, to wash away the dried ink crusted on the nib. I filled the sink with clean water and then, when I submerged the nib, the dark blue ink ribboned steadily through the water in a slender, wavering line.
μή αϊτει ούδέν αύτόν Do not ask him anything.
μή άλλως π οιήδης Do not do it another way.
She sits silent amid the rumblingly reading students. The Greek lecturer no longer makes an issue of her silence. His body is angled away from the class as he wipes the sentences from the blackboard, rubbing the soft eraser cloth over the board with expansive sweeps of his arm. The students are silent until he's done. The scrawny middle-aged man who used to sit behind the pillar stretches his back and thumps his fist against his vertebrae. The pimpled philosophy student moves his index finger over the screen of his smartphone, which he always keeps by him on the desk. The hulking college student stares at the sentences that are being vigorously erased from the blackboard. His lips part, their thinness in stark contrast to his bulk, and reads the disappearing words to himself, his voice inaudible. “Starting in June, we will read Plato,” the Greek lecturer announces, leaning his upper body against the now-clean blackboard. “Of course, we will continue studying grammar alongside.” He holds the chalk in his right hand, so uses his left to push his glasses further up his nose. “Once human beings created the first few words – their previous method of communication having been limited to indistinguishable sounds like o-o, ooh-ooh, which they spoke in the silence – language gradually acquired a system. When this system arrived at its zenith, language had extremely elaborate and complex rules. And that, you see, is precisely the difficulty in learning an ancient language.” He chalks a parabola on the blackboard. The curve rises from the left-hand side in a steep inclination, before sloping off to the right in a long, gentle fall. He taps his index finger on the curve's zenith and continues speaking. “From precisely the moment that it arrives at the zenith, language describes a slow, gentle parabola, undergoing alterations in its composition which make it a little more convenient to use. In some senses this is decline, this is corruption, but from other
perspectives it can be called progress. The European languages of today have passed through that long process, becoming less strict, less elaborate, less complicated. When reading Plato, one is able to appreciate the beauty of an ancient language which had arrived at its zenith many thousands of years ago.” He does not immediately resume his train of thought, but is silent. The middle-aged man who sat behind the pillar covers his mouth with his fist and gives a short low cough. The college student with the acned forehead gives him a sidelong glance as if to suggest than another, more emphatic cough might be in order. “In a manner of speaking, the Greek which Plato used was like a hard fruit which wants to give itself up to gravity. The sun rapidly set on the Middle Greek which was spoken by later generations. Along with their language, the Greek states fell into decay, you see. And so, Plato represents one who stood and watched the sun set not only on language, but on everything which surrounded him.”
She tries to listen attentively to his words, but is unable to concentrate on the speech as a whole. Any given sentence sticks in her ears, an unfilleted fish whose scale-like postpositions and word endings have not been separated. O-o, ooh-ooh. In the silence. Indistinguishable sounds. The first few words. Before she lost words – when she was still able to use them to write – she wished that the words she herself sometimes used could approach these foundational things. A moan or low cry. A sound sick with soundlessness. Snarling. Crooning intended to pacify a slumbering child. A snickering burst of laughter. The sound of two people's lips pressing together, pulling apart. There had been a time when she had peered into the form of the words she'd just used, then sometimes opened her lips and read them. She had at once been struck by the
heterogeneity of both the forms themselves, flattened like pin-stuck flesh, and her own voice as it belatedly spoke them. She would stop reading and swallow, her throat dry. Like those times when she pressed down on a cut to stop the bleeding, or on the contrary, had to squeeze out as much blood as possible to prevent bacteria from entering her bloodstream.
20 5 Voice
If you're reading this letter now â€“ if you haven't sent it back to me unopened â€“ your family would still be living on the second floor of the hospital. The stone building, said to have been built as a printing house in the eighteenth century, would by now have been covered with pale ivy leaves. Tiny violets would have bloomed in the cracks between the stone steps which led down to the courtyard. The dandelions would have withered, leaving behind only round spores like pale ghosts. The wild ants would be marching up and down the steps in regimented lines, looking like thick punctuation marks. Is your Bengali mother still as beautiful as ever, still wearing those gorgeouslypatterned saris I always saw her in, a different colour every time? And is your German father, elderly now, whose cold, grey eyes used to examine my own, still working as an opthalmologist? And your daughter, how old is she now? Now, as you read this letter, are you about to go and stay with your parents, in the north-facing room which was yours as a child, to let them spend some time with their granddaughter? While there, will you sometimes go out for a walk by the river, pushing the buggy in front of you? Will you sit and rest on the bench you always liked, the one in front of the old bridge, take out some photographic
negatives, which you always used to carry around in your pockets, and hold them up to the sun?
The first time I sat with you, side by side on that bench in front of the bridge, you reached into the pocket of your jeans and brought out two negatives, remember? You raised 21 your slim, dark arms, held the film in front of your eyes, and looked up at the sun. My heart pounded unbearably â€“ because I had seen you make the same gesture before. It was the day of my first appointment with your father, so one afternoon early that June. On a long steel bench in the hospital courtyard where the lilacs were in full bloom, your black hair tumbling loose onto your shoulders, you were sitting and looking at the sun through pieces of film. The male nurse with the curt expression, who had been sitting next to you, gestured for you to give him one of them. There was something amusing in the sight of two fully-grown adults sitting side by side and each squinting up at the sun through a piece of film. Unaware of my presence, concealed as I was behind the frosted glass door, the man looked away from the film and said a few words to you. You watched his lips move with a look of deep concentration. Just then, he leaned forward and planted a quick, awkward kiss on your mouth. This surprised me, as it was obvious even to a casual observer that the two of you weren't lovers. And it seemed that you were equally shocked, because you recoiled, but then gave him a swift peck on the cheek, as if to say that you forgave him. As if this was a courtesy, generously given, in recognition of the friendship that had grown up between you as you sat and looked at the sun together. You got to your feet and took the film from the man's hand. He laughed awkwardly, his face burning. You laughed, too. Still looking embarassed, he sat and stared after you as you turned round and disappeared without a word.
