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Fiction

Lament

By Han Yujoo
Translated from Korean by Janet Hong
Han Yujoo mourns a death and battles writer's block.

He was fifty-four years old with a sound mind and a body that was rotting away. He died. He wasn’t young enough to have required a specific cause of death, or young enough to cause great sadness. Only a vague sadness existed about death itself. He died at fifty-four years of age, and he had no one who would be sad about his death. There was no one who would remember him. Because he had already died he couldn’t even claim ownership over such people. Death meant losing all things, people, oneself, and any ownership over time and space. I found that tragically sad. He died at fifty-four years of age, and I felt no sadness. I found that tragically sad.

And then I wake.

I can’t write a single sentence. Still, I don’t think I’ve yet lost the least bit of my ability to form a sentence. I have no problem writing, “I can’t write a single sentence.” Therefore, the previous sentence is a lie. I cannot stand lies. What I cannot stand is starting with the sentence, “I can’t write a single sentence.” I sat at my desk for a long time, trying not to write that I couldn’t write a single sentence as my first sentence. Several times I wrote that I couldn’t write a single sentence as my first sentence and several times I erased it. I fell asleep after and had a dream, and in that dream I read a book that started with the sentence that said he was fifty-four years old with a sound mind and a body that was rotting away. In order to remember the sentences in that book—because I knew I was dreaming—I read the sentences over and over again, struggling desperately to memorize them. But even in my dream, I knew the instant I awoke, the instant the page of my dream was covered up, the sentences I had memorized would vanish. The sentences in my dream were wonderful, reminiscent of Peter Handke. The fifty-four-year-old protagonist behaved like the characters in Peter Handke’s novels. Even in my dream, I knew I had not been able to write a single sentence for a long time. That’s why I didn’t want to lose the sentences, even though they could have looked like poor imitations of Peter Handke’s. Even in my dream, I didn’t know if I had written them, or if someone else had. Still, I wanted to make them mine. I wanted to claim ownership over them. Even in my dream they were wonderful, but I knew they had no power. Still, I wanted to make those sentences completely mine. I wanted to make each comma mine. Even in my dream, I knew I was just dreaming. I tried to tear the page, but it didn’t tear. I once dreamt that I had died many times. I struggled desperately to tear the page, but it didn’t tear. Because I had died many times already, if I struggled desperately, I could die. The text stubbornly insisted on staying on the page. No. The text stayed the same. Every last comma stayed the same. No. The page stubbornly insisted on the text. Even though I tore off the text, it didn’t tear off. The day was brightening. Even in my dream, I could sense the dawn. At first, I sat down between the text, and then I filled in all the gaps between the text without leaving any space, and in the end I could feel that dawn was coming—dawn which overpowers all sentences. I didn’t die in my dream. I didn’t even grow tired. I simply struggled desperately to repeat the meaningless action of tearing the page again and again. I tore it, but it didn’t tear. I gripped the nonexistent page. I memorized the nonexistent sentences. The nonexistent characters repeated their nonexistent actions. And then I woke from my sleep. A few sentences lingered, but they weren’t the ones from my dream. I found that sad. But not tragically sad. I didn’t even know when and where and how I could use the expression “tragically.”

And so I start to write by borrowing the sentences from the dream. But all of a sudden, I feel that I won’t be able to finish the piece if I can’t find the sentences that had vanished the instant I awoke. But I’ve never found anything I’ve lost in a dream or anything that vanished into a dream. He was fifty-four years old with a sound mind and a body that was rotting away. And then in the next sentence he died. According to my dim memory, he was not an assembly technician or a soccer player, a Korean or an Austrian. I like Peter Handke’s novels, but I have never thought to copy his sentences. I haven’t been able to write a single sentence for a long time. That’s a lie. I wrote many sentences but erased them all. But there are times you must write more than a single sentence, even though they may be lies. Like now. I still can’t write a single sentence. But I don’t think I’ve yet lost the least bit of my ability to form a sentence. I have no problems writing that I can’t write a single sentence. It’s invasive. It’s insidious. It’s invisible. It’s indelible. It’s inaccurate. It’s inadequate. It’s incoherent. It’s inchoate. There are many adjectives like these. I think about the sentences I had written easily until now. I had written so easily. Words. Sentences. Pieces. Thinking that I want to cry right now, I repeat the sentence, “I can’t write a single sentence.” I think I should renounce such sentimentalism for wanting to cry, but I also think how nice it would be if I could just cry and write any sentence. Are tears a part of the body? What kind of ownership can you claim over tears? I don’t cry. I write. I don’t write. I cry. They’re all lies.

I leaf through my notebook. Notes have been written down without method. They don’t contain an inciting incident. The houseplant froze to death inside the house. After you died I didn’t water your plant. Winter came and the heater broke. I didn’t know the name of the plant. It was a plant with many large green leaves. The green leaves gradually turned yellow from the edges. The plant was dying. But before it withered to death, it froze to death. I was upset that I wasn’t the one who had killed it. The cold had killed it. The water froze inside the house. The cold was severe. There’s a line from Choi Hayeon’s poetry that I’ve memorized like a mantra: Freeze to death, freeze to death. I cannot remember what comes before or after that line. I wanted to kill the plant without laying a hand on it. Its hold on life was tenacious. It survived without water for nearly two months. And then it froze to death before it could wither to death. While I was rummaging through a box, I found an electric pad. It had a 110-volt plug. It was an object I couldn’t use. The weather was warming up. When I drank ice water I didn’t wither to death or freeze to death.

This is what was written in the notebook. On the back of the page, “freeze to death, freeze to death” filled the entire page. I decide to think of the person from my dream who died at fifty-four as the same person who died and left behind the houseplant. And then I fail. I want to show something and I also don’t want to show anything. I want to reveal something and I also don’t want to reveal anything. I want to show something with something that doesn’t show, and I want to show something with something that doesn’t show. I feel I’ve been depleted. But I don’t exactly know what it means to be depleted. It feels wrong to write certain words carelessly. But I’ve always written everything so carelessly. It’s impossible to write anything if you don’t write carelessly. It feels wrong to write all words carelessly. I am not to be trusted. I am always lying. I, who am lying that I am lying, am not to be trusted. Even now I am lying. It’s because I can’t write anything. I can go on forever, saying that I can’t write anything. I have the ability to repeat repeatedly. It’s an ability I want to discard.

And then I wake.

Winter, I can feel the cold even indoors. The temperature is below zero. People start to trickle into the room. I smell coffee. Someone strikes up a conversation. Today is the last day of the colloquium. There is a hike planned for tomorrow. The name of the river is Hantan. Lament. I’m told we’ll be able to see birds and wild animals. If we’re unlucky the ice may crack and our feet may get wet, and if we’re lucky, we may see an eagle. It’s hard to tell what is unlucky and what is lucky just by listening to the description. I once heard a story of how the daughter of a distant relative who had moved to the United States several decades ago had her dog snatched away by an eagle. I also heard that in the same neighborhood, there lived a woman whose newborn baby was snatched away by an eagle. When I relate these tales, the person I’m talking to says that Korean eagles are smaller and that on the hike tomorrow, no one is likely to have a dog or newborn baby. I smell coffee. Even though I’m not drinking coffee, I can anticipate the aftertaste. It’s sweet and bitter. People take their seats. The presenter walks up to the front. People applaud. Equations fill up the blackboard. Set theory. Forcing. Zermelo-Fraenkel. I don’t understand most of what the presenter is saying. The name Zermelo makes me think of “cello” and “Portobelo.” I’ve seen a cello before and I’ve never been to Portobelo. The back view of the person sitting in front of me comes into sight. His short hair is sprinkled with premature gray. He was probably in his mid-fifties. I twist my head a little and study his profile. I know who he is. The presenter reads out another equation. Bored because I can’t understand anything the presenter is saying, I decide to study the person sitting in front of me. He is a scholar. From what I’ve heard, he has written and translated many books. I look around the room. I end up making eye contact with someone. A person I don’t know. About half the people at the colloquium are familiar and about half are unfamiliar. It may not be exactly half. And there are those I know who don’t know me. They are a part of the half I’m not certain is exactly half. Most of the people have their eyes fixed on the blackboard and are focused on what the presenter is saying. I lean back against my chair and start to study in earnest the man in front of me. From what I’ve heard, he is probably in his mid-fifties. On the chair to his left is his bag and on the chair to his right is his trench coat. No one is sitting on either side of him. He is wearing a white dress shirt. The collar is clean. What I can see is clean, at the very least. He is wearing black corduroy pants. I can’t see his shoes, because his chair is blocking my view. He is focused on what the presenter is saying. He looks that way, at the very least. A discussion paper, Monami ballpoint pen, and a pair of glasses are on his desk. He is wearing glasses. In other words, he has two pairs of glasses. He is wearing a tweed jacket over his white shirt. They are scholarly clothes. I don’t exactly know what kind of clothes are scholarly. But it seems likely that he’ll look like a scholar wherever he happens to be. He takes off his glasses and puts on the ones that were on his desk. One pair is probably for nearsightedness and the other is probably for reading. The presenter uses sentences that are composed of English nouns and Korean postpositions, English verbs and Korean suffixes. I start to take down the presenter’s words in my mind and then stop. I can’t make the equations correspond to the sentences. The cuffs of the scholar’s tweed jacket are lightly worn. He is writing something on the blank discussion paper with the Monami pen. I can’t make out the text. All of a sudden, I’m curious about his age. He was probably in his mid-fifties. He may not be fifty-four. His mind is most likely sound and his body doesn’t appear to be rotting away. He removes his glasses and doesn’t put on the other pair. On his desk are two pairs of glasses. He lowers his head as though he’s bending over his desk and then straightens and brings the discussion paper close to his eyes. He brings the paper right up to his face. His bag and trench coat stay at either side of him. Different equations are written on the blackboard. The paper in his hand shakes. It could be because of the hot air coming from the heater and it could be because his hand is shaking. If he has a hand tremor, the paper isn’t shaking too much. I want to give him my eyes.

No. I want to make his sight mine. I can see the blackboard, paper, text, sentences, faces, ice, and eagle. I can see them much too well. I want to give him my eyes. He’ll be able to use my eyes to see something much better, much finer, much greater. I assume that he is fifty-four years old with a sound mind but a body that is rotting away. I could perhaps study him and write about a concrete death. But what was a concrete death? And why did I always require someone’s death?

The presentation ends. Applause. The next presenter walks up to the front. Applause. I open up the discussion paper. Written on it is the title “Alain Badiou’s Set-Theoretical Ontology.” Alain Badiou is a name I know. But knowing his name doesn’t explain set-theoretical ontology. The scholar sitting in front of me is still peering at the paper before his eyes. It is literally before his eyes. I want to give him my eyes. Beside the chalkboard is a window. It starts to snow. Someone coughs. The aftertaste of the coffee that I didn’t drink lingers on my tongue. It’s bitter and sweet. Quietly I push back my chair and get to my feet, and quietly I open the door and step out into the hallway. The aftertaste of the cigarette that I didn’t yet smoke lingers on my tongue. It’s bitter and powerless. How do I exist?

