"Um, I read all three poems you published in New Literature."
Poet Hyun Min-sang said.
A poet had read my poems.
I was curious—what did he think?
"How did they seem to you, through a poet’s eyes?"
"I couldn’t really understand them."
Ah, as expected.
"But I liked them."
What?
"Every image you crafted felt good. It’s like… it had the energy that seemed ready to burst, or maybe 'explosive' is the better word..."
"..."
"That’s what poetry is, really—how it makes you feel. Reading poetry is about peeking into someone else's inner world. How can you ever fully understand that? You just feel it."
Writer Kim Mi-so added, "This guy’s acting all cool now, but he was raving about your poems late at night. He couldn’t stop talking about how great they were."
"Hey! Kim Mi-so! Stop saying unnecessary things—"
Hyun Min-sang’s face flushed red.
Writer Han Ji-on smiled and chimed in. "I feel the same. I love reading poetry, and your poems are the kind you can’t forget once you’ve read them."
At that moment...
Memories suddenly resurfaced, like black-and-white photographs flashing through my mind.
The year was 1934.
Back then, I was haunted by the loneliness of not being understood.
That was when I joined a literary group called Guinhoe.
It was exactly what the name implied—a gathering of nine like-minded writers.
Kim Yu-jung, Kim Gi-rim, Jeong Ji-yong...
Brilliant writers whose names have endured to this day.
The first thing Kim Yu-jung said to me when we met was,
"I like your poems."
"But no one understands them."
"Still, I like them. They feel right. What more do you need?"
Kim Yu-jung probably never realized how much strength those words gave me.
I was only active in Guinhoe for three years.
Publishing the group journal Poetry and Fiction,
giving literary lectures together...
Those remain some of my few treasured memories from my writing life.
But Guinhoe couldn’t withstand the tides of the era.
Many writers, like me, met untimely deaths,
or were forced to defect or were abducted to the North, never to return.
Looking at the bright, lively faces of the three young writers before me,
Was it the memory of Guinhoe stirring within me?
Or perhaps the aftereffects of deciding to publish with Japanese writers?
I impulsively asked them,
"Before the year ends, would you like to do something fun together?"
"What?"
Kim Mi-so asked, confused.
I explained,
"Let’s publish an anthology together."
An anthology—a collection of works created by multiple writers around a shared theme.
It’s one of the rare collaborative activities among writers.
"Sounds fun. I’m in. I’ve almost finished preparing my upcoming presentation anyway."
Kim Mi-so answered casually.
"...Ah."
The other two hesitated.
They were finalists for the Daehan Literature Prize,
which meant they had promising futures in the literary world.
It was only natural that they would be cautious about associating with me.
"With us?"
Han Ji-on asked, implying,
"Why us, of all people?"
There was only one answer I could give.
"Because I like your writing."
It was the same reason I joined Guinhoe back then.
I admired their works,
and I respected their attitudes toward literature.
They said they’d check their schedules.
It was their way of taking a step back to think over the sudden proposal.
I smiled and told them,
"I’ll wait."
On the first day of the creative writing special lecture for the second semester,
I was in the office of the Korean Literature Department, filling out various forms.
Administrative work is always tedious, no matter where you go.
"Do you need anything for the class?"
Cha, my teaching assistant, asked.
He would be assisting me again this semester.
Though technically my senior, things had taken a strange turn, making him my assistant.
I was about to say there was nothing I needed when something came to mind.
"Do we have whiteboard markers?"
"Of course. We always keep those on hand. Are you planning to write on the board?"
He looked surprised.
I hadn’t used the whiteboard even once last semester.
It wasn’t like a high school class where there was much to write.
But today was different.
"Not writing, exactly—drawing."
In the Humanities College auditorium,
I slipped in through the side door.
Even so, the audience noticed me, and murmurs spread.
Was it because I had just returned from my lecture tour in Japan?
The response today felt more immediate and vibrant.
All the seats were sold out.
Even the aisles were packed with extra chairs for those auditing the class.
Cha had clearly put a lot of effort into organizing this.
