박경리: 버리고 갈 것만 남아서 참 홀가분하다

시란 것 머냐? 시를 보고 시가 인지 알 수 있는 시적인 특징은? 비유, 형상화, 운율 아닌가? 그렇다면, 이 박경리의 마지막 글은 시집이 아니다.  단어 단어로 보면 좀 뻔한 느낌도 있다.  줄들을 잘라서 챙기지 않았으면, 시라고 부를 수 없겠다.

이 시집을 읽는 동안, 능력이 있는 시인의 말을 읽는 게 아니라 80살 할머니의 마지막 말을 앉아서 듣는 느낌이였다.  연세를 드셔서 할 말 다 검소하게 하시고 헛소리를 참을성이 없으신 할머니.  박경리는 말을 꾸밀 시간과 힘이 없었나 본다.  들을 만한 말밖에 없이 철에 둔 짧은 줄 몇게 번역하기는 보람이 있지 않을까?

마음

마음 바르게 서면

If your spirit stands upright

세상이 다 보인다

The entire world is seen

빨아서 풀 먹인 모시 적삼 같이

Everything is vivid and fresh,

사물은 싱그럽다

Like a crisply starched summer jacket.

마음이 욕망으로 일그러졌을 때

When your spirit is twisted up with desire,

진실을 눈 멀고

Your eyes are blinded to truth,

해와 달이 없는 벌판

And all reality becomes a deserted field,

세상은 캄캄해질 것이다

With neither sun nor moon.

먹어도 먹어도 배가 고픈 욕망

Desire, that eats and eats and continues to hunger

무간지옥이 따로 있는가

Isn’t this the most perfect of hells?

권세와 명리와 재물을 쫓는 자

Chasing after power, honor, wealth,

세상은 그래서 피비린내가 난다

That reality reeks of blood.

~~

사람의 됨됨이

가난하다고

Poverty

다 인색한 것은 아니다

Is not all stingy.

부자라고

Wealth

모두가 후한 것도 아니다

Is not all generous.

그것은

All of that,

사람의 됨됨이에 따라 다르다

 It follows a person’s nature.

후함으로 하여

Generosity

삶이 풍성해지고

brings abundance

인색함으로 하여

And stinginess

삶이 궁색해 보이기도 하는데

An impoverished life.

생명들은 어쨌거나

All living things, no matter what,

서로 나누며 소통하게 돼 있다

Share and correspond with each other.

그렇게 아니하는 존재는

Any other existence

길가에 굴러 있는

Is that of a stone rolling beside a road,

한낱 돌멩이와 다를 바 없다

And nothing more.

나는 인색함으로

I have seen lives

메마르고 보잘것없는

Dry and worthless

인생을 더러 보아 왔다

with stinginess,

심성이 후하여

And at other times

넉넉하고 생기에 찬

Radiant and abundant

인생도 더러 보아 왔다

With generosity

인색함은 검약이 아니다

Stinginess is not thrift

후함은 낭비가 아니다

And generosity is not waste

인색한 사람은

The stingy

자기 자신을 위해 낭비하지만

Waste everything on themselves

후한 사람은

And the generous

자기 자신에게는 준열하게 검약한다

Are to themselves unflinchingly severe.

사람 됨됨이에 따라

The entire world changes

사는 세상도 달라진다

Following a person’s nature.

후한 사람은 늘 성취감을 맛보지만

The generous taste satisfaction,

인색한 사람은 먹어도 늘 배가 고프다

And the stingy eat, but are hungry.

천국과 지옥의 차이다

It’s the difference between heaven and hell.

Dino Buzzati: The Tartar Steppe

The power of stichomancy is real.  I add this book to the list of times when what I read was exactly what I am meant to have read at the moment.  I'm sure that it's no different from tarot, in that it has no particular power other than to clarify those things that we already know, but like tarot it is occasionally uncanny in its accuracy.