If I can’t write a single sentence, it doesn’t matter if I don’t exist. Even if I can’t be read, it was good enough if I could write. I read, at the very least. But if I can’t write a single sentence, I can’t read. Even I. When I open the glass door, the cold air travels from the tips of my fingers to the inside of my head. Am I sensing the cold or am I thinking of it? The outside air is cold. Is it true that the outside air is cold? Is the truth that is connected to sensation actually true? I take out a cigarette and light it. The snow is falling. I touch the car keys inside my pocket and press a button. A light blinks from the parking lot far away. I press the button again. The headlights blink again. The snow is piling up on top of the car. There is a hike planned for tomorrow. Would the river be frozen enough? The snow is piling up even on top of the cigarette ash. I decide to walk around the building. I want to leave my footprints in the snow. I want to see the white snow pile up on top of the white snow, on top of the footprints. On top of the layers of time. I pass the small flowerbed and when I round the corner, I hear someone’s voice. It’s the voices of two people.

“So it slipped?”

I toss my cigarette to the ground. The snow falls on top of the cigarette butt.

“My inside is not my inside.”

The snow falls.

“You mean it’s still blocked?”

I round the corner. Two people look at me. I don’t recognize them. They are probably the building caretakers or people from the county office. One person flicks away the cigarette he’d been holding and the other person continues to talk on his cell phone.

“The snow will stop in the evening . . .”

The person who flicked away the cigarette says to the person on the phone, “Do you know how bitter I am?”

The person who is holding the phone continues to talk on the phone. “It should be OK . . .”

I step on my cigarette butt. I grind it out. The snow will cover it. The person who flicked away the cigarette looks at me. I turn my head and walk toward the entrance. Glass door. Hallway. Fluorescent lights. “. . . that the one is not . . .” Faintly, I hear the voice of the presenter. The aftertaste of the cigarette that I smoked is bitter and sweet. “ . . . what mathematics can’t explain, would poetry be able to explain . . .” I enter the room.

And then I wake.

There was no dream. Maybe I can’t remember it. When I go down to the cafeteria, most of the people have already finished their breakfast. Someone shouts, “Gather in front of the entrance in half an hour!” Someone approaches and greets me. I look around the cafeteria and spot the scholar I’d wanted to give my eyes to the day before. He has on the tweed jacket. He is wiping his mouth. Today I don’t want to give him my eyes. There are still things I want to see. I just don’t know what they are. I once saw a movie where a person had blindly gone to a big city to find the woman who had appeared repeatedly in his dreams. Since there were more women in a big city, which had a higher population, he said there was a greater chance that the woman from his dreams would also be there. He is right. He may never meet the woman. But he has a very small chance. I don’t know what I want to see. But while I have my two eyes, I have a very small chance that I will get to see what I want to see. While I drink coffee and chew bread, I think of the things I haven’t yet seen. It’s impossible to think about the things you haven’t yet seen. It’s also impossible to see the things you haven’t yet seen. Someone trips over someone else’s hiking stick. A glass cup shatters. While I listen to the glass hit the ground and shatter, I think that I’ve seen a glass shatter before. No, that must not be right. I have never worn glasses before.

There is a shovel in the trunk of my car. While I wait for the bus, I wonder if I should get the shovel from the trunk. I had buried a dog with it. The noun “dog” is doglike. I am never going to get a dog again. I am afraid of the hike. It’s because I feel that I will see the corpse of a wild animal. That’s why I’m thinking of getting the shovel. I want to bury the animal’s corpse in ice. But the odds of seeing an animal’s corpse on the hike aren’t great. Someone else may see it before me. Anyhow, I wonder if I should get the shovel. I might be able to use it as a hiking stick. But rather than using it to bury the animal’s corpse in ice, I want to bury the shovel I had used to bury the dog. By the time the ice melts I won’t be there. Even when the ice melts, revealing the corpse and the shovel, I won’t be there to see. I’m relieved the dog is dead. A dead dog can’t die again. Because the dog has already died, I can’t even claim ownership over the nonexistent dog. I want to renounce my ownership over the shovel now. But the bus arrives. The people board in single file. The name of the river is Hantan. It’s my first time going to Hantan River.

We walk along the river for a long time. We arrive at the spot where the river is frozen solid. People go down to the river. The snow, which had fallen the day before, is piled on the ice. I didn’t bring a stick. I should have brought the shovel. I want to bury the snow under the ice. I want to bury my eyes under the ice. Two people are walking in front of me. One is a mathematician who had been one of the presenters the day before. They exchange a few words. I can’t hear what they’re saying. I am wearing running shoes. I already feel as though my toes are frozen. The sunlight is blinding. Because of the blinding light, I shade my eyes with a hand. I am sleepy. “There aren’t many papers coming out of Korea . . .” I overhear what he says. I wonder how there could be such words that make you think of nothing.

“Don’t you have proper shoes?” someone asks from behind.

I look back. He had been the third presenter. He is a novelist. Instead of listening to my response, he turns to the side and takes a picture. I look down at his hiking boots. I think that it’s the first time I’m seeing hiking boots up close. The sunlight is as blinding as ever. A granite outcropping appears. The snow-covered granite rocks look like colossal mushrooms or flying saucers. I have never seen colossal mushrooms or flying saucers. But even if I were to see gigantic mushrooms or flying saucers, I wouldn’t think that they looked like granite rocks. I don’t have proper shoes. I think of a riddle that makes you think of similar-looking objects. “They say these are igneous rocks . . .” Again, I overhear what he says. Because I want to hear what comes next, I quickly move my feet. And then I fall. Several people turn to look, and several of them burst into laughter.

“Don’t you have proper shoes?”

They’re words I would rather not hear. I stand up awkwardly and brush off the snow. I was thirty-three years old with a sound mind and a body that was rotting away. Or was it the opposite? With a rotten mind and a sound body. No. With a sound mind and a sound body. No. The instant I slipped and fell, the word “trunk” came to mind. Was there a shovel in the trunk? Did I bury a dog with the shovel? Did the dog die? Did I have a dog? I start to walk again. The people have been quietly walking along the river for some time. The river grows narrower and a tent appears. A pair of hiking boots is sitting outside the tent. I want to steal them and run away. But I will slip and fall before I can run away. Is it before I steal the hiking boots that I slip and fall, or after I steal them? A craggy rock façade appears. I know the noun that describes this kind of topography. But I can’t remember it. Can you still call knowledge you can’t remember knowledge? Suddenly a dot appears in the sky. I gaze up at the sky through my fingers. The dot moves horizontally. It’s an eagle. People cheer. Someone takes out a pair of binoculars. It’s not the scholar. Come to think of it, he isn’t there. He probably didn’t bring any winter clothes. He would not have considered going on a hike in a tweed jacket and trench coat. He probably didn’t bring proper shoes either. I didn’t bring the shovel. The dot that had been moving horizontally surges up all of a sudden. The eagle’s shadow becomes a small stain and soils the eyes. I feel that I’ll be able to write a piece based on today’s memory. But there’s not much I’ve seen. I should have brought the shovel. I want to write about death. I want to see an animal’s corpse with my own eyes and write about death, based on that. What would it be like to see a human corpse? But thinking that I want to see a human corpse for my petty writing feels immoral. But this also goes for the animal’s corpse. I’m confused. I don’t know what I should write and what I shouldn’t write. I don’t know how I should write and how I shouldn’t write. But for a long time I couldn’t write a single sentence. I want to write anything, whether it’s about someone’s corpse, my shameful memory, your cruel childhood, his difficult illness, someone’s amnesia, my thinking that is to blame, your denial, or his death. If only I could write a single sentence. If only I could start a sentence that wasn’t that I couldn’t write a single sentence. I saw many deaths. But I can’t write concretely about their deaths. Not that I haven’t tried. It was the same with the dog’s death. They and the dog died abstractly. And they lingered as sentences that had been written easily. The eagle’s shadow grows smaller. I look up. But I can’t see anything, because the sun is blinding. And then I slip and fall again.

“Don’t you have proper shoes?” someone asks.

It’s the third time I’m hearing the question. Why do people ask about something they can see? I didn’t come with proper shoes. I don’t know what proper shoes are anymore. The question whether I have proper shoes sounds like the question whether I can write a proper sentence. It’s my inferiority complex. I take out a pack of cigarettes. The person who asked me the question asks for a cigarette. I say that it’s my last one and I ask him if he would like to smoke it instead of me. He laughs awkwardly and refuses. He looks at the pack that is filled with cigarettes. This time he doesn’t ask about what he sees. And then he leaves. He walks ahead. Someone standing at the head shouts that the ice isn’t frozen solid and that we should climb onto the riverbank. Hurriedly, the people climb up. It’s called a columnar jointing. The craggy rock façade from earlier is called a columnar jointing. My mind lights up for a moment. But the dictionary definition of a columnar jointing won’t be a craggy rock façade. There is a limit to my ability to express things. So it’s only natural that I can’t write a single sentence. I grow ashamed. I take out my phone and run my dictionary app and type in “columnar jointing.” “Jointing refers to a fracture in rock . . .” A fracture in rock . . . I hear the sound of ice cracking. For a moment, I think that I’ve seen ice crack before. And for a moment, I don’t think of anything. It’s not that I don’t—I can’t think of anything. I feel the cold. This time the sensation is faster than my thinking. But it’s my mind that organizes the sensation. I look down. My left foot is under the ice. While I was looking for the dictionary definition of “columnar jointing,” most of the people had climbed onto the riverbank. They don’t seem to have heard me fall into the river. I look back. There is no one. The people move further away. I pull my foot out. It’s frightening and cold. No. There is no sensation. The cold burrows into my body like needles. I wasn’t wearing proper shoes. I was thirty-three years old with a mind and body I wasn’t sure were sound or rotting away, and my left foot was freezing up. I want to cut off my left foot and bury it under the ice. Because the river flowed under the ice, my cut-off left foot will flow down with the current of the river. I didn’t bring the shovel. But did I bury the dog? At the very least, I buried the dog in the sentences I wrote easily. The people move further away. A bare tree branch under the ice looks like a blood vessel. Before my right foot also falls into the river, I climb onto the riverbank. I remove my improper shoe and my sock. My foot is blue and red and white. I need to go back before my foot freezes. How long is the walk back? What will I see when I pass the columnar jointing and granite rocks again? Fracture. It’s a strange word.

And then I wake.

The sun seems to have set already. I grope along the wall and flick on the lights. My left foot prickles and stings. But I can stand the pain. In my dream, my left foot didn’t have to get cut off. I didn’t even fall into the river. I didn’t even see the eagle. I take out a fresh pair of socks and pull them on, and then pull on my still-damp shoe. I pack my things and slip out of the dorm. My left foot tingles. The people haven’t returned yet. It’s quiet. I take out my car keys and press a button. The lights blink. The unlocking of the doors sounds unusually loud. I load my luggage in the backseat and open the trunk. There is a shovel inside. There is dried-up dirt on the shovel. Did I really bury the dog? Deep inside the trunk is a can of beer. I take it out and shake it. I don’t hear any liquid inside. I forget the word “fracture.” I brush off the snow that is piled on top of the car and sit in the driver’s seat. I turn on the ignition. The car doesn’t start. I try again. It doesn’t start. The battery is probably dead. I walk back toward the dorm to look for the caretaker. When I press the bell on the counter, he appears shortly after. It’s the person I had seen the day before. But I can’t remember if he was the person who was talking on the phone or the person who was talking to the one who was talking on the phone. He glances at me and says before I say anything, “It’ll be difficult to go to Seoul. Because of the snow.”