Of course, you couldn't have known what a deep impression those few minutes of perfect stillness made on my seventeen year old self. Not long after, I found out that you were the daughter of one of the doctors at the hospital, that as a newborn you had contracted a fever and lost your hearing, that after graduating from a special school two years ago you now passed your time making wooden furniture in a workshop at the rear of the hospital. Yet this string of facts could not fully explain the coolness of the brief scene I witnessed that day. After that, every time I stepped through the hospital's main door when I had an appointment, every time I heard the buzz of the power saw coming from your workshop, every time I saw you from far off strolling casually along the banks of the river, dressed in work clothes, my mind would go blank as though I had suddenly inhaled the scent of lilacs. A tremor would pass through my lips, which had never yet known another's, like a tiny electric shock.
In looks, you took after your mother. Your brown skin and black hair, which you usually wore tied up, were both attractive, but the most beautiful thing about you was your eyes. The eyes of a person well-used to solitary labour. Eyes that were a soft mixture of earnestness and mischievousness, warmth and sadness. Dark eyes which moved gently over their object, never straining, taking in what they saw without making any hasty judgements about it. Now would have been the moment to place a hand on your shoulder and ask for one of the negatives, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Waiting for you to take your eyes from the film, I contented myself with staring at your forehead, at the short curly hair that clung there, at the ridge of your nose that seemed to be wanting a small jewel, like those worn by Indian women of royal blood, and at the round beads of sweat that had formed there. â€œWhat can you see?â€?
You watched my lips intently as I asked the question. In that moment, I found myself able to understand the stern-faced male nurse. Even while I knew that you were looking at me like that purely in order to read my lips, I was struck by the sudden desire to kiss you. You brought out a notebook from the front pocket of your loose work shirt and wrote in it with a ballpen. Look straight at it. At that point, my vision was already in a precarious state. Your father explained his medical opinion, that a hasty operation would only serve to hasten blindness, slowly and carefully, keeping his face deliberately impassive rather than betray any cheap sympathy. That strong sunlight was harmful had not yet been proven, but he advised caution all the same, stressing that it was always best to be on the safe side. He advised me to wear sunglasses during the daytime, when the sun's rays were at their strongest, and to only have dim lighting on at night. Constantly going around in dark sunglasses like some film star made me feel awkward, so I chose a pair of glasses with pale green lenses for everyday use. And so, looking directly at the sun was something I couldn't even contemplate, however much film I used as a medium. Aware of my hesitation, you wrote in the notebook again: Later. Your hand was deft and exact; presumably, you were well-used to written conversations. Just before it gets to the point where you can't see anything at all. Only then did I realise that you were fully aware of my prognosis. The idea of your family gathered around the dinner table and discussing my condition wounded me deeply, even though it only existed in my imagination. I was silent. Having given up waiting for an answer, you closed the notebook and put it back in your pocket. We watched the river.
As if that were all that was permitted. I was struck then by an unfamiliar sadness, which I instantly understood as due to neither the hurt I had just received or the sense of having been affronted. Still less was it down to fear or frustration over what the days ahead might bring. The time when I would no longer be able to see anything at all was still far in the future. That sadness, both bitter and sweet, was something which stemmed from your earnest face, unbelievably close to my own at that moment; from your lips, which seemed to be animated by a barely perceptible electric current; from your black pupils, so very clear.
That moment when the river water scintillated in the July sunlight like the scales of a huge fish, when you suddenly placed your dark hand on my arm, when I trembled to touch the dark blue veins running raised over the back of your hand, when, gripped by fear, I finally brought my lips to yours, has that moment now disappeared inside you? In front of that old bridge, does your daughter peek out from the buggy and say 'mama', do you put the film strip back in your pocket and slowly stand up? Close on twenty years have swept by, but certain things of that moment have not gone from my memory. Not only that moment alone, but all the moments we spent together â€“ yes, even the most awful â€“ are wholly alive for me. That which pains me even more than my selfaccusation, my regret, is your face. That face, a mask of tears. The fist that slammed into my own face, harder than a man's, having spent so many years handling wood. Will you forgive me? And if you are unable to forgive me, will you at least remember that I want you to?
I've now reached the age of forty, which your father warned would be the cut-off point, but I can still see. It seems I have another year or so left, perhaps. I've already made the necessary preparations, having thought that it would all be up by now, so all there is to do is wait. Like a convinct taking one last long drag, as long as possible, on the cigarette he's convinced the guard to slip him, on bright days I pass the long afternoons sitting in the alleyway in front of the house, drinking in the scene. People from all walks of life pass through this alley, in a shopping district in suburban Seoul. A teenage girl wearing earphones, her school skirt clumsily hitched up. A middle-aged man with a sweat-soaked tracksuit and a paunch. A woman talking on her mobile whose stunning dress makes her look as though she'd just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. An elderly woman, with her white hair cropped short and a sparklingly embellised sweater, lighting her cigarette with a leisurely gesture. Someone somewhere is swearing viciously, and the smell of soupy rice wafts from a restaurant. A teenager on a bike whooshes past in front of me, ringing the bell as loud as he can. Even wearing glasses with the thickest available lenses, I still can't make out the details of all of these things. Individual shapes and gestures blur together, and any clarity is brought about only through the strength of my imagination. The schoolgirl will be mouthing the words to the song she's listening to, and her lower lip will have a small, bluish mark on the left, just as yours did. The middle-aged man's tracksuit sleeves will be grubby and worn smooth, and the laces on his trainers, which would originally have been white, would have turned a dark grey after being left unwashed for several months. Beads of sweat will be trickling from the temples of the teenager on the bike. The old woman's cigarette will be some slender, dainty brand â€“ she has that kind of air about her â€“ and the twinkling shards of mother-of-pearl encrusted on her sweater will form the shape of a rose or hydrangea.
