[Baking Typewriter] Some Trees

(Some Trees / Written by Choi Seungja / Nanda / 16,000 KRW)

[Asia Economy, Park Soyeon] If despair, too, had parents to embrace it in difficult times, they would probably resemble the poetry of Choi Seungja. The poet, who has spent years alongside countless young people and the ecstasy of suffering, has had her prose collection, written as a diary during her time living abroad, reissued. There is a unique pleasure in peeking into the poet's diary. Some days are heavy and somber, while others bring a faint smile. "Seungja is afraid of becoming happy." This is how one of her foreign writer friends, who lived with her, once described her.

Choi Seungja's second prose collection, "Some Trees," was originally published in 1995 and has now been reissued 26 years later. After being invited to the International Writing Program (IWP) at the University of Iowa, Choi Seungja traveled abroad for the first time and recorded her experiences in this book, covering the period from August 26, 1994, to Monday, January 16, 1995.

The poet, unable to bring her favorite coffee mix, struggles to adjust to Americanos and feels disoriented; after surviving on instant noodles, she finds happiness when she discovers an Asian grocery store and buys Dashida, seaweed, dried squid, gim, and kimchi. She also buys Paul Auster's "The Art of Hunger" at a bookstore, drawn only by the title, and becomes so absorbed that she resolves to translate it into Korean. The poet, known for expressing herself only in condensed language, reveals a relatable, everyday side. In addition, the book offers insights into her perspectives on art, people, and life. About Paul Auster, she writes, "He is a writer who gives me a strange sense of intimacy, as if some part of us aligns, as if I have known him for a long time."

There are also scenes of her struggling to translate her poetry into English to introduce it to foreign writers. For example, when translating the line "Would you teach me a bird?" the poet herself renders it as "Would you teach me a bird?" Her native English-speaking friend finds this awkward and suggests "about being a bird" or "a birdness," but the poet adamantly refuses. She insists that such translations would kill the line. Simply saying "a bird" evokes an unlimited, unconfined, infinite, and free state, while the friend's suggestions already limit the image of the bird, making it impossible to convey that sense of freedom. In the end, the line becomes "Would you teach me; a bird?" The semicolon (;) is what preserves the bird in the poem.

Since the late 1990s, Choi Seungja has suffered from schizophrenia, making normal activities difficult. In an interview, she said, "At some point, I became deeply immersed in mystical studies such as Laozi-Zhuangzi philosophy, fate theory, Sasang constitutional medicine, and astrology," adding, "Once I became absorbed in these studies, I could no longer control myself." She also revealed that being exposed to astrology during her four-month stay in the United States, invited by the University of Iowa in 1994, became a turning point for her.

In this book as well, the beginnings of that change can be faintly sensed. As November arrives, the poet's diary gradually grows darker. She writes of feeling sad, thinking, "Another chapter is coming to a close. I know that something will sink within me, that something has changed me, and that for some time to come, it will act as an invisible, latent force upon my consciousness and unconsciousness." In her December diary, she writes, "For some time now, I have felt my body growing uneasy, and my unconscious growing uneasy." In this record of just over four months, Choi Seungja's excitement and anxiety as she faces her first time living abroad, as well as her journey toward a new life, are all captured. The reader comes away feeling a little closer to the poet.

This content was produced with the assistance of AI translation services.