Still, he starts my car with an object I don’t recognize.

“Don’t turn off the engine for about thirty minutes.”

I’m about to ask for the name of the object, but I stop. When the car starts, the radio comes on. Before I can even thank him, he’s already walking back to the building. I check the time. It’s 7:43. I can’t turn off the engine until 8:13. But there will be no need to turn off the engine before then. I pull out of the parking lot and proceed onto the road. All of a sudden, I feel as though I should have taken out the shovel and left it in the front passenger seat. But it’s too late. I feel a sense of foreboding. I may have to use the shovel to clear the snow. The snow is piled higher than I expected. There are snow embankments on both sides of the road. The road is icy. I slowly head toward the highway. A sign appears. If I turn left, it’s the Hantan River. All of a sudden, I recall the word “fracture.” It’s a strange word.

When I go back, I need to write. I don’t have to. But I want to. But I won’t. I want to write a piece that consists of a single sentence. The title of that piece will be “Fracture.” I’m lucky that it was my left foot that got wet. My wet left foot, wouldn’t have known exactly when or how much pressure I should apply to the brake pedal. But I don’t have enough driving experience to sense when the right time was or what the right amount was, especially on an icy road. But I have enough to sense that the word “fracture” was not appropriate as a title . . . Enough experience, that is . . . I decide to discard “Fracture.” Then how about “Don’t Turn off the Engine”? A story about how someone dies because she can’t turn off the car engine for thirty minutes. No. Why was I always trying to write someone’s death? On top of that, it’s not appropriate to have “Don’t Turn off the Engine” as the title of a story where someone is stuck in a car and ends up dying because she can’t turn off the engine. “Turn off the Engine” may be better. No. An ironic title like “Don’t Turn off the Engine” may be better.

I advance onto the four-lane highway. There aren’t many cars. The cars in front are moving slowly. It’s the same case with the oncoming traffic. The headlights are blinding at times. A traffic report comes on the radio. It doesn’t concern the area that I’m in. The report says that there was an accident on the Seoul Ring Expressway. It says that there is a stalled vehicle on Gangbyeon Expressway. It says there is major traffic all over Seoul due to the heavy snowfall. I decide to discard “Don’t Turn off the Engine.” My phone rings. It might be someone looking for me, since I vanished without any explanation. It could be someone else. It could be a scam artist. My phone is in the backseat. I stretch out my arm, but I can’t reach it. I undo my seatbelt and twist around, groping the backseat. But I can’t reach it. I give up. The seatbelt warning chime stops. My left foot hurts.

I think about the time I went to Cheju Island. On the road while passing Mount Halla, I heard there were many incidents of cars hitting and killing deer. I drove along that road, hoping I would hit a deer. I drove by once, twice, three times. But I didn’t see a single deer. It was summer. When I rolled down the window, I could feel the sticky but cool wind. It was at an arboretum that I actually saw a deer, or something close to a deer. When I was passing by a golf course, I saw an elk. I watched from afar for some time, waiting for an elk to get hit by a golf ball. The elk soon vanished into the woods. I didn’t know what I’d wanted to see. I don’t know what exactly I’d wanted to see. It could have been me that I’d wanted to hit and kill with a car. It could have been me that I’d wanted a golf ball to hit, cracking my head open. It starts to snow. Snowflakes land on the windshield and melt right away. The windows fog up. I turn the heater on full blast. I feel sleepy. But I can’t fall asleep. It hasn’t been thirty minutes yet. It’s 7:59. Anxiously, I wait for it to become 8:00. Is a minute really this long? I need to go a lot further before I get to a gas station. There, I’ll eat something and sleep a little. I’ll have a dream where I hit and kill a deer. And with that dream, I’ll write a sentence. Once again, easily. Much too easily. A single, excessively easy sentence.

And then I wake.

I hear the siren from far away. I hurriedly scan the road ahead. I see the license plate of the car in front of me. 1477. When I add up the numbers, I get 19. The clock reads 8:00. On the radio a familiar tune is playing. I don’t know the name of the song. It seems I dozed off for about fifteen seconds. Because I was going slowly, the distance I traveled in fifteen seconds wasn’t great. The siren gets closer. It’s coming from behind. I wonder what’s wrong with the person who’s in the ambulance that’s speeding along the snow-covered road. I look back through the rearview mirror. The ambulance is growing closer. The cars behind me look like they’re not going to move out of the way. The snowscape I had seen at Hantan River comes to mind. Those kinds of landscapes are probably called snowscapes. The tent and a bare branch under the ice. The shadow of an eagle and a cigarette butt. The siren grows shrill. I look back again. The ambulance is getting closer. The cars behind me move sluggishly out of the way to let the ambulance pass. All of a sudden, I think of the word “snowscape” and the tent by the river with the hiking boots outside. Had those hiking boots also gotten wet in the river? Had the owner been trying to dry them? Or could it be that the owner was waiting for them to get wet? Something that isn’t wet yet is bound to get wet. Something that hasn’t died yet is bound to die. I step on the accelerator. The seatbelt warning starts to chime. The warning chime fills in the extremely short breaks in the siren. The chime grows shrill. The siren and the chime create a shocking consonance. My ears prickle. They prickle so much that I want to die. That’s a lie. I look back again. There are two cars between me and the ambulance. I think that I should definitely use “Don’t Turn off the Engine” as the title. I twist the steering wheel to the side. I don’t have enough driving experience to know how much I need to twist the steering wheel for it to be safe, especially on an icy road. As I twist the steering wheel, I think it would be a good idea to put on my seatbelt again. If the warning chime doesn’t stop soon, it’s to the point that I want to die. I feel as though I’ve seen the ambulance that is right behind me before. I can see its red lights even though I don’t look. The red siren fills my vision. Even the warning chime is red. During the day I saw a snowscape. Now at night, I’m seeing red. A snowflake that falls on the windshield melts redly. I want to write that speed in a sentence. I want to write about that redness in a sentence. How many snowflakes do you need to make a snow embankment? I should have given my eyes to anyone; it didn’t have to be just the scholar. I want to give my eyes to anyone. I should have taken out the shovel from the trunk. I should have used it to bury myself. But how could I, a dead person, bury myself? If I don’t bury myself, who will bury me? The warning chime starts to ding spasmodically. I don’t know what the warning chime is warning. It’s too late for warning. Faster and faster. The engine can’t turn off. My right foot looks for the brake. My right foot isn’t wet, but it’s too late. Slower and slower. The speed vanishes. I like the sentence that the speed vanishes. I will write that as my first sentence. Now that I’ve written my first sentence, I want to write the next sentence. But what am I seeing right now? The redness erases my sentence. I found that tragically sad. No. I shouldn’t use the past tense. Who will write my sentence if I’m dead? Who will write my nonexistent sentence if I’m dead? How does my nonexistent sentence exist if I’m dead? How will I bury my nonexistent sentences if I’m dead? Who will read my nonexistent sentences if I’m dead? Faster and faster. Slower and slower. The speed vanishes. It vanishes even before the sentences that have lost speed can exist. Faster or slower. All speeds are either one of the two. Louder and louder. Louder and louder. Louder and louder. The sound overpowers the speed. The redness grows closer. Everything is red.

한탄” © Han Jujoo. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Janet Hong. All rights reserved.

English Korean (Original)

He was fifty-four years old with a sound mind and a body that was rotting away. He died. He wasn’t young enough to have required a specific cause of death, or young enough to cause great sadness. Only a vague sadness existed about death itself. He died at fifty-four years of age, and he had no one who would be sad about his death. There was no one who would remember him. Because he had already died he couldn’t even claim ownership over such people. Death meant losing all things, people, oneself, and any ownership over time and space. I found that tragically sad. He died at fifty-four years of age, and I felt no sadness. I found that tragically sad.

And then I wake.

I can’t write a single sentence. Still, I don’t think I’ve yet lost the least bit of my ability to form a sentence. I have no problem writing, “I can’t write a single sentence.” Therefore, the previous sentence is a lie. I cannot stand lies. What I cannot stand is starting with the sentence, “I can’t write a single sentence.” I sat at my desk for a long time, trying not to write that I couldn’t write a single sentence as my first sentence. Several times I wrote that I couldn’t write a single sentence as my first sentence and several times I erased it. I fell asleep after and had a dream, and in that dream I read a book that started with the sentence that said he was fifty-four years old with a sound mind and a body that was rotting away. In order to remember the sentences in that book—because I knew I was dreaming—I read the sentences over and over again, struggling desperately to memorize them. But even in my dream, I knew the instant I awoke, the instant the page of my dream was covered up, the sentences I had memorized would vanish. The sentences in my dream were wonderful, reminiscent of Peter Handke. The fifty-four-year-old protagonist behaved like the characters in Peter Handke’s novels. Even in my dream, I knew I had not been able to write a single sentence for a long time. That’s why I didn’t want to lose the sentences, even though they could have looked like poor imitations of Peter Handke’s. Even in my dream, I didn’t know if I had written them, or if someone else had. Still, I wanted to make them mine. I wanted to claim ownership over them. Even in my dream they were wonderful, but I knew they had no power. Still, I wanted to make those sentences completely mine. I wanted to make each comma mine. Even in my dream, I knew I was just dreaming. I tried to tear the page, but it didn’t tear. I once dreamt that I had died many times. I struggled desperately to tear the page, but it didn’t tear. Because I had died many times already, if I struggled desperately, I could die. The text stubbornly insisted on staying on the page. No. The text stayed the same. Every last comma stayed the same. No. The page stubbornly insisted on the text. Even though I tore off the text, it didn’t tear off. The day was brightening. Even in my dream, I could sense the dawn. At first, I sat down between the text, and then I filled in all the gaps between the text without leaving any space, and in the end I could feel that dawn was coming—dawn which overpowers all sentences. I didn’t die in my dream. I didn’t even grow tired. I simply struggled desperately to repeat the meaningless action of tearing the page again and again. I tore it, but it didn’t tear. I gripped the nonexistent page. I memorized the nonexistent sentences. The nonexistent characters repeated their nonexistent actions. And then I woke from my sleep. A few sentences lingered, but they weren’t the ones from my dream. I found that sad. But not tragically sad. I didn’t even know when and where and how I could use the expression “tragically.”