When people-watching and its attendant flights of fancy becomes tedious, I slowly walk up the path which leads to the mountain. The pale green trees undulate as a single mass, their flowers a riot of unbelievably beautiful colours. When I come to the small temple at the foot of the mountain, I sit and rest on the raised wooden flooring which runs around the exterior of the public room. I remove my heavy glasses, and run my eyes over the world's now faint contours, whose borders and boundaries have been entirely obliterated. It's a common belief that those with poor insight are recompensed by unusually good hearing, but that isn't the case with me. The most distant thing I am able to perceive is time. I find myself gradually oppressed by the sense of time as a slow, cruel current of enormous mass, passing constantly through my body. Because my vision worsens rapidly as the light fades, I can't allow myself to stay sitting there for too long. I go home, change my clothes, wash my face. I have to go and teach my students, you see â€“ the class starts at seven in the evening, when it would be noon in the place where you used to like looking up at the sun. I generally arrive at the private academy when it's still light, then wait until seven. Inside the large, open-plan building, there aren't any obstacles for me to be especially wary of, but for me even walking alone through the streets at night has its problems, in spite of my glasses. Around ten, when the class finishes and the students all file out, I hail a taxi in front of the academy's main gate, and go home. Ah, you want to know what I teach at the academy? On Mondays and Thursdays I teach elementary Ancient Greek, and on Fridays, an intermediate class reading Plato in the original. Each class has no more than eight students, maximum. They're a mix of university students with an interest in western philosophy, and others of varying age and backgrounds. Whatever their motivation, the fact that they've chosen to learn Greek is something they all have in common. They walk and talk slowly, for the most part, and aren't very good
at displaying emotions (perhaps because that is something which I, too, struggle with). Perhaps because dead words from long ago don't function properly as spoken language. Shy, silent indecision, and laughter as a safe non-verbal response, slowly heats the air inside the classroom, and slowly cools it.
27 And so the days go by here, without incident. Even had there been something worth remembering, it would have been smothered by time's huge, opaque mass, and buried without a trace. The year I first left Korea, and went to Germany, I was fifteen. Since I was thirty-one by the time I made the return trip, my life at that point had been cleaved into two almost exact halves, split between two languages, two cultures. I had to choose one of these two as the place where I would spent whatever time was left to me after I turned forty, with all the changes your father had warned me that time would bring. When I said that I wanted to return to somewhere I could use my mother tongue, everyone around me, both my family and my fellow teachers, tried to dissuade me. My mother and younger sister both challenged me over what I planned to do back in Korea. My degree in Ancient Greek philosophy, so difficult to obtain, they dismissed as a mere piece of paper, and said that, more than anything else, given the circumstances of my condition, there was no way I could break with my family and live alone without their help. It was only with great difficulty that I managed to persuade them to agree to my plan of seeing how things turned out after an initial two years alone. Now, I've been back in Korea for almost three times two years, but I still haven't been able to come to a final decision either way. After that intial summer of being deeply affected by hearing Korean, which I had missed unbearably, crashing in from all directions like a landslide, winter came and Seoul began to seem more like a stranger to me, just as the German cities had once been. Shoulders hunched inside their drab woolen coats and jumpers,
people brushed past me with faces which spoke of long endurance, and even longer endurance yet to come, as they hurried along the frozen streets. Just as I had once done in Germany, I became an unmoving, expressionless observer. And so here I am, having managed to avoid succumbing to either undue sentiment or unfounded optimism. The small-talk I exchange with the unusually shy students, the principal of the humanities academy, who runs a tight ship and has seen a good return on the handful of 'star' lecturers he's appointed, and the part-time teacher with the bobbed hair whose hay fever means she can never afford to be without tissues, whatever the season, provides me with some quiet enjoyment as I pass my days here. In the mornings, I use a magnifying glass to go over the sentences we will read in class that day, and commit them to memory, I muse over the fuzzy reflection of my face in the mirror above the washbasin, and stroll leisurely through the broad streets and alleyways whenever the mood takes me. There are times when I suddenly find myself blinded by tears; when these tears, which had used to be a purely biological phenomenon, do not stop for some reason or other, I turn my back on the road, stand quietly and wait for it to pass.
Is the sunlight full on your tanned face now as you turn and push the buggy back the way you came? Does your two-year-old daughter's fist clutch a bushy foxtail, tied up in a single bundle? Instead of taking the direct route home along the riverside, do you stop and stand in front of that hundred-year-old cathedral? Do you lift the baby up with your two strong arms, leave the buggy with the warden, and step into the cool of the cathedral's interior? The place where the ice-steeped sunlight streams in through the series of blue stained glass windows. The place where Christ hangs on the cross without the slightest trace of
suffering, his innocent eyes lifted to heaven, and the angels step lightly through the air as though out for a casual stroll. Palm trees with dark and still darker green leaves spreading from them. Handsome saints with paler blue-grey vestments draped over their pale blue-grey hair. Saint Stephen's cathedral, where one's eyes could never discern the slightest trace of crime or suffering, and which because of that used to feel almost pagan. The late summer evening, a long time ago, when we walked there together, side by side, you wrote something in your notebook and showed it to me, do you remember? Said that you'd grown up with a deep religious faith, but that however much you tried you couldn't believe in the existence of anything as radical as heaven and hell. And yet somehow it seemed to you that spirits of the dead wandered the darkened streets in the early morning. And if such spirits existed, then surely God must also exist, somewhere. I found it amusing that the foundation of the belief you claimed in the Christian God was not only illogical but entirely un-Christian, laughed out loud and took your notebook. I jotted down a demonstration of God's non-existence that I'd read somewhere, and handed it back to you.