I stepped up to the podium.
It was the first class of the semester.
I gave a brief introduction.
"I’m Lee Sang, a writer. Nice to meet you."
I scanned the students.
Their gazes were calm and attentive, fixed on me.
The class had begun.
"As you all know, the world is incredibly complex."
The students nodded, as if to say, Tell us something we don’t know.
"I believe that art is a way of seeing this complex world. For example—"
I turned around and stood before the large whiteboard.
When I picked up a marker, I could feel the students stir.
I drew a large equilateral triangle on the board.
Then I took the microphone from the podium and stood beside the board.
I said, "This is how the world looks to me."
The students stared at the triangle, their expressions puzzled.
I drew a circle at the bottom left corner of the triangle.
"This side represents the external world."
Next, I marked the bottom right corner.
"This side is my inner self."
Finally, I pointed to the top corner of the triangle.
"What do you think goes here?"
Curiosity spread across their faces.
The external world and the inner self—
What could possibly be left?
One student spoke up.
“Shall we connect the two?”
A clever answer.
"Exactly. That's correct."
I circled the last vertex.
Then, I wrote:
‘Relationship.’
“The relationship between the human inner world and the external world plays a crucial role in this triangle. The inner world is inevitably influenced by external factors, and the external world, in turn, is the product of many inner worlds coming together. At least, my works reflect how I perceive the world through this triangle.”
I returned to the podium.
“Creating art is not about copying the world as it is. You need to reinterpret the world from your own perspective. That personal perspective is what we call the ‘artistic world of the creator.’”
The students finally started taking notes.
Some were drawing the triangle, while others were deep in thought.
They were probably pondering what their own perspective might be.
I gave a brief explanation of how to reinterpret the world through one’s personal lens, along with a few examples.
This lecture was more in-depth than the one last semester.
Fortunately, the students followed along well.
Thus, the first special lecture of the semester came to an end.
After swiftly addressing the flood of questions, I stepped down from the podium.
“Good job.”
Cha, the assistant, approached me.
“Thanks. You should head home—your shift must be over.”
“Yes. Ah, by the way... something was just posted on New Literature.”
Cha showed me his phone screen.
On the screen was an article.
It was a critique written by the literary critic Oh Jin-woo.
“On Lee Sang’s Poetry: The Eye of the Triangle.”
“It’s quite similar to the content of your lecture just now. Did you discuss it with him?”
“…No. I’ll buy the article myself. Thanks for letting me know.”
I handed the phone back to Cha and headed quickly to the underground parking lot at Korea University.
Inside my car, instead of starting the engine, I opened New Literature on my phone.
I immediately purchased Oh Jin-woo's critique and began reading.
The critique was as follows:
"The three poems Lee Sang has released reflect how he sees the world. These three poems appear distinct in imagery and form when viewed separately. The first poem,
"Consider
"What about
“Ha.”
A hollow laugh escaped me.
I could feel goosebumps rising on my skin.
A critic’s interpretation doesn’t need to align perfectly with the creator’s intent.
A work stands on its own, and so does its interpretation.
However… this was different.
This critique grasped my intentions with uncanny accuracy.
It was the first time I’d encountered a piece that so thoroughly unveiled the aesthetic value of my poetry.
And the final paragraph:
"Then, what is
I set my phone down.
The critique was neither short nor superficial.
It had meticulously unraveled the essence of my poetry.
“…”
The sense of a burden lifting—a weight slipping away—washed over me.
Oh Jin-woo’s critique had surpassed my expectations.
Rather than feeling exposed, I felt understood.
Eight p.m.
Not exactly the best time to call someone you're not close to.
Even so, I dialed his number.
“Hello?”
“Oh Jin-woo, this is Lee Sang.”
“Ah, yes.”
He didn’t say much.
He didn’t even ask if I’d read the critique.
Instead of exchanging pleasantries, I asked:
“Can we meet?”
There was a long silence.
I could vividly imagine his habitual pause—the way he would swallow his words before speaking.
After a moment, he finally responded.
“Let’s do that.”