And so I start to write by borrowing the sentences from the dream. But all of a sudden, I feel that I won’t be able to finish the piece if I can’t find the sentences that had vanished the instant I awoke. But I’ve never found anything I’ve lost in a dream or anything that vanished into a dream. He was fifty-four years old with a sound mind and a body that was rotting away. And then in the next sentence he died. According to my dim memory, he was not an assembly technician or a soccer player, a Korean or an Austrian. I like Peter Handke’s novels, but I have never thought to copy his sentences. I haven’t been able to write a single sentence for a long time. That’s a lie. I wrote many sentences but erased them all. But there are times you must write more than a single sentence, even though they may be lies. Like now. I still can’t write a single sentence. But I don’t think I’ve yet lost the least bit of my ability to form a sentence. I have no problems writing that I can’t write a single sentence. It’s invasive. It’s insidious. It’s invisible. It’s indelible. It’s inaccurate. It’s inadequate. It’s incoherent. It’s inchoate. There are many adjectives like these. I think about the sentences I had written easily until now. I had written so easily. Words. Sentences. Pieces. Thinking that I want to cry right now, I repeat the sentence, “I can’t write a single sentence.” I think I should renounce such sentimentalism for wanting to cry, but I also think how nice it would be if I could just cry and write any sentence. Are tears a part of the body? What kind of ownership can you claim over tears? I don’t cry. I write. I don’t write. I cry. They’re all lies.

I leaf through my notebook. Notes have been written down without method. They don’t contain an inciting incident. The houseplant froze to death inside the house. After you died I didn’t water your plant. Winter came and the heater broke. I didn’t know the name of the plant. It was a plant with many large green leaves. The green leaves gradually turned yellow from the edges. The plant was dying. But before it withered to death, it froze to death. I was upset that I wasn’t the one who had killed it. The cold had killed it. The water froze inside the house. The cold was severe. There’s a line from Choi Hayeon’s poetry that I’ve memorized like a mantra: Freeze to death, freeze to death. I cannot remember what comes before or after that line. I wanted to kill the plant without laying a hand on it. Its hold on life was tenacious. It survived without water for nearly two months. And then it froze to death before it could wither to death. While I was rummaging through a box, I found an electric pad. It had a 110-volt plug. It was an object I couldn’t use. The weather was warming up. When I drank ice water I didn’t wither to death or freeze to death.

This is what was written in the notebook. On the back of the page, “freeze to death, freeze to death” filled the entire page. I decide to think of the person from my dream who died at fifty-four as the same person who died and left behind the houseplant. And then I fail. I want to show something and I also don’t want to show anything. I want to reveal something and I also don’t want to reveal anything. I want to show something with something that doesn’t show, and I want to show something with something that doesn’t show. I feel I’ve been depleted. But I don’t exactly know what it means to be depleted. It feels wrong to write certain words carelessly. But I’ve always written everything so carelessly. It’s impossible to write anything if you don’t write carelessly. It feels wrong to write all words carelessly. I am not to be trusted. I am always lying. I, who am lying that I am lying, am not to be trusted. Even now I am lying. It’s because I can’t write anything. I can go on forever, saying that I can’t write anything. I have the ability to repeat repeatedly. It’s an ability I want to discard.

And then I wake.

Winter, I can feel the cold even indoors. The temperature is below zero. People start to trickle into the room. I smell coffee. Someone strikes up a conversation. Today is the last day of the colloquium. There is a hike planned for tomorrow. The name of the river is Hantan. Lament. I’m told we’ll be able to see birds and wild animals. If we’re unlucky the ice may crack and our feet may get wet, and if we’re lucky, we may see an eagle. It’s hard to tell what is unlucky and what is lucky just by listening to the description. I once heard a story of how the daughter of a distant relative who had moved to the United States several decades ago had her dog snatched away by an eagle. I also heard that in the same neighborhood, there lived a woman whose newborn baby was snatched away by an eagle. When I relate these tales, the person I’m talking to says that Korean eagles are smaller and that on the hike tomorrow, no one is likely to have a dog or newborn baby. I smell coffee. Even though I’m not drinking coffee, I can anticipate the aftertaste. It’s sweet and bitter. People take their seats. The presenter walks up to the front. People applaud. Equations fill up the blackboard. Set theory. Forcing. Zermelo-Fraenkel. I don’t understand most of what the presenter is saying. The name Zermelo makes me think of “cello” and “Portobelo.” I’ve seen a cello before and I’ve never been to Portobelo. The back view of the person sitting in front of me comes into sight. His short hair is sprinkled with premature gray. He was probably in his mid-fifties. I twist my head a little and study his profile. I know who he is. The presenter reads out another equation. Bored because I can’t understand anything the presenter is saying, I decide to study the person sitting in front of me. He is a scholar. From what I’ve heard, he has written and translated many books. I look around the room. I end up making eye contact with someone. A person I don’t know. About half the people at the colloquium are familiar and about half are unfamiliar. It may not be exactly half. And there are those I know who don’t know me. They are a part of the half I’m not certain is exactly half. Most of the people have their eyes fixed on the blackboard and are focused on what the presenter is saying. I lean back against my chair and start to study in earnest the man in front of me. From what I’ve heard, he is probably in his mid-fifties. On the chair to his left is his bag and on the chair to his right is his trench coat. No one is sitting on either side of him. He is wearing a white dress shirt. The collar is clean. What I can see is clean, at the very least. He is wearing black corduroy pants. I can’t see his shoes, because his chair is blocking my view. He is focused on what the presenter is saying. He looks that way, at the very least. A discussion paper, Monami ballpoint pen, and a pair of glasses are on his desk. He is wearing glasses. In other words, he has two pairs of glasses. He is wearing a tweed jacket over his white shirt. They are scholarly clothes. I don’t exactly know what kind of clothes are scholarly. But it seems likely that he’ll look like a scholar wherever he happens to be. He takes off his glasses and puts on the ones that were on his desk. One pair is probably for nearsightedness and the other is probably for reading. The presenter uses sentences that are composed of English nouns and Korean postpositions, English verbs and Korean suffixes. I start to take down the presenter’s words in my mind and then stop. I can’t make the equations correspond to the sentences. The cuffs of the scholar’s tweed jacket are lightly worn. He is writing something on the blank discussion paper with the Monami pen. I can’t make out the text. All of a sudden, I’m curious about his age. He was probably in his mid-fifties. He may not be fifty-four. His mind is most likely sound and his body doesn’t appear to be rotting away. He removes his glasses and doesn’t put on the other pair. On his desk are two pairs of glasses. He lowers his head as though he’s bending over his desk and then straightens and brings the discussion paper close to his eyes. He brings the paper right up to his face. His bag and trench coat stay at either side of him. Different equations are written on the blackboard. The paper in his hand shakes. It could be because of the hot air coming from the heater and it could be because his hand is shaking. If he has a hand tremor, the paper isn’t shaking too much. I want to give him my eyes.

No. I want to make his sight mine. I can see the blackboard, paper, text, sentences, faces, ice, and eagle. I can see them much too well. I want to give him my eyes. He’ll be able to use my eyes to see something much better, much finer, much greater. I assume that he is fifty-four years old with a sound mind but a body that is rotting away. I could perhaps study him and write about a concrete death. But what was a concrete death? And why did I always require someone’s death?

The presentation ends. Applause. The next presenter walks up to the front. Applause. I open up the discussion paper. Written on it is the title “Alain Badiou’s Set-Theoretical Ontology.” Alain Badiou is a name I know. But knowing his name doesn’t explain set-theoretical ontology. The scholar sitting in front of me is still peering at the paper before his eyes. It is literally before his eyes. I want to give him my eyes. Beside the chalkboard is a window. It starts to snow. Someone coughs. The aftertaste of the coffee that I didn’t drink lingers on my tongue. It’s bitter and sweet. Quietly I push back my chair and get to my feet, and quietly I open the door and step out into the hallway. The aftertaste of the cigarette that I didn’t yet smoke lingers on my tongue. It’s bitter and powerless. How do I exist?

If I can’t write a single sentence, it doesn’t matter if I don’t exist. Even if I can’t be read, it was good enough if I could write. I read, at the very least. But if I can’t write a single sentence, I can’t read. Even I. When I open the glass door, the cold air travels from the tips of my fingers to the inside of my head. Am I sensing the cold or am I thinking of it? The outside air is cold. Is it true that the outside air is cold? Is the truth that is connected to sensation actually true? I take out a cigarette and light it. The snow is falling. I touch the car keys inside my pocket and press a button. A light blinks from the parking lot far away. I press the button again. The headlights blink again. The snow is piling up on top of the car. There is a hike planned for tomorrow. Would the river be frozen enough? The snow is piling up even on top of the cigarette ash. I decide to walk around the building. I want to leave my footprints in the snow. I want to see the white snow pile up on top of the white snow, on top of the footprints. On top of the layers of time. I pass the small flowerbed and when I round the corner, I hear someone’s voice. It’s the voices of two people.

“So it slipped?”

I toss my cigarette to the ground. The snow falls on top of the cigarette butt.

“My inside is not my inside.”

The snow falls.

“You mean it’s still blocked?”

I round the corner. Two people look at me. I don’t recognize them. They are probably the building caretakers or people from the county office. One person flicks away the cigarette he’d been holding and the other person continues to talk on his cell phone.

“The snow will stop in the evening . . .”

The person who flicked away the cigarette says to the person on the phone, “Do you know how bitter I am?”

The person who is holding the phone continues to talk on the phone. “It should be OK . . .”

I step on my cigarette butt. I grind it out. The snow will cover it. The person who flicked away the cigarette looks at me. I turn my head and walk toward the entrance. Glass door. Hallway. Fluorescent lights. “. . . that the one is not . . .” Faintly, I hear the voice of the presenter. The aftertaste of the cigarette that I smoked is bitter and sweet. “ . . . what mathematics can’t explain, would poetry be able to explain . . .” I enter the room.

And then I wake.

There was no dream. Maybe I can’t remember it. When I go down to the cafeteria, most of the people have already finished their breakfast. Someone shouts, “Gather in front of the entrance in half an hour!” Someone approaches and greets me. I look around the cafeteria and spot the scholar I’d wanted to give my eyes to the day before. He has on the tweed jacket. He is wiping his mouth. Today I don’t want to give him my eyes. There are still things I want to see. I just don’t know what they are. I once saw a movie where a person had blindly gone to a big city to find the woman who had appeared repeatedly in his dreams. Since there were more women in a big city, which had a higher population, he said there was a greater chance that the woman from his dreams would also be there. He is right. He may never meet the woman. But he has a very small chance. I don’t know what I want to see. But while I have my two eyes, I have a very small chance that I will get to see what I want to see. While I drink coffee and chew bread, I think of the things I haven’t yet seen. It’s impossible to think about the things you haven’t yet seen. It’s also impossible to see the things you haven’t yet seen. Someone trips over someone else’s hiking stick. A glass cup shatters. While I listen to the glass hit the ground and shatter, I think that I’ve seen a glass shatter before. No, that must not be right. I have never worn glasses before.

There is a shovel in the trunk of my car. While I wait for the bus, I wonder if I should get the shovel from the trunk. I had buried a dog with it. The noun “dog” is doglike. I am never going to get a dog again. I am afraid of the hike. It’s because I feel that I will see the corpse of a wild animal. That’s why I’m thinking of getting the shovel. I want to bury the animal’s corpse in ice. But the odds of seeing an animal’s corpse on the hike aren’t great. Someone else may see it before me. Anyhow, I wonder if I should get the shovel. I might be able to use it as a hiking stick. But rather than using it to bury the animal’s corpse in ice, I want to bury the shovel I had used to bury the dog. By the time the ice melts I won’t be there. Even when the ice melts, revealing the corpse and the shovel, I won’t be there to see. I’m relieved the dog is dead. A dead dog can’t die again. Because the dog has already died, I can’t even claim ownership over the nonexistent dog. I want to renounce my ownership over the shovel now. But the bus arrives. The people board in single file. The name of the river is Hantan. It’s my first time going to Hantan River.