There is evil and suffering in this world, and innocent people who are sacrificed. If God is good but unable to redress these things, he is an incompetent entity. If God is not good and merely omnipotent, and does not redress these things, he is an evil entity. If God is neither good nor omnipotent, he cannot be called God. Therefore the real existence of a good and omnipotent God is an impossible fallacy.
Your eyes widen when you get seriously angry. Your thick brows raise, your lashes and lips quiver, and your chest heaves with every breath you gasp into your lungs. After snatching the pen back from me, you hastily scrawled in the notebook.
In that case my God is a good and sad God. If you are attracted to such idiotic arguments, one day your own real existence will seem an impossible fallacy.
Sometimes I put the question to myself using the form of Greek logic you so detested. When we take as true the premise that if something is lost then something else is gained, then given that I lost you, what have I gained? What will I now gain through the loss of the visible world? There is inevitably something troubling and unsatisfactory in the way the logical demonstration works, sifting truth and lies through a net made of all mankind's suffering and repentance, attachment, sadness and timidity, and eventually recovering the original premise like a handful of gold dust. Boldly casting fallacies aside and proceeding along the narrow balance beam one step at a time, if we peer through the net of erudition which answers its own questions, we see silence rippling like deep blue water. But still the process continues, a closed circle, proof following postulate. Two eyes sunk in silence, constantly brimming with that a deep blue quiet like water. Why was I such a fool when it came to you? Perhaps my love for you wasn't foolish in itself, but ended up being infected by my own innate foolishness. Or perhaps I myself wasn't really all that foolish, but that foolishness which is an inherent attribute of love awakened any foolishness latent in me and eventually smashed everything into pieces.
τήν άμαθίαν καταλυεέται ή άληθεία.
This sentence, written using the middle voice, states that truth destroys foolishness. Is it true? When truth destroys foolishness, is truth necessarily altered by the encounter, infuenced by that very thing it has destroyed? Similarly, when foolishness destroys truth, does a fissure form in truth, too? When my foolishness destroyed love, if I claim that that foolishness was equally a casualty, would you call that sophistry? Voice. Your voice. The sound that I have never forgotten in close on twenty years. If I said that I still loved that voice, would you smash your clenched fist into my face again?
In the lip-reading class at the special school, which you'd attended for over a decade, you told me you learned not only how to read lips, but how to speak. One night not long after this conversation, which we'd naturally conducted through writing, it occurred to me: What would it be like to hear you speak, the way you'd learned in that class? That summer, unbeknownst to my family, I'd bought a German sign language textbook and was spending every night practising the sentences. I could see myself reflected in the small mirror by the desk, and an hour or so of practice was enough to leave my back and armpits soaked with sweat. And yet it wasn't actually difficult, or boring, not in the slightest. In fact, those nights were filled with a sweetness I know I will never experience again. It was around then that I realised for the first time that falling in love is like being possessed by a demon. Even before I opened my eyes in the morning, your face had already found its way into my mind, slipping in past my closed eyelids. And when I did open them your image instantly transferred to the ceiling, the wardrobe, the windowpane, the street, the far-off sky, flickering there like something seen through a curtain of rain, or on the evershifting surface of light-dappled water, haunting me more persistently than a ghost could ever
have done. In the small mirror by the desk that summer night, what was reflected was the upper half of my body, dripping with sweat as I clumsily manipulated my fingers, but when I looked it became a palimpsest, overlaid with the flickering lines of your face. Speak to me. That night, I mumbled in Korean that sentence which had first come to me in German. 32 What came to me in that instant was the fresh timber that surrounded the workshop where you spent every day. Making sure that nobody saw me – I was particularly anxious not to have your father find out about it – I would hide myself there, among the timber, and watch you work. I never tired of watching you as you as you sawed, planed and sanded planks of wood. If it was a big job, I would have time to become intimately acquainted with every nook and cranny of your workshop. You got down so that your nose was level with the planks, which you'd spread out on bricks to dry, and ran your hand over them. Strongly scented flax wood. White birch. Pine, which gave off a faint scent only perceptible from up close. Annual growth rings, brown as your shoulders. At the time, I conceived the vague notion that your voice might possibly resemble the feel and scent of that timber. But it was absolutely not any such childish fancy that made me want to hear you speak. I was seventeen at the time, and you were my first love. I wanted to live with you. I believed we would spend our whole lives together. And so I was afraid. In the end, I was going to go blind. I would end up unable to see you anymore. I would end up unable to speak with you, either through writing or sign language. A few weeks later, one afternoon when the weather had suddenly grown chilly, when you'd taken a break from work and were boiling a kettle to make tea, I asked you a question. Carefully, unaware of any danger. No, innocently, like a perfect simpleton. “Could you say something for me, like you learned in the sign language class?”
You watched my lips intently, then met my eyes with a blank gaze. And so I explained. That we would live together forever, and that I would go blind. That when I was unable to see, then, we would need words.
You could not have known how often I longed to turn back time, how much I wanted 33 to take back those foolish words. Your face turned cold and hard and you threw me out of the workshop, where the scent of the wood had been intensified by the drizzle. You didn't want to see me any more, of course you wouldn't kiss me, wouldn't let me bury my face in your long black hair, the sweetly scented nape of your neck, or your delicate collarbone, wouldn't let me slide my ardent hand under your shirt to feel your pulse, and later, steadfastly refused to see me even when I loitered in front of your house in the early morning, slammed the workshop door shut regardless of whether my hand was trapped there, and eventually, one night a few weeks later, punched my frantically beseeching face. We were both of us shocked. Without picking up my glasses, which had been knocked to the floor, with faintly sweet-tasting blood running down over my nose and lips, I clutched your leg. You pushed me down, trying to shake free. Eyes burning, you opened your mouth and screamed at me. â€œGet out, right now!â€? That voice. The sound of the wind cracking a window one winter night, and crawling its way in. The sound of a fretsaw screeching over iron, harsh enough to shatter glass. Your voice. I crawled unsteadily forward and clutched your leg again. Did you really not know? I loved you. When, in some incomprehensible fit of madness, you picked up a piece of wood and used it to hit me in the face, did you watch the burning tears stream from my eyes?