If my life were to have a theme, and such a thing seems vanishingly unlikely at this point, it would be that of "starting over".  The maximum I have ever been able to stay in one house, at one job, or with one person, has always been three years.  At that point, I invariably throw a grenade into my life, jettison as much as possible, and hoist my petard to a new situation.  One could easily spin a version of events wherein this habit is a symptom of cowardice and laziness, but no amount of judgement has been able to stop me from doing it.  And with one exception (you know who you are), I do not regret having done it, though I often regret not having done it sooner.

And as I sit here at a desk in my very own version of Buzzati's Fort Bastiani, the thought occurs to me that perhaps it's better to stay this time, even though the pin has already been pulled.  What would happen if I stuck around this place for another few years?  What could be the harm in at least trying something different, in the ironic situation that not trying something different is the only something different left to me?

And whether Buzati's answer is his own, or invented by this reader to fit the circumstance, is irrelevant.  If one stays on the edge of the Tartar steppe, willingly surrendering to the communal delusion that things will get better at any moment, one is invariably disappointed.  And that disappointment infects the spirit, until nothing is left but a jaundiced shadow, hoping at least to meet death bravely.

Vaclav Havel: To the Castle and Back

I fell in love with Havel the writer before I fell in love with the man.  His plays combine all the virtues of Camus, Kafka, and Beckett, but where they despaired at the idiocy of existence, Havel laughed and danced and blew raspberries--the only healthy approach. 

On a recent trip to the Czech Republic, I decided it would be appropriate to visit his grave and lay a rose, and took the chance to read this post-modernist memoir while lingering in coffee shops around the city.  I quickly went from appreciative reader to gobsmacked fanboy. 

The book itself would have been worthy of the time invested.  No formulaic memoir, this.  Havel juggles fragments of terse, frustrated emails; diurnal musings; and carefully polished interviews in a perfectly timed dance of seven travails.  It's a rare memoir that would stand up as a work of fiction.

But it was not fiction.  This remarkable life, and the remarkable way he faced it, were all real.  The protagonist of this Kafkaesque, Camusian, Becketty story existed.  It was not only in his plays that Havel gave the finger to the existential void.  Somehow, he saw what any perceptive human sees, refused to look away, and didn't go insane. 

And then he wrote it down.  And so it is not just because he was an amazing writer, thoughtful politician, and hero of his country that Havel is now one of my heroes.  It is rather because he knew what I know, felt what I feel, and somehow made it worthwhile in a way that perhaps I could be capable of someday.

All Quiet on the Western Front

The more things change . . .

This film is guilty of two things that regularly annoy me today.

Annoyance the first: Labeling something "good" (or even "great") because some individual part of it meets those standards.  There were a few things about this film that were well done--the cinematography, certain technical elements, the production design--and there were individual scenes that were either well done, or good ideas on paper.  But, and my bonnet admittedly still has a bee in it from trying to convince a coworker this very day that Gower and Middleton, while they succeed marvelously on some levels, do not deserve to be mentioned alongside Chaucer and Shakespeare, who succeed on every level, moments of brilliance do not justify overarching mediocrity.  Modern offenders: David Lynch, Ryan Murphy, Drake.

Annoyance the second: richly layered and highly talented ensembles being spoiled by the bland, wooden, inoffensively attractive lead actor.  Lew Ayres gives every last one of his lines, even those few that are not already dangerously top-heavy, with the same earnestly mild reading that one would give to a detergent commercial.  At no point does his character change, react, or express anything that could not have been given perhaps better in a telegram.  More's the pity, as Slim Summerville and Louis Wolheim give depth and texture to even the maudlin, didactic teletype that serves as a script.  I am positively disgusted by the troops of vaguely pretty boys in leading roles who clearly are there because they dampened a casting director's panties, and remain there because of the flooded undergarments of their fans. My frustration is only sharpened by the often vibrant ensembles that are forced to prop them up. Modern offenders: Stephen Amell, Henry Cavill, Kit Harington, Dominic Cooper, et al ad infinitum.  Taking the movie in question here as evidence, it would seem that the trend is nearly a hundred years old in film, likely even longer in other media, and potentially immortal.