We walk along the river for a long time. We arrive at the spot where the river is frozen solid. People go down to the river. The snow, which had fallen the day before, is piled on the ice. I didn’t bring a stick. I should have brought the shovel. I want to bury the snow under the ice. I want to bury my eyes under the ice. Two people are walking in front of me. One is a mathematician who had been one of the presenters the day before. They exchange a few words. I can’t hear what they’re saying. I am wearing running shoes. I already feel as though my toes are frozen. The sunlight is blinding. Because of the blinding light, I shade my eyes with a hand. I am sleepy. “There aren’t many papers coming out of Korea . . .” I overhear what he says. I wonder how there could be such words that make you think of nothing.

“Don’t you have proper shoes?” someone asks from behind.

I look back. He had been the third presenter. He is a novelist. Instead of listening to my response, he turns to the side and takes a picture. I look down at his hiking boots. I think that it’s the first time I’m seeing hiking boots up close. The sunlight is as blinding as ever. A granite outcropping appears. The snow-covered granite rocks look like colossal mushrooms or flying saucers. I have never seen colossal mushrooms or flying saucers. But even if I were to see gigantic mushrooms or flying saucers, I wouldn’t think that they looked like granite rocks. I don’t have proper shoes. I think of a riddle that makes you think of similar-looking objects. “They say these are igneous rocks . . .” Again, I overhear what he says. Because I want to hear what comes next, I quickly move my feet. And then I fall. Several people turn to look, and several of them burst into laughter.

“Don’t you have proper shoes?”

They’re words I would rather not hear. I stand up awkwardly and brush off the snow. I was thirty-three years old with a sound mind and a body that was rotting away. Or was it the opposite? With a rotten mind and a sound body. No. With a sound mind and a sound body. No. The instant I slipped and fell, the word “trunk” came to mind. Was there a shovel in the trunk? Did I bury a dog with the shovel? Did the dog die? Did I have a dog? I start to walk again. The people have been quietly walking along the river for some time. The river grows narrower and a tent appears. A pair of hiking boots is sitting outside the tent. I want to steal them and run away. But I will slip and fall before I can run away. Is it before I steal the hiking boots that I slip and fall, or after I steal them? A craggy rock façade appears. I know the noun that describes this kind of topography. But I can’t remember it. Can you still call knowledge you can’t remember knowledge? Suddenly a dot appears in the sky. I gaze up at the sky through my fingers. The dot moves horizontally. It’s an eagle. People cheer. Someone takes out a pair of binoculars. It’s not the scholar. Come to think of it, he isn’t there. He probably didn’t bring any winter clothes. He would not have considered going on a hike in a tweed jacket and trench coat. He probably didn’t bring proper shoes either. I didn’t bring the shovel. The dot that had been moving horizontally surges up all of a sudden. The eagle’s shadow becomes a small stain and soils the eyes. I feel that I’ll be able to write a piece based on today’s memory. But there’s not much I’ve seen. I should have brought the shovel. I want to write about death. I want to see an animal’s corpse with my own eyes and write about death, based on that. What would it be like to see a human corpse? But thinking that I want to see a human corpse for my petty writing feels immoral. But this also goes for the animal’s corpse. I’m confused. I don’t know what I should write and what I shouldn’t write. I don’t know how I should write and how I shouldn’t write. But for a long time I couldn’t write a single sentence. I want to write anything, whether it’s about someone’s corpse, my shameful memory, your cruel childhood, his difficult illness, someone’s amnesia, my thinking that is to blame, your denial, or his death. If only I could write a single sentence. If only I could start a sentence that wasn’t that I couldn’t write a single sentence. I saw many deaths. But I can’t write concretely about their deaths. Not that I haven’t tried. It was the same with the dog’s death. They and the dog died abstractly. And they lingered as sentences that had been written easily. The eagle’s shadow grows smaller. I look up. But I can’t see anything, because the sun is blinding. And then I slip and fall again.

“Don’t you have proper shoes?” someone asks.

It’s the third time I’m hearing the question. Why do people ask about something they can see? I didn’t come with proper shoes. I don’t know what proper shoes are anymore. The question whether I have proper shoes sounds like the question whether I can write a proper sentence. It’s my inferiority complex. I take out a pack of cigarettes. The person who asked me the question asks for a cigarette. I say that it’s my last one and I ask him if he would like to smoke it instead of me. He laughs awkwardly and refuses. He looks at the pack that is filled with cigarettes. This time he doesn’t ask about what he sees. And then he leaves. He walks ahead. Someone standing at the head shouts that the ice isn’t frozen solid and that we should climb onto the riverbank. Hurriedly, the people climb up. It’s called a columnar jointing. The craggy rock façade from earlier is called a columnar jointing. My mind lights up for a moment. But the dictionary definition of a columnar jointing won’t be a craggy rock façade. There is a limit to my ability to express things. So it’s only natural that I can’t write a single sentence. I grow ashamed. I take out my phone and run my dictionary app and type in “columnar jointing.” “Jointing refers to a fracture in rock . . .” A fracture in rock . . . I hear the sound of ice cracking. For a moment, I think that I’ve seen ice crack before. And for a moment, I don’t think of anything. It’s not that I don’t—I can’t think of anything. I feel the cold. This time the sensation is faster than my thinking. But it’s my mind that organizes the sensation. I look down. My left foot is under the ice. While I was looking for the dictionary definition of “columnar jointing,” most of the people had climbed onto the riverbank. They don’t seem to have heard me fall into the river. I look back. There is no one. The people move further away. I pull my foot out. It’s frightening and cold. No. There is no sensation. The cold burrows into my body like needles. I wasn’t wearing proper shoes. I was thirty-three years old with a mind and body I wasn’t sure were sound or rotting away, and my left foot was freezing up. I want to cut off my left foot and bury it under the ice. Because the river flowed under the ice, my cut-off left foot will flow down with the current of the river. I didn’t bring the shovel. But did I bury the dog? At the very least, I buried the dog in the sentences I wrote easily. The people move further away. A bare tree branch under the ice looks like a blood vessel. Before my right foot also falls into the river, I climb onto the riverbank. I remove my improper shoe and my sock. My foot is blue and red and white. I need to go back before my foot freezes. How long is the walk back? What will I see when I pass the columnar jointing and granite rocks again? Fracture. It’s a strange word.

And then I wake.

The sun seems to have set already. I grope along the wall and flick on the lights. My left foot prickles and stings. But I can stand the pain. In my dream, my left foot didn’t have to get cut off. I didn’t even fall into the river. I didn’t even see the eagle. I take out a fresh pair of socks and pull them on, and then pull on my still-damp shoe. I pack my things and slip out of the dorm. My left foot tingles. The people haven’t returned yet. It’s quiet. I take out my car keys and press a button. The lights blink. The unlocking of the doors sounds unusually loud. I load my luggage in the backseat and open the trunk. There is a shovel inside. There is dried-up dirt on the shovel. Did I really bury the dog? Deep inside the trunk is a can of beer. I take it out and shake it. I don’t hear any liquid inside. I forget the word “fracture.” I brush off the snow that is piled on top of the car and sit in the driver’s seat. I turn on the ignition. The car doesn’t start. I try again. It doesn’t start. The battery is probably dead. I walk back toward the dorm to look for the caretaker. When I press the bell on the counter, he appears shortly after. It’s the person I had seen the day before. But I can’t remember if he was the person who was talking on the phone or the person who was talking to the one who was talking on the phone. He glances at me and says before I say anything, “It’ll be difficult to go to Seoul. Because of the snow.”

Still, he starts my car with an object I don’t recognize.

“Don’t turn off the engine for about thirty minutes.”

I’m about to ask for the name of the object, but I stop. When the car starts, the radio comes on. Before I can even thank him, he’s already walking back to the building. I check the time. It’s 7:43. I can’t turn off the engine until 8:13. But there will be no need to turn off the engine before then. I pull out of the parking lot and proceed onto the road. All of a sudden, I feel as though I should have taken out the shovel and left it in the front passenger seat. But it’s too late. I feel a sense of foreboding. I may have to use the shovel to clear the snow. The snow is piled higher than I expected. There are snow embankments on both sides of the road. The road is icy. I slowly head toward the highway. A sign appears. If I turn left, it’s the Hantan River. All of a sudden, I recall the word “fracture.” It’s a strange word.

When I go back, I need to write. I don’t have to. But I want to. But I won’t. I want to write a piece that consists of a single sentence. The title of that piece will be “Fracture.” I’m lucky that it was my left foot that got wet. My wet left foot, wouldn’t have known exactly when or how much pressure I should apply to the brake pedal. But I don’t have enough driving experience to sense when the right time was or what the right amount was, especially on an icy road. But I have enough to sense that the word “fracture” was not appropriate as a title . . . Enough experience, that is . . . I decide to discard “Fracture.” Then how about “Don’t Turn off the Engine”? A story about how someone dies because she can’t turn off the car engine for thirty minutes. No. Why was I always trying to write someone’s death? On top of that, it’s not appropriate to have “Don’t Turn off the Engine” as the title of a story where someone is stuck in a car and ends up dying because she can’t turn off the engine. “Turn off the Engine” may be better. No. An ironic title like “Don’t Turn off the Engine” may be better.

I advance onto the four-lane highway. There aren’t many cars. The cars in front are moving slowly. It’s the same case with the oncoming traffic. The headlights are blinding at times. A traffic report comes on the radio. It doesn’t concern the area that I’m in. The report says that there was an accident on the Seoul Ring Expressway. It says that there is a stalled vehicle on Gangbyeon Expressway. It says there is major traffic all over Seoul due to the heavy snowfall. I decide to discard “Don’t Turn off the Engine.” My phone rings. It might be someone looking for me, since I vanished without any explanation. It could be someone else. It could be a scam artist. My phone is in the backseat. I stretch out my arm, but I can’t reach it. I undo my seatbelt and twist around, groping the backseat. But I can’t reach it. I give up. The seatbelt warning chime stops. My left foot hurts.

I think about the time I went to Cheju Island. On the road while passing Mount Halla, I heard there were many incidents of cars hitting and killing deer. I drove along that road, hoping I would hit a deer. I drove by once, twice, three times. But I didn’t see a single deer. It was summer. When I rolled down the window, I could feel the sticky but cool wind. It was at an arboretum that I actually saw a deer, or something close to a deer. When I was passing by a golf course, I saw an elk. I watched from afar for some time, waiting for an elk to get hit by a golf ball. The elk soon vanished into the woods. I didn’t know what I’d wanted to see. I don’t know what exactly I’d wanted to see. It could have been me that I’d wanted to hit and kill with a car. It could have been me that I’d wanted a golf ball to hit, cracking my head open. It starts to snow. Snowflakes land on the windshield and melt right away. The windows fog up. I turn the heater on full blast. I feel sleepy. But I can’t fall asleep. It hasn’t been thirty minutes yet. It’s 7:59. Anxiously, I wait for it to become 8:00. Is a minute really this long? I need to go a lot further before I get to a gas station. There, I’ll eat something and sleep a little. I’ll have a dream where I hit and kill a deer. And with that dream, I’ll write a sentence. Once again, easily. Much too easily. A single, excessively easy sentence.