Since foolishness destroyed that period of my life, and myself with it, I know now that were we truly to have lived together, I would not have needed your voice after I went blind. When the visual world gradually receded into the distance like an ebb tide, our silence 34 would have found its apogee.
Several years after I lost you, I looked at the sun through two pieces of film. At six in the evening, though, not noon; I was too afraid for that. My eyes burned as though a thin acid had been poured into them, and I couldn't hold out for long. I couldn't understand what had so fascinated you. All I could do was yearn. For the back of your hand, no longer by my side. For the deep blue veins raised up under your light brown skin.
Now, do you hold your child in your arms as you step into the dark cathedral? Do you get the buggy back from the warden's lodge, install your child safely in it and buckle her in? Do you secure the escaped strands of your hair, then set off home? Do you walk through those same streets where my seventeen-year-old self paced restlessly to and fro, at dawn, full of foolishness and worry, along the pavement made of tiny black stones? Every time the wheels of the buggy are jolted upwards, do you lay your hand on the child's chest and soothe her? Do you take each footstep in the quiet, with your God, whose goodness makes him sad, on your shoulder?
The sun rises seven hours later there than it does here, you know.
On a day not far away, when I hold up pieces of film under the noon sun, you will be asleep in the darkness of five o'clock in the morning. A deep blue light like that of the veins on the back of your hand will not have entirely leached from the sky. Your heart will beat the regular beat of sleep, and now and again your eyes, that had burned and blurred with tears, will flutter beneath their lids. When I walk out into the perfect darkness, will I manage to 35
remember you without this terrible ache?
Do not stop.
Do not ask me anything.
αϊτει με. Do it another way. άλλως ποιήσης.
μήαϊτει μηδέν με. Absolutely do not do it another way. μή αϊτει ούδέν αύτόν.
After filling the dark green blackboard with sentences, the man leans his upper body against it, making sure not to obscure the writing. He mustn't be aware that the shoulders of his dark blue shirt are covered with a dusting of white chalk. His clean-shaven face is awfully pallid, which makes him look unexpectedly young; one could almost mistake him for a college student, if it weren't for his sunken cheeks, and the slender wrinkles clustered around his eyes and mouth, betraying the quiet beginning of old age.
Even when she was still able to speak, she'd always been softly spoken. It wasn't that her vocal chords hadn't developed properly, or that her lung capacity had been an issue. She just didn't like taking up too much space. No-one can help their own body 36 occupying a certain amount of physical space, but the voice was another matter. She wanted her self to be contained in as small a space as possible, not diffuse out into the air. Whether on the subway or in the street, in a cafe or restaurant, she wouldn't dream of raising her voice in conversation, or shouting after someone to get their attention. In many situations â€“ the only exception was when she was lecturing â€“ hers was the quietest voice in the room. Already skinny, she hunched her shoulders and back so that her body would take up less room. She understood humour and had a very cheerful smile, but when she laughed it was so quiet as to be scarcely audible. The grizzled old psychiatrist pointed all this out to her. Going by the book, he tried to find the root cause in her childhood. She cooperated with him only halfway. Rather than confessing her experience of having lost language as a pre-teen, she fumblingly brought out a memory from even further back. Her mother had been sick with false typhoid fever when she was pregnant with her. Suffering alternate bouts of fever and chills, she took a handful of tablets with every meal for a little over a month. Her mother had been hot-tempered and impetuous by nature, quite unlike her daughter, and decided that as soon as her health was back to normal she would go to the gynaecologist and get rid of the baby, having judged that it would be impossible to give birth to a healthy baby after taking so much medicine. The doctor told her that, as the placenta had already formed, an induced abortion would be dangerous, and made an appointment for her to come back in two months' time,
when he would give her an injection to induce a stillbirth. But when those two months were almost over and the foetus began to move, her resolution weakened, and she did not go to the hospital. She was plagued with anxiety up until the moment the baby was born. Only after repeatedly counting the newborn baby's fingers and toes, which were slippery with amniotic fluid, was her mind set at ease. Aunts, cousins, even the meddling woman who lived next door, told this anecdote to the woman while she was growing up. You came within an inch of not being born. That sentence was repeated like an incantation. She was too young to be able to read her own emotions well, but the horrifying coldness contained in that sentence was something she felt clearly. She almost hadn't been born. The world was not something that had been given to her as a matter of course. It was merely a possibility, permitted by the chance combination of countless variables in the pitch blackness, a fragile bubble that had coalesced in the nick of time. One evening, after saying an awkward goodbye to her mother's rowdy, merry guests, she squatted down on the raised wooden veranda which ran around the exterior of the house, and watched as the yard was buried in the gathering twilight. Keeping her breathing as still as possible and her shoulders hunched, she told the psychiatrist, she had felt the thin yet enormous eyelid of the world being swallowed up in the darkness. The psychiatrist thought this was all very interesting. After she'd replied in the negative to his question of whether this might be her earliest memory, she rummaged through her thoughts a little further and produced for him the memory of the half-day she'd spent in the sun-beaten yard â€“ when she'd first understood the workings of her mother tongue. The psychiatrist was greatly taken by the anecdote, and attempted to form a conclusion from a careful combination of the two memories.
