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A Visit With Hwang Sun-wŏn
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17839 |
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BOOK WORLD
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| Issue
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3 / 1990 |
2,274 Words |
| Author
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J. Martin Holman
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I arrive at Hwang Sun-wŏn's apartment with tears in my eyes.
I had emerged from Chongryangri station in northeastern Seoul in the midst of an antigovernment demonstration. Riot police were firing tear gas canisters into the street, and I had pushed my way through the seemingly as yet unconcerned crowd, trying to stay ahead of the gas. When I arrive, I stumble into the elevator, snorting and sniffing all the way to the fourteenth floor.
Hwang Sun-wŏn and his wife have lived in this apartment with their son and his family since the spring of1988, when a sudden illness made it difficult for Hwang to remain in Anyang, a small city located southwest of Seoul--on the opposite side of this metropolis of ten million people--and far from Kyunghee University, where Hwang still teaches. In Anyang, Hwang had lived at the foot of Mount Kwanak. He had regularly hiked the mountain to collect pure spring water - yaksu (medical water) - which he served to his guests from an old gin bottle.
He looks more chipper than when we last met a few months earlier. He welcomes me with his hearty "Anyong haseyo" and shows me into the living room. Hwang's cordial nature is one of his trademarks; an official at the Korean Culture and Arts Foundation in Seoul, an organization that promotes Korean literature both at home and abroad, once remarked that Hwang is one of the few men of his age and stature who takes the time to acknowledge the greetings of "lesser begins."
Explaining the cause of my bleary eyes, I ask if there are often demonstrations nearby. He answers that he has not known of any lately - and had been unaware that one was going on now a couple of blocks away. I am certain that the sound I hear in the distance despite the noise of the city is the faint chanting of the undeterred demonstrators. I hesitate to tell him that one of my purposes for visiting him today is to interview him for an article.
Hwang is a quiet man who is uncomfortable with attention. Once, a few years ago, when he treated me to lunch at a Chinese restaurant near his home, the staff had lined up on either side, bowing and forming a corridor, as though the sea were parting for Moses, when he walked in. Celebrity, however, does not sit well with Hwang; he had resisted the manager's pleadings that he deserved the special private room instead of an ordinary table.
I had visited Hwang previously at his home during the International PEN Congress in Seoul in 1988. KimTong-ni, president of the Korean Writer's Association and the only living Korean author who approaches Hwang's stature, had addressed a plenary session of the congress. Curious whether Hwang was being slighted by PEN, I had asked about his conspicuous absence from the meetings. "When they asked me to speak at the congress, I wasn't certain if my health would allow it, so I turned down the request," he had replied. But he had gone on to reveal perhaps his most compelling motivation: "I don't really like those big gatherings anyway." Hwang is a private man whose only public feature is his writing.
I ask Hwang about his years at Waseda University in Tokyo from 1935 to 1939. "I didn't really study. I spent most of my time reading world literature - mostly in Japanese translation. Much of it hadn't been available
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