And then I wake.

I hear the siren from far away. I hurriedly scan the road ahead. I see the license plate of the car in front of me. 1477. When I add up the numbers, I get 19. The clock reads 8:00. On the radio a familiar tune is playing. I don’t know the name of the song. It seems I dozed off for about fifteen seconds. Because I was going slowly, the distance I traveled in fifteen seconds wasn’t great. The siren gets closer. It’s coming from behind. I wonder what’s wrong with the person who’s in the ambulance that’s speeding along the snow-covered road. I look back through the rearview mirror. The ambulance is growing closer. The cars behind me look like they’re not going to move out of the way. The snowscape I had seen at Hantan River comes to mind. Those kinds of landscapes are probably called snowscapes. The tent and a bare branch under the ice. The shadow of an eagle and a cigarette butt. The siren grows shrill. I look back again. The ambulance is getting closer. The cars behind me move sluggishly out of the way to let the ambulance pass. All of a sudden, I think of the word “snowscape” and the tent by the river with the hiking boots outside. Had those hiking boots also gotten wet in the river? Had the owner been trying to dry them? Or could it be that the owner was waiting for them to get wet? Something that isn’t wet yet is bound to get wet. Something that hasn’t died yet is bound to die. I step on the accelerator. The seatbelt warning starts to chime. The warning chime fills in the extremely short breaks in the siren. The chime grows shrill. The siren and the chime create a shocking consonance. My ears prickle. They prickle so much that I want to die. That’s a lie. I look back again. There are two cars between me and the ambulance. I think that I should definitely use “Don’t Turn off the Engine” as the title. I twist the steering wheel to the side. I don’t have enough driving experience to know how much I need to twist the steering wheel for it to be safe, especially on an icy road. As I twist the steering wheel, I think it would be a good idea to put on my seatbelt again. If the warning chime doesn’t stop soon, it’s to the point that I want to die. I feel as though I’ve seen the ambulance that is right behind me before. I can see its red lights even though I don’t look. The red siren fills my vision. Even the warning chime is red. During the day I saw a snowscape. Now at night, I’m seeing red. A snowflake that falls on the windshield melts redly. I want to write that speed in a sentence. I want to write about that redness in a sentence. How many snowflakes do you need to make a snow embankment? I should have given my eyes to anyone; it didn’t have to be just the scholar. I want to give my eyes to anyone. I should have taken out the shovel from the trunk. I should have used it to bury myself. But how could I, a dead person, bury myself? If I don’t bury myself, who will bury me? The warning chime starts to ding spasmodically. I don’t know what the warning chime is warning. It’s too late for warning. Faster and faster. The engine can’t turn off. My right foot looks for the brake. My right foot isn’t wet, but it’s too late. Slower and slower. The speed vanishes. I like the sentence that the speed vanishes. I will write that as my first sentence. Now that I’ve written my first sentence, I want to write the next sentence. But what am I seeing right now? The redness erases my sentence. I found that tragically sad. No. I shouldn’t use the past tense. Who will write my sentence if I’m dead? Who will write my nonexistent sentence if I’m dead? How does my nonexistent sentence exist if I’m dead? How will I bury my nonexistent sentences if I’m dead? Who will read my nonexistent sentences if I’m dead? Faster and faster. Slower and slower. The speed vanishes. It vanishes even before the sentences that have lost speed can exist. Faster or slower. All speeds are either one of the two. Louder and louder. Louder and louder. Louder and louder. The sound overpowers the speed. The redness grows closer. Everything is red.

한탄” © Han Jujoo. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Janet Hong. All rights reserved.

한탄

  그는 54세였고, 정신은 온전했고, 몸은 썩어가고 있었다. 그는 죽었다. 젊어서 죽은 사람의 특징이 있을만한 나이도, 젊어서 죽은 자들에 대한 슬픔이 생길만한 나이도 아니었다. 죽음이라는 막연한 슬픔 정도가 있을 뿐이었다. 그는 54세에 죽었고, 그에게는 그의 죽음을 슬퍼할 사람이 없었다. 그를 기억할 사람도 없었다. 그는 이미 죽었으므로, 그런 사람들에 대한 소유권을 주장할 수도 없었다. 죽음은 모든 사물들, 사람들, 자기 자신, 그리고 시간과 공간에 대한 소유권을 상실하는 것이었다. 그것이 무참하게 슬펐다. 그는 54세에 죽었고, 슬픔을 느끼지 않았다. 그것이 무참하게 슬펐다.

 

  그리고 나는 잠에서 깨어난다.

 

  한 문장도 쓸 수가 없다. 그래도 아직까지는 문장을 구성하는 최소한의 능력만큼은 상실하지 않은 것 같다. 한 문장도 쓸 수가 없다는 문장만큼은 얼마든지 쓸 수 있다. 그러니 앞의 문장은 거짓말이다. 거짓말은 견딜 수 있다. 견딜 수 없는 것은 한 문장도 쓸 수가 없다는 문장으로 글을 쓰기 시작하는 것이다. 한 문장도 쓸 수가 없다는 첫 문장을 쓰지 않으려고 오랫동안 책상 앞에 앉아있었다. 한 문장도 쓸 수가 없다는 첫 문장을 여러 번 쓰고 지웠다. 그 후 잠들었고, 꿈을 꾸었고, 꿈에서 그는 54세였고, 정신은 온전했고, 몸은 썩어가고 있었다는 문장으로 시작하는 책을 읽었다. 책 속의 문장들을 기억하려고, 꿈 속이라는 것을 알고 있었으므로, 사력을 다해 문장들을 여러 번 되짚어 읽으며 암기했다. 잠에서 깨어나는 순간, 꿈의 페이지가 덮이는 순간, 이미 외워버린 문장들이 한 순간 사라져버린다는 것을, 꿈 속에서도 알고 있었다. 꿈 속의 문장들은 제법 근사하게 여겨졌다. 페터 한트케를 연상시키는 문장들이었다. 54세의 주인공은 페터 한트케의 소설 속 인물들처럼 행동했다. 꿈 속에서도 내가 오랫동안 한 문장도 쓰지 못했다는 것을 알고 있었다. 그래서 페터 한트케를 어설프게 베낀 것처럼 보이는 문장들일지라도 놓치고 싶지 않았다. 꿈 속에서도 그 문장들이 내가 쓴 것인지, 혹은 다른 누군가가 쓴 것인지 알 수 없었다. 그럼에도 불구하고 그 문장들을 내 것으로 하고 싶었다. 그 문장들에 대한 소유권을 주장하고 싶었다. 꿈 속에서도 그 문장들이 제법 근사하기는 하지만 그 자체로는 아무런 힘도 발휘하지 못한다는 것을 알고 있었다. 그럼에도 불구하고 그 문장들을 철저히 내 것으로 하고 싶었다. 쉼표 하나까지 내 것으로 하고 싶었다. 꿈 속에서도 꿈 속이라는 것을 알고 있었다. 페이지를 찢었으나 찢어지지 않았다. 나는 꿈에서 여러 번 죽은 적이 있었다. 사력을 다해 페이지를 찢었으나 찢어지지 않았다. 이미 여러 번 죽은 적이 있었으므로 사력을 다한다면 죽을 수도 있었다. 글자들은 완강하게 페이지를 고집했다. 아니다. 글자들은 그대로 있었다. 쉼표 하나까지 그대로 남아있었다. 아니다. 페이지는 완강하게 글자들을 고집했다. 글자들이 찢겨나갔으나 찢겨나가지 않았다. 날이 밝아오고 있었다. 꿈 속에서도 새벽을 감각할 수 있었다. 처음에는 글자와 글자 사이로 내려앉다가 곧 빈틈없이 모든 행간들을 메우고 마지막에는 모든 문장들을 압도하는 새벽이 다가오고 있다는 것을 느낄 수 있었다. 나는 꿈 속에서 죽지 않았다. 지치지도 않았다. 그저 페이지를 찢는 무의미한 동작을 사력을 다해 반복했다. 찢었으나 찢어지지 않았다. 없는 페이지를 움켜쥐었다. 없는 문장들을 외웠다. 없는 인물들이 없는 행위를 반복했다. 그리고 나는 잠에서 깨어났다. 몇 개의 문장들이 남았지만 꿈 속의 문장들은 아니었다. 그것이 슬펐다. 무참하도록 슬프지는 않았다. 무참하다는 표현을 언제 어디서 어떻게 사용해야하는 것인지도 알 수 없었다.

  그리고 나는 꿈 속의 문장들을 빌려 글을 시작한다. 그러나 잠에서 깨어나는 순간 사라져버린 문장들을 되찾지 못한다면 글을 끝낼 수 없을 것이라고 생각한다. 그러나 꿈 속에서 잃어버리거나 꿈 속으로 사라져버린 것들을 되찾았던 적은 없다. 그는 54세였고, 정신은 온전했고, 몸은 썩어가고 있었다. 그리고 다음 문장에서 그는 죽었다. 그의 이름도, 성별도, 나이도, 직업도 알려지지 않았다. 희미한 기억에 의하면 그는 조립공도 축구선수도 아니었고, 한국인도 오스트리아인도 아니었다. 페터 한트케의 소설들을 좋아하지만 그의 문장을 베끼고 싶다고 생각한 적은 없다. 나는 오랫동안 한 문장도 쓰지 못했다. 거짓말이다. 여러 문장들을 썼으나 모두 지웠다. 그러나 가끔 거짓으로라도 하나 이상의 문장들을 써야 할 때가 있다. 지금이다. 여전히 한 문장도 쓸 수가 없다. 그래도 아직까지는 문장을 구성하는 최소한의 능력은 잃지 않은 것 같다. 한 문장도 쓸 수 없다는 문장은 얼마든지 쓸 수 있다. 지루하다. 진부하다. 지리멸렬하다. 지겹다. 지난하다. 심난하다. 심란하다. 산란하다. 이런 형용사들은 얼마든지 있다. 그 동안 쉽게 써왔던 문장들을 생각한다. 나는 너무 쉽게 써왔다. 단어를. 문장을. 글을. 그리고 지금 울고 싶다고 생각하며 한 문장도 쓸 수 없다는 문장을 반복한다. 울고 싶다는 감상주의를 배격해야 한다고 생각하면서도 차라리 울고 그래서 어떤 문장을 쓸 수 있다면 좋겠다고 생각한다. 눈물은 신체의 일부인가, 눈물에 대해서는 어떤 소유권을 주장할 수 있는가. 나는 울지 않는다. 나는 쓴다. 나는 쓰지 않는다. 나는 운다. 거짓말이다.