“That you were so enraptured by language as to recall it as your earliest memory, is it not because you were instinctually aware that the circuit combing language and world is something which only just comes off, something in constant danger of failing? In other words, was that fascination not unconsciously similar to your sense of the world's contingency?” The psychiatrist studied her face intently. “Now tell me, do you perhaps remember the first dream you ever had?” Struck by the preposterous thought that he might be planning to quote their conversation as a case study in one of his books, she became suddenly uneasy, swallowing the words that had been on the tip of her tongue. She'd been going to tell him about the dream she'd had not long that initial grasping of language's structure, a dream that had been strangely vivid and cold. The snow had been falling in a unfamiliar street somewhere, and unfamiliar adults with expressionless faces had brushed past her. She, a child, had been standing there alone by the side of the main street, wearing unfamiliar clothes. That had been all. There was no incident to develop, no conclusion to be drawn. Nothing but the sensation of being chilled. That road where the snow was falling, so silent it had seemed as though something was blocking her ears. Those people, whom she'd never seen before. Herself, alone. While she remained silent, struggling to concentrate on the details of the dream, the psychiatrist proceeded towards a diagnosis. “You were too young to understand life, and every time you heard about what a close call your birth had been, you felt a sense of being threatened, as though your whole existence was going to be blotted out. But now you're an adult, and you're strong enough to face such things. You don't have to be afraid. You don't have to cower. It's alright to speak up. Straighten your shoulders, and take up as much space as you like.”
But she knew that if she followed that reasoning the rest of her life would be one long struggle, a struggle to constantly find a response to the question which constantly threatened to destroy her fragile equilibrium – the question of whether she really had any right to exist in this world. Something in the psychiatrist's lucid, beautiful conclusion made her uncomfortable. She didn't ever want to take up a lot of space, and neither did she believe that she could live in thrall to fear, or spend her life suppressing what came naturally to her. For five months their sessions progressed smoothly, but the psychiatrist seemed shocked that, rather than learning to speak up, she eventually lost the power of speech altogether. “I understand”, he said. “I understand how much you've suffered. It must have been difficult for you to accept being beaten in the lawsuit, and then the death of a close family member coming so soon afterwards. I understand. You must have felt that it was impossible to cope with all these things on your own.” The exaggerated note of kindness in his voice disturbed her, but what she found most difficult to accept was his claim that he understood her. This was simply not true, she was sure of it. The silence that enveloped the two of them, tacitly controlling everything, was waiting. Pen and paper were always left out on the table for these sessions. She picked up then pen. No, she wrote. It isn't that simple.
Even when she could still speak, she would sometimes choose instead to stare blankly at her interlocutor, as though she believed it was possible to perfectly translate what she
wished to say into a gaze. She greeted people, expressed thanks, and apologised, all with her eyes rather than words. To her, there was nothing as instantaneous and intuitive as the gaze. It was almost the only way of making a connection with someone without the need for physical contact. Language, by comparison, was excessively physical. It moves lungs and throat and tongue and lips, vibrating the air as it flies to the listener. The tongue curls, saliva splashes, the lips part. When she found that physical process too much to bear, she became paradoxically more voluble, spinning out words in long literary sentences, shunning the vitality and fluidity of the colloquial. Her voice would also be louder than usual. Gradually, almost speculatively, as if unsure whether this was the correct response, the listener would burst out laughing. When such incidents increased in frequency, she found herself entirely unable to concentrate on writing, even when she had an hour to herself. In the period directly before she lost speech, she became a greater talker than ever and, at the same time, was unable to write. Just as she had always disliked the way her voice diffused through the air, she then found it difficult to bear the disturbance in the silence caused by written sentences. At times, she could taste bile at the back of her throat even before she put pen to paper, merely from picturing a couple of words in combination. But that couldn't have been the cause of her losing speech. It couldn't be that simple.
δύσβατός γέ τις ό τόπος φαίνεται καί έπίσκιος. έστι γοΰν σκοτεινός καί δυσδιερεύνητος.
This place is a place where it is difficult to take a step in any given direction. All around has grown dark, It is a place where it is difficult to find anything. 41 She bends her head over the book which lies open on her desk. It's a thick study edition of The Republic, containing both the original Greek and the Korean translation. Drops of sweat trickle down from her temples and plop onto the Greek sentences. The coarsegrained recycled paper bulges upwards where they hit. When she raises her head it seems as though she dimly-lit classroom has suddenly brightened, unsettling her. Only then does she properly pick up on the hushed conversation which the middle-aged man, who always used to sit silently in the seat behind the pillar, is conducting with the big college student. â€œAngkor Wat. I got back from there yesterday morning. I arranged it all in advance; four nights, five days. I was tired from the flight so I was going to skip this class, but then, it would be a shame to have paid the tuition fee and skip two weeks in a row, right? Haha, there's still enough strength in these old bones, you know. After all, I still enjoy a spot of hiking every weekend. I'm not sure myself, but apparently my face is pretty sunburned. Ah, you can't compare the heat out there to how it is here. They have a squall at least once every day; and so there's nothing to take the edge of the heat...it's just, you know, I'm interested in ruins. There was ancient Khmer writing engraved on the temple stones; personally, I liked the look of it more than the Ancient Greek script.â€? She looks up at the blackboard, blank now during the break. The lecturer has wiped it clean with the cloth, but only lightly, so there are still the odd fragments of Greek script visible. There's even a place where one can almost perfectly make out how the sentence has
been divided into three parts. And a place where a rough whirl of smudged chalk looks like a deliberate edition, done with a broad brush. She bends over the study book again. When she breathes in she makes sure to draw the air deep into her lungs, in one long, distinct sound. After she lost speech, it occurred to her that breathing was in some ways a kind of voice, boldly disturbing the silence. 42 When she'd sat by her mother in the latter's final moments, then, too, she'd felt the affinity between breathing and speaking. Every time her mother, whose consciousness had dimmed, exhaled a hot breath, the silence had taken a step back. And then when she breathed in, its blood-curdlingly chill mass gave a thin scream as it was sucked into the dying woman's body. She clutches the pencil, and peers at the sentence which she was just reading. She could pierce a small hole between these letters. If she pressed down with the pencil lead and made a long tear, she would be able to destroy a whole word, no, a whole sentence. She silently examines the small black letters, conspicuous on the coarse grey recycled paper, the insect-like accents which either arch their backs or stretch out straight. A narrow place where it is difficult to take a step. A sentence where Plato, no longer young, stalls for time. The muffled voice of a person who has to part their lips with their fingers to speak. She tightens her grip on the pencil. Carefully, she breathes out. The emotion contained in that sentence like a faint chalk mark, like a thread of dried blood, challenges her. She endures it.
