LITMIR.BIZ

      THIS BOOK IS not an autobiography; I shudder at the thought for I am a private man. Nor is it a novel though much of the material is presented in story form; for I am not the flamboyant novel-writing type either. It is something in between, what I call, rightly or wrongly, a miscellany. It aims not so much at simple as symbolic truth, a kind of correlative to forty years of cross-cultural experience.

      I came to Korea in 1964. I came from an Ireland that was one of the poorest countries in Europe; outside toilets and houses without running water or electricity were still fairly common. I remember the marvel of the tilley lamp when I visited my aunt’s house in what we termed ‘the country’, and my cousin, still visibly excited by the mystery of electricity, following me up and down the stairs to turn off switches I had extravagantly turned on. And I remember a confrere on Korea’s East Coast telling me that a tilley lamp was a better reading light than any bulb. I remember the first oranges and pears in the shops after the war and the excitement of gum bubbles big as a football exploding in my face. I remember the adventure of crossing Glangevlin on the way to Bundoran. The talk for days before the trip was about the state of the road and the thickness of the fog on top of the mountain. Bundoran was a magic place for kids in the nineteen forties and early fifties. The Horse Pool, the Priests’ Pool, the Nuns’ Pool, the caves, the cliff walks, Shane House and the Green Barn are engraved indelibly in my memory. The Imperial Hotel and Shell House represented modernity and elegance. We didn’t dare dream of the august heights of the Central or the Great Northern.

      Despite great changes in the forties, fifties, and early sixties, Ireland was still a backwater when I left in 1964. I did not realize this for a long time because 1960s Ireland was a paradise compared to 1960s Korea. In the intervening fifty years, Ireland has been transformed by the Celtic tiger and retransformed by the collapse of same; and Korea has moved from being a medieval land of total insignificance in world terms to being a highly developed modern country and a major player in world economics. Even the wildest extravagances of the Celtic tiger pale in comparison with Korea’s development in the last fifty years. And I have seen it all happen. In 1964, Seoul was a city of three million people with three bridges over the Han and one ten-storey building in the heart of the city, the New Korea Hotel – it’s still there, beside City Hall. I have lost count of the number of bridges over the Han, and Seoul’s skyline is like Manhattan’s. Kangnam was paddy-fields as was the entire city beyond Suyuri, going north, and T’apshimni, going east. People have even begun to speak of Seoul as a beautiful city, citing Namsan, Sajik Park, Inwangsan, the Pukhak Skyway, and Lee Myungbak’s redeveloped Ch’onggyech’on as visible proof.

      Parts of Tŏksu Palace, the widening of Chongno and the construction of Pagoda Park may have been the brainchild of a Lisburn man, John McLeavy Brown, Chief Commissioner of the Korean Customs and Financial Adviser to Kojong, but most of what happened here is rooted in 1500 years of cultural history and in the Korean character that grew therein. I seek in this book an imaginative correlative for my experience of Korea. It is a poet’s account, what the heart has taught, and it should be interpreted as literature not history, philosophy or sociology. Much of the account is true; much is half true. Some of the characters are real; others are amalgams of several characters; still others are products of the imagination. Most of the stories have some basis in fact, but they have been altered and expanded, not just to protect privacy, although that was sometimes a concern, but also to contribute to the creation of an imaginative version of fifteen hundred years of assimilated history and culture.

      The account features neither plot line nor sequential time. The text is peppered with my own poems, stories and essays, and with poems and stories from the Korean. Much of what I know of the Korean cultural experience came courtesy of the poems of Sŏ Chŏngju, a great poet who should have won the Nobel Prize. His name dots the pages of this book. A bantam cock of a man, his raucous voice still rings in my ears. He gave me an imaginative entry into Korean history and culture for which I am eternally grateful. Most Koreans approach history and culture as exercises in sociology. Their accounts are framed in an abstract idiom that misses the heart of the matter. Opinions tend to be a rehash of the opinions of professors fifty years ago. Sŏ Chŏngju’s stories of old Korea are different, primarily because they are not shackled by fixed notions of people and events. They are pure poetry, the best introduction I know to Korea’s cultural mother lode. I use the poems freely, combining them with narrative and exposition in an attempt to present living in Korea as a process of growth in cultural exchange. During forty-plus years trying to take in and interpret an intense personal and public experience, my quest has always been for understanding, for what the people of Shilla called ‘the light of heaven’. Most of my missionary colleagues came here to teach. I figured early on that there were more than enough of them for the task. For my part, I found there was much more to learn than to teach.

      Korea is home to me. When I go to Rosslare in Ireland, I’m on my holidays. I arrive with a contented grin. When I get back to Inch’ŏn Airport, I’m home. I heave a contented sigh and look forward to the pleasures of living in my Seoul apartment again after months of being pampered by my family in Ireland.

      Loving Korea does not blind me to certain grating aspects of the Korean experience. Sŏ Chŏngju (1915–2000) writes:

      In this land, at this moment in time, someone of our race is doing a shameful deed, selling short his being human. What of it! One extra-cleansing bath, one meticulous assuaging of the heart and again we can stand tall between earth and sky, for we are possessors of a tradition of great pride, something to be supremely grateful for: we are the people whose country gets the first seep of morning light.

      If you think Korea is beyond the shameful deed, think again. Korea has had more

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