  공책을 뒤적인다. 짧은 메모들이 두서 없이 적혀있다. 발화점을 갖지 못한 메모들이다. 집 안에서 관엽식물이 얼어죽었다. 네가 죽은 뒤 나는 네가 기르던 관엽식물에게 물을 주지 않았다. 겨울이 되었고 난방장치가 고장났다. 나는 식물의 이름을 알지 못했다. 커다란 녹색 잎사귀가 여럿 달린 식물이었다. 녹색 잎사귀는 가장자리부터 점차 누렇게 변해갔다. 식물이 죽어가고 있었다. 그러나 식물은 말라죽기 전에 얼어죽었다. 내가 식물을 죽이지 못했다는 것이 분했다. 식물을 죽인 것은 추위였다. 집 안에서 물이 얼었다. 끔찍한 한기였다. 나는 최하연의 시구를 주문처럼 외고 있었다. 얼어죽어라, 얼어죽어라. 그 구절의 앞과 뒤는 기억나지 않았다. 나는 식물에 손대지 않고 식물을 죽이고 싶었다. 식물의 생명력은 끈질겼다. 식물은 물 없이 두 달 가량을 버텼다. 그리고 말라죽기 전에 얼어죽었다. 농을 뒤지다 전기장판을 발견했다. 110볼트 콘센트가 달려있었다. 사용할 수 없는 물건이었다. 날이 풀리고 있었다. 얼음물을 마시며 나는 말라죽지도 얼어죽지도 않았다. 공책에 이런 메모가 적혀있었다. 그 뒷면에는 얼어죽어라, 얼어죽어라가 한 페이지 가득 적혀있었다. 나는 꿈 속에서 54세로 죽은 사람과 관엽식물을 남기고 죽은 사람을 동일인으로 간주하기로 한다. 그리고 실패한다. 나는 무언가를 보여주고 싶기도 하고, 아무 것도 보여주고 싶지 않기도 하다. 나는 무언가를 드러내고 싶기도 하고, 아무 것도 드러내고 싶지 않기도 하다. 나는 보여주지 않는 것으로 보여주고 싶고, 보여주지 않는 것으로 보여주고 싶다. 고갈된 기분이다. 그러나 나는 고갈이 무엇인지 정확히 모른다. 어떤 단어들은 함부로 써서는 안 되는 것처럼 여겨진다. 그러나 나는 항상 모든 단어들을 함부로 써왔다. 함부로 쓰지 않고서는 아무 것도 쓸 수가 없다. 모든 단어들이 함부로 써서는 안 되는 것처럼 여겨진다. 나는 의심의 대상이다. 나는 늘 거짓말을 하고 있었다. 나는 거짓말을 하고 있다는 거짓말을 하고 있다는 의심의 대상이다. 나는 지금도 거짓말을 하고 있다. 아무 것도 쓸 수 없기 때문이다. 아무 것도 쓸 수 없다는 말을 나는 이렇게 끝없이 이어갈 수 있다. 내게는 반복을 반복하는 능력이 있다. 제거하고 싶은 능력이다.

 

  그리고 나는 잠에서 깨어난다.

 

  겨울, 실내에서도 한기가 느껴진다. 영하의 기온이다. 사람들이 하나 둘 방 안으로 들어온다. 커피 냄새가 난다. 누군가가 말을 걸어온다. 오늘로 학회는 끝난다. 내일 트레킹이 예정되어 있다. 강의 이름은 한탄이다. 새들과 야생동물들을 볼 수 있다고 한다. 운이 나쁘면 얼음이 깨져 발을 적실 수도 있고, 운이 좋으면 독수리를 볼 수 있다고 한다. 무엇이 운이 나쁘고 무엇이 운이 좋은지 설명만 들어서는 판단하기 어렵다. 수십 년 전에 미국으로 이민을 간 먼 친척 어른의 딸이 기르던 개를 독수리가 채어갔다는 이야기를 들은 적이 있다. 그 동네에서는 독수리에게 갓난아이를 잃은 여자가 산다는 이야기도 들었다. 내가 이렇게 말하자 상대방은 한국의 독수리는 몸집이 작으며 내일 예정된 트레킹에 갓난아이나 개를 동반할 사람은 없다고 말한다. 커피 냄새가 난다. 커피를 마시지 않아도 예정된 뒷맛을 느낄 수 있다. 달고 쓰다. 사람들이 착석한다. 발표자가 앞으로 걸어나온다. 사람들이 박수를 친다. 수식이 칠판을 메운다. 집합론. 강제법. 체르멜로-프렝켈. 나는 발표자가 말하는 내용을 대부분 알아듣지 못한다. 체르멜로라는 이름이 첼로와 포르토벨로를 연상시킨다. 첼로는 본 적이 있고 포르토벨로에는 가본 적이 없다. 앞에 앉은 사람의 뒷모습이 눈에 들어온다. 짧게 깎은 머리카락에 드문드문 새치가 섞여있다. 오십대 중반쯤 되었을 것이다. 고개를 살짝 틀어 그의 옆모습을 관찰한다. 아는 사람이다. 발표자가 또 다른 수식을 읊는다. 그의 말을 전혀 알아들을 수 없어 따분했던 나는 앞에 앉은 사람을 관찰하기로 한다. 그는 학자다. 내가 알기로 여러 권의 책을 썼고, 여러 권의 책을 번역했다. 나는 주변을 돌아본다. 그러다 누군가와 눈이 마주친다. 모르는 사람이다. 학회장에는 안면이 있는 사람이 절반, 미지의 인물들이 절반 있다. 정확히 절반은 아닐 수도 있다. 그리고 나는 알지만 나를 모르는 사람들도 있다. 그들은 정확하지 않은 절반 사이에 속한다. 대부분의 사람들은 칠판에 눈을 고정하고 발표자의 말에 집중하고 있다. 나는 상반신을 느슨하게 등받이에 기댄 채 앞에 앉은 사람을 본격적으로 관찰한다. 내가 알기로 그는 오십대 중반쯤 되었을 것이다. 그의 왼쪽 의자에는 가방이, 오른쪽 의자에는 트렌치 코트가 놓여있다. 그의 양 옆에는 아무도 앉아있지 않다. 그는 흰 셔츠를 입고 있다. 셔츠의 목깃은 깨끗하다. 적어도 내게 보이는 부분은 깨끗하다. 그는 검정색 코듀로이 바지를 입고 있다. 구두는 의자에 가려져 잘 보이지 않는다. 그는 발표자의 말에 집중한다. 적어도 그렇게 보인다. 그의 책상에는 발제문과 모나미 볼펜 하나, 안경 하나가 놓여있다. 그는 안경을 쓰고 있다. 그러니까 그에게는 두 개의 안경이 있다. 그는 흰 셔츠 위에 트위드 재킷을 입고 있다. 학자다운 옷차림이다. 학자다운 옷차림이 무엇인지는 정확히 알 수 없다. 하지만 그는 어느 장소에 있더라도 학자처럼 보일 것처럼 여겨진다. 그가 안경을 벗고 책상에 놓여있던 안경을 쓴다. 하나는 근시용, 하나는 돋보기일 것이다. 발표자는 영어 명사와 한국어 조사, 영어 동사와 한국어 어미로 구성된 문장을 사용한다. 나는 그의 말을 머릿속으로 받아적다가 그만둔다. 수식과 문장을 일치시킬 수 없다. 앞에 앉은 사람의 트위드 재킷 소맷단이 미세하게 닳아있다. 학자는 모나미 볼펜으로 발제문의 여백에 무언가를 적고 있다. 글자는 보이지 않는다. 그의 나이가 새삼 궁금하다. 오십대 중반쯤 되었을 것이다. 54세는 아닐지도 모른다. 그의 정신은 아마 온전할 것이고 몸이 썩어가는 것처럼 보이지는 않는다. 그는 안경을 벗고 안경을 쓰지 않는다. 그의 책상에는 두 개의 안경이 놓여있다. 그는 책상으로 엎드리다시피 고개를 숙이다가 다시 등을 펴고 발제문을 눈 가까이로 가져다댄다. 그는 발제문을 얼굴 가까이 붙이다시피하고 있다. 그의 가방과 그의 트렌치 코트는 그의 양 옆에 그대로 놓여있다. 칠판에 다른 수식이 적힌다. 그가 손에 쥔 종이가 떨린다. 온풍기 바람 때문일 수도 있고, 수전증 때문일 수도 있다. 수전증 때문이라기엔 종이가 떨리는 정도가 크지 않다. 그에게 내 눈을 주고 싶다.

  아니다. 그의 시력을 내 것으로 하고 싶다. 내게는 칠판과 종이와 글자와 문장과 얼굴과 얼음과 독수리가 보인다. 내게는 그것들이 지나치게 잘 보인다. 그에게 내 눈을 주고 싶다. 그는 내 눈으로 더 좋은 것, 더 나은 것, 더 훌륭한 것을 보고 쓸 수 있을 것이다. 그가 54세이고 정신은 온전하지만 몸은 썩어가고 있다고 가정한다. 그를 관찰해서 구체적인 죽음을 쓸 수 있을지도 모른다. 그러나 구체적인 죽음은 무엇인가. 그리고 나는 어째서 늘 누군가의 죽음을 필요로 하는가.

  발표자가 발표를 마친다. 박수. 다음 발표자가 앞으로 나온다. 박수. 나는 발제문을 펼친다. 3면에 알랭 바디우의 존재론적 집합론이라는 제목이 적혀있다. 알랭 바디우는 아는 이름이다. 하지만 이름을 안다고 해서 존재론적 집합론이 설명되지는 않는다. 앞에 앉은 학자는 여전히 발제문을 눈 앞에서 들여다보고 있다. 말 그대로 눈 앞에서. 그에게 내 눈을 주고 싶다. 칠판 옆에는 창문이 있다. 눈이 내리기 시작한다. 누군가가 기침한다. 마시지도 않은 커피의 뒷맛이 혀에 남아있다. 쓰고 달다. 나는 조용히 의자를 뒤로 밀고 일어서서 조용히 문을 열고 복도로 나온다. 아직 피우지도 않은 담배의 뒷맛이 혀에 남아있다. 쓰고 무력하다. 나는 어떻게 존재하는가.

  한 문장도 쓸 수 없다면 나는 존재하지 않아도 그만이다. 읽히지 않아도 쓸 수 있다면 그것으로 좋다고 생각했다. 적어도 나는 읽는다. 그러나 한 문장도 쓸 수 없다면 나도 읽을 수 없다. 나조차도. 유리문을 열 때 서늘한 냉기가 손끝에서 머릿속으로 이동한다. 나는 차가움을 감각하는 것일까, 생각하는 것일까. 바깥 공기는 차갑다. 바깥 공기가 차갑다는 것은 사실일까. 감각과 관련된 사실은 사실일까. 담배를 꺼내 불을 붙인다. 눈이 내린다. 주머니 속의 자동차 열쇠를 만지작거리다 버튼을 누른다. 멀리 주차장에서 불빛이 번쩍인다. 다시 한 번 버튼을 누른다. 다시 전조등 불빛이 번쩍인다. 차 위로도 눈이 쌓이고 있다. 내일 트레킹이 예정되어있다. 강물은 충분히 얼었을까. 담뱃재 위로도 눈이 쌓이고 있다. 나는 건물을 한 바퀴 돌기로 한다. 흰 눈 위로 발자국을 남기고 싶다. 흰 눈 위로 남은 발자국 위로 흰 눈이 쌓이는 모습을 보고 싶다. 시간의 겹을. 작은 화단을 지나 모퉁이를 돌 때 누군가의 목소리가 들린다. 두 사람의 목소리다.