For a long time, her body bears witness to the fact of her having lost speech, exposing the consequences for all to see. It appears stiffer or heavier than it really is. Her footsteps, the
movements of her hands and arms, the long contours of her face and shoulders are all made up of strong lines, boundaries firmly demarcating one thing from another. The things inside these lines are trapped there, and nothing outside them can find its way in. She'd never been one to spend a great deal of time examining herself in the mirror, but now the very thought seems incomprehensible to her. A person's face looks as it appears in their mind's eye, they way they have most often imagined it to themselves over the course of their life. When she could no longer picture her face to herself, she could not manage to feel this as a loss. When she happens to catch a glimpse of her face reflected in a glass window or mirror, she examines her eyes carefully. Those two clear pupils seem to her to be the only passageway linking that stranger's face with her self. Sometimes she thinks of herself as more like some kind of substance, some moving solid or liquid, than a person. When she eats hot rice she feels that she herself becomes that rice, and when she washes her hands with cold water there is no distinction between her hands and that water. At the same time she knows that she is neither rice nor water, but some harsh, solid substance that will never commingle with such things. The only things that she sees as worth reclaiming from the icy silence, something which takes all the strength she possesses, are the face of the child with whom she has been allowed to spend one night every two weeks, and the dead Greek words which she gouges into the paper with the pencil she grips.
γή έκειτο γυνή. A woman lies on the ground.
She puts down the pencil, which is sticky with sweat. With the palm of her hand, she wipes away the beads of sweat which cling to her temples.
“Mum, they've said I can't come here any more after September.” Last Saturday night, silently stunned, she stared at her son's face. He'd grown again, 44 even in the space of two weeks, looking taller, but also thinner, than before. His lashes were long and thin, tiny diagonals clearly outlined over his soft white cheeks, like a miniature done in pen. “I don't like it there. I don't know any English. They won't even let me see my aunt, even though she lives near there. They said I have to wait a year first. And I've hardly got any friends.” An apple-scented soap smell rose from the child's hair, whom she'd just bathed and put to bed. She could see her face reflected in his round eyes. His face was reflected again in the reflection of her eyes, and in those eyes there was her face again...an infinite series of reflections. “Mum, can't you talk to Dad? If you can't talk, can't you write him a letter? Can't I come back to live here again?” He turned his face to the wall in frustration, and she silently reached out her hand and turned him back to face her. “I can't? I can't come back? Why not?” He turned back to face the wall. “Turn the light off, please. How can I sleep when it's so bright?” She stood up and switched off the light. The glow from the street lights shone in throught the first-floor window, so she was soon able to make out the clear form of her child in the darkness. There was a deep furrow in the centre of his forehead. She laid her hand there and smoothed it out. He frowned again. He lay there with his eyes tightly shut, and even his breathing was inaudible.
In the late-night darkness that day in June, the smell of waterlogged grass and tree sap mingled with the smells of food waste. After dropping her son off at his new home, the woman walked the nearly two-hour route back into central Seoul, rather than take a bus. Some of the roads were as brightly lit as they would be in the middle of the day, with suffocating exhaust fumes and blaring music, while others were dark, and decaying, and stray cats tore at rubbish bags with their teeth, and glared at her. Her legs didn't hurt. She wasn't tired. Illuminated by the pale light in front of the lift, she stood and stared at her front door, the door through which she was now supposed to enter, leading to the bed where she was now supposed to sleep. She turned around and went back out of the building, out into that summer-night smell, the smell of things that had one been alive going bad. She walked faster and faster until finally she was almost running, throwing herself into the public phone booth in front of the porter's lodge, where she pulled all the coins she could find out of her trouser pocket.
She heard a voice. Hello? She opened her mouth. She forced out a breath. She breathed in, and then out again. The same voice spoke again. Hello? Her hand trembled as it clutched the receiver.
How could you take him back? How could he be so far away? And for so long? Bastard. Heartless bastard. She ground her teeth and trembled until her spasming fingers put the phone down. She ran her hand roughly over her cheek, like someone hitting themselves in the face. She rubbed away at her philtrum, her jaw, her lips that no-one could prise apart.
That night, for the first time since she lost speech, she looked at herself properly in the mirror. She thought that she must be seeing wrong, though she didn't put the thought into words. Eyes cannot be so silent. She would have been less shocked to see blood or pus or 46 something like dirty ice running from them. She, silent, was reflected in her eyes, and in those reflected eyes, her silent self again...an infinite regression of silence.
The hatred that had boiled up in her a long time ago now came back again, and she felt once more the agony that had used to lance through her, but that was where it stopped â€“ the blister wouldn't burst anymore.
The middle-aged man and the college student, who had been chatting together, had gone out into the corridor at some point, and now come back in each holding a can of coffee. The man is talking to someone on his mobile, continuing the conversation as he returns to his seat. â€œSo, it was 'don't adapt to those who are competent, adapt to those who aren't', right? If all you're going to do is say 'copy the people who do well', what's the point of staff training?
There'll be reinforcement later on, so what are you going on about now? What kind of corporation are we? Have the instructor give me a call tomorrow.” The college student gives the man a quick nod and sits back down. He stretches, giving out a low groan as he crunches his neck forwards, backwards, and side to side. The ten minutes' break time is already up, but today the Greek lecturer, usually so punctual, is late getting back. Suddenly everything becomes quiet. She is sitting at her desk, motionless as ever. Her back, neck and shoulders are stiff from spending so long in the same position. She opens the notebook and scans the sentences she wrote down during the hour before the break. She jots down words in the blank spaces between the sentences. The phrases she forms are simple and defiantly fragmented, against the surrounding examples of verb declensions and complicated usages of tense and voice. Unbeknownst to her, her lips and tongue are waiting to stir. Waiting for the first sound to spring from them.
γή έκειτο γυνή. A woman lies on the ground. Χιών έπί τή δειρή. Snow in throat. ρύπος έπί τώ βλέΦαρω. Earth in eyelid.
“What's that?” asks the philosophy student, who sits in the same row as her. He points to the notebook, which she's written incomplete sentences in Ancient Greek following on from “γή έκειτο γυνή”, “a woman lies on the ground”, which was one of the example sentences they'd learned earlier in the lesson. She doesn't get flustered, doesn't hastily shut the
notebook. She musters all her strength, and looks into the young man's eyes as though into the depths of an ice core.
The new agony, caused by what her son had told her, could make no crack in her silence, only splash bloodstains over her frozen exterior. She spent too long brushing her 48 teeth, too long standing in front of the open refridgerator, banged her leg against the front bumper of a stationary car, or clumsily knocked against a shelf in a shop and sent its goods crashing to the floor. Every time she slipped under the chilly bedsheet and closed her eyes, she was waiting for the snowy street, the unfamiliar pedestrians, the child wearing unfamiliar clothes, the pale face which could have been either her own or that of her son. She knew that the passageway which led to speech delved down to a still deeper place, and that if she went that way she would lose her son for good. The more aware of this she became, the further down that passage went. As though there was some god turning it upside down the more earnestly she sought for it. She didn't moan, only grew quieter still. Neither blood nor pus flowed from her eyes.
“Is it poetry? Poetry in Greek?” The college student sitting by the window turns to look at her, curiosity etched on his face. Just then, the lecturer comes back into the classroom. “Sir!” The student with the acne chuckles mischievously. “This woman's been writing poetry in Greek.” In his seat behind the pillar, the middle-aged man turns to look at her, his expression one of amazed admiration, and bursts into loud laughter. Startled by the sound, she closes the notebook. She watches blankly as the lecturer approaches her chair.
“Really? Would you mind if I take a quick look?” She has to strain herself to concentrate on his words, just like deciphering a foreign language. She looks up at his glasses, their pale green lenses so thick they make her eyes swim. All of a sudden she becomes aware of the situation, and packs the thick study book, her notebook, dictionary and pencil case in her bag. “No, please sit down. You don't have to show it to me.” She stands up, shoulders her bag, pushes her way past the row of empty chairs, and heads for the door.
In front of the emergency exit that leads to the stairs, someone grabs hold of her arm from behind. Startled, she whips round. It's the first time she's seen the lecturer this close. He's shorter than she thought, now that he isn't standing on the teacher's platform at the front of the classroom, and his face looks strangely aged. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.” Taking a deep breath, he steps closer. “You...you can hear what I'm saying, can't you?” She barely has time to blink before he raises his hands and starts saying something in sign language. He repeats the same signs a couple of times and then, seeming to become aware of the need for an explanation, stammers “I'm sorry. I came out to say I'm sorry.” She stares mutely at his face. He takes another breath, determined not to give up, and continues signing, watching the movements of his own hands with something approaching desperation. We don't have to talk. You don't have to make any kind of answer. I'm really sorry. I came out to say I'm sorry.
The single-lane one-way street runs for a fair stretch alongside the highway's soundproofed walls. She is walking along the pavement. The street isn't popular with 50 pedestrians, so the municipal officials have let it get somewhat neglected. Thick clumps of grass straggle tenaciously up from the cracks in the paving slabs. The thick, black branches of the acacias, which had been planted in a thick line around the apartments in place of a fence, stretch out like arms in all directions. The repulsive fug of exhaust fumes mingles with the scent of grass in the humid night air. This close to the road, the roaring sounds of car engines slice into her eardrums as sharp skates cut into ice. In the clump of grass by her leg, a grasshopper cries slowly.
It's strange. She seems to have experienced such a night before. She seems to have walked this road before, with similar feelings of shame and embarassment. She would have still had language, then, and so those feelings would have been clearer, stronger. But now there are no more words left inside her. Words and sentences track her like ghosts, following so close behind that she can both see and hear them. But those emotions are largely drowned out by the road, joined loosely to her like scraps of weakly adhesive tape.
She only watches. And while she watches, she doesn't translate the things she is watching into language. In the snow, the shapes of other things are constantly being formed, which shift and are erased all in accordance with her walking speed, and without ever being translated into 51 the specificity of words.
On such a summer night, a long time ago, she was walking alone down the street when she suddenly started laughing. She looked at the oval of the thirteenth-day moon, and laughed. Thinking that it was like a person's sullen face, its round sunken craters like eyes concealing disappointment, she laughed. It seemed as though the words inside her body had burst out first as feigned laughter, and now that laughter was spreading across her face.
That night just past the summer solstice when, as now, the heat withdrew hesitantly behind the darkness. That night long ago that was not so long ago. Her child walking ahead of her, she had followed along cradling a huge cold melon in her arms. Her voice had been affectionate as it flowed out of her body, diffusing through the minimum of space.
Her lips had shown no sign of effort. Blood had not gathered in her eyes.