 

-그래서 미끄러졌나……?

 

  나는 피우던 담배를 바닥에 던진다. 담배꽁초 위로 눈이 내린다.

 

-내 속이 내 속이 아니야.

 

  눈이 내린다.

 

-아직도 차단되어있나……?

 

  나는 모퉁이를 돌아간다. 두 사람이 나를 돌아본다. 모르는 얼굴들이다. 건물 관리인이거나 군청 직원일 것이다. 한 사람은 들고있던 담배를 내던지고 다른 한 사람은 통화를 계속한다.

 

-저녁에 눈이 그칠 거야…….

 

  휴대전화를 들고있는 사람에게 담배를 내던진 사람이 말한다.

 

-내가 얼마나 원통한지 알아?

 

  휴대전화를 들고있는 사람은 통화를 계속한다.

 

-별 문제는 없겠지…….

 

  나는 다 피운 담배를 발 아래 던진다. 그리고 발로 짓이긴다. 눈이 덮을 것이다. 담배를 내던진 사람이 나를 바라본다. 나는 고개를 돌리고 다시 출입구로 향한다. 유리문. 복도. 형광등. ……하나를 존재가 아닌 작용으로 파악합니다……. 발표자의 목소리가 희미하게 들려온다. 다 피운 담배의 뒷맛이 쓰고 달다. ……수학이 설명하지 못하는 것을 시가 설명할 수 있을까요……. 나는 방 안으로 들어간다.

 

  그리고 나는 잠에서 깨어난다.

 

  꿈은 없었다. 혹은 기억나지 않는다. 식당으로 내려가니 이미 대부분의 사람들은 아침식사를 마친 후다. 누군가가 반 시간 뒤 현관 앞으로 모이라고 소리친다. 누군가가 다가와 인사를 건넨다. 나는 주위를 둘러보며 어제 내 눈을 주고 싶다고 생각했던 학자를 찾는다. 트위드 재킷을 걸친 학자가 냅킨으로 입가를 닦고 있다. 오늘은 그에게 내 눈을 주고 싶지 않다. 아직 보고 싶은 것들이 있다. 그것이 무엇인지를 모를 뿐이다. 어느 영화에서 꿈에 반복적으로 나타나는 여자를 찾아 무작정 대도시로 온 사람을 본 적이 있다. 그는 인구밀도가 높은 대도시에는 여자들도 많을테니 꿈 속의 여자가 있을 확률도 크다고 말했다. 그는 옳다. 그는 죽을 때까지 꿈 속의 여자를 만나지 못할지도 모른다. 그러나 그에게는 미량의 가능성이 있다. 내가 보고 싶은 것이 무엇인지는 모른다. 그러나 두 눈이 있는 한 보고 싶은 것을 보게될 미량의 가능성이 있다. 커피를 마시고 빵을 씹으며 내가 아직 보지 못한 것들을 생각한다. 보지 못한 것들을 생각할 수는 없다. 보지 못한 것들을 볼 수도 없다. 누군가가 다른 누군가의 등산용 스틱에 걸려 넘어진다. 유리잔이 깨진다. 유리잔이 바닥과 충돌해 산산조각나는 소리를 들으며 나는 유리잔이 깨지는 모습을 본 것 같다고 생각한다. 아닐 것이다. 나는 안경을 써본 적이 없다.

  트렁크에 삽이 들어있다. 버스를 기다리는 동안 트렁크에서 삽을 꺼내올까 생각한다. 개를 묻었던 삽이다. 개라는 명사는 개 같다. 다시는 개를 기르지 않을 것이다. 나는 트레킹이 두렵다. 야생동물의 사체를 볼 것 같아서다. 그래서 삽을 꺼내올까 생각한다. 야생동물의 사체를 얼음에 묻고 싶다. 하지만 트레킹 도중에 야생동물의 사체를 볼 가능성은 크지 않다. 나보다 다른 사람들이 먼저 볼 수도 있다. 어쨌거나 삽을 꺼내올까 생각한다. 스틱을 대신해 삽을 사용할 수 있을지도 모른다. 그러나 삽으로 야생동물의 사체를 묻고 싶다기보다는 개를 묻었던 삽을 얼음에 묻고 싶다. 얼음이 녹을 때 나는 그곳에 없을 것이다. 얼음이 녹아 사체와 삽이 드러나도 나는 그것을 보지 못할 것이다. 개가 죽어서 다행이라는 생각이 든다. 죽은 개는 다시 죽을 수 없기 때문이다. 개가 죽었으므로 나는 없는 개에 대한 소유권을 주장할 수도 없다. 이제 나는 삽에 대한 소유권도 상실하고 싶다. 그러나 버스가 도착한다. 사람들이 일렬로 버스에 오른다. 강의 이름은 한탄이다. 한탄강은 처음이다.

  한동안 강변을 걷는다. 강물이 단단하게 얼어붙은 지점이 나타난다. 사람들이 강으로 내려간다. 얼음 위로 어제 내린 눈이 쌓여있다. 나는 스틱을 가져오지 않았다. 삽을 가져왔어야 했다. 얼음 밑에 눈을 묻고 싶다. 내 눈을 얼음 밑에 묻고 싶다. 앞에서 두 사람이 걸어간다. 한 사람은 어제 발표자로 나왔던 수학자다. 그들이 몇 마디를 주고받는다. 무슨 말인지는 들리지 않는다. 나는 운동화를 신고 있다. 벌써 발끝이 얼어붙은 기분이다. 햇빛이 눈부시다. 눈이 부셔 손으로 차양을 만든다. 졸음이 쏟아진다. ……한국에서는 아직 논문이 많이 나오지 않죠……. 앞 사람의 말이 들려온다. 이렇게 아무런 생각도 들지 않게 하는 말이 있다니, 나는 생각한다. 누군가가 뒤에서 말을 걸어온다.

 

-제대로 된 신발 없어요?

 

  뒤를 돌아본다. 세 번째 발표자로 나왔던 사람이다. 그는 소설가다. 그는 내 답변을 듣는 대신 몸을 옆으로 돌려 사진을 찍는다. 나는 그의 등산화를 내려다본다. 그리고 처음으로 등산화라는 물건을 가까운 거리에서 보고 있다고 생각한다. 여전히 눈이 부시다. 화강암 지대가 나타난다. 눈을 뒤집어 쓴 화강암 바위들은 거대한 버섯이나 비행접시처럼 보인다. 거대한 버섯도 비행접시도 실제로 본 적은 없다. 그러나 거대한 버섯이나 비행접시를 실제로 본다고 하더라도 화강암 바위처럼 생겼다고 생각하지는 않을 것이다. 내게는 제대로 된 신발이 없다. 그리고 어떤 사물의 닮은꼴을 연상하는 과정의 수수께끼를 생각한다. ……여긴 사실 용암지대라고 하네요……. 앞 사람의 말이 들려온다. 이어질 말이 듣고 싶어 발걸음을 재게 놀린다. 그리고 넘어진다. 몇몇이 돌아보고, 그들 중 몇몇이 웃음을 터뜨린다.

 

-제대로 된 신발 없어요?

 

  듣지 않아도 좋을 말이다. 엉거주춤 일어나 눈을 털어낸다. 나는 33세이고, 정신은 온전하고, 몸은 썩어가고 있다. 혹은 그 반대이거나. 정신은 썩어가고, 몸은 온전하다. 아니다. 정신은 온전하고, 몸은 온전하다. 아니다. 넘어지던 순간 트렁크라는 단어를 떠올렸다. 트렁크에 삽이 들어있던가. 삽으로 개를 묻었던가. 개가 죽었던가. 개를 길렀던가. 나는 다시 걷기 시작한다. 사람들은 언젠가부터 조용히 강을 따라 걷고만 있다. 강폭이 좁아지고 텐트가 나타난다. 텐트 밖에 등산화 한 켤레가 놓여있다. 나는 등산화를 훔쳐 달아나고 싶다고 생각한다. 그러나 그 전에 미끄러져 넘어질 것이다. 내가 미끄러져 넘어지는 것은 등산화를 훔치기 전일까, 훔친 뒤일까. 요철이 심한 암벽지대가 나타난다. 이런 지형을 부르는 명사를 알고 있다. 그러나 기억나지 않는다. 기억나지 않는 지식을 지식이라 부를 수 있을까. 갑자기 하늘에 점이 나타난다. 손가락 사이로 하늘을 올려다본다. 점이 가로로 길어진다. 독수리다. 사람들이 환호성을 올린다. 망원경을 꺼내는 사람도 있다. 학자는 아니다. 그러고보니 학자가 보이지 않는다. 그는 방한복을 가지고 오지 않았을 것이다. 트위드 재킷에 트렌치 코트 차림으로 트레킹에 나설 생각도 없었을 것이다. 그도 제대로 된 신발을 가져오지 않았을 것이다. 나는 삽을 가져오지 않았다. 가로로 길어지던 점이 위로 솟구친다. 독수리의 그림자가 작은 얼룩이 되어 눈을 더럽힌다. 나는 오늘의 기억을 바탕으로 한 편의 글을 쓸 수 있겠다고 생각한다. 그러나 본 것이 많지 않다. 삽을 가져왔어야 했다. 나는 죽음에 대해 쓰고 싶다. 야생동물의 사체를 직접 목격하고 그것을 토대로 죽음에 관한 글을 쓰고 싶다. 사람의 사체를 목격한다면 어떨까. 그러나 내 알량한 글 하나를 위해 사람의 사체를 보고 싶다고 생각하는 것은 비윤리적으로 여겨진다. 그러나 이는 야생동물의 사체에 대해서도 마찬가지다. 나는 혼란스럽다. 무엇을 쓰고 무엇을 쓰지 않아야 하는지 알 수가 없다. 무엇을 어떻게 쓰고 무엇을 어떻게 쓰지 말아야 하는지 알 수가 없다. 그러나 나는 오랫동안 한 문장도 쓰지 못했다. 나는 누군가의 사체든 나의 수치스러운 기억이든 너의 잔혹한 유년기든 그의 힘겨운 병이든 누군가의 기억상실이든 나의 비난받아 마땅할 사고방식이든 너의 부정이든 그의 죽음이든 무엇이라도 쓰고 싶다. 한 문장만 쓸 수 있다면. 한 문장도 쓸 수 없다는 문장이 아닌 한 문장을 시작할 수 있다면. 나는 많은 죽음들을 보았다. 그러나 그들의 죽음을 구체적으로 쓸 수는 없었다. 시도하지 않았던 것은 아니었다. 개의 죽음에 대해서도 마찬가지였다. 그들과 개는 추상적으로 죽었다. 그리고 쉽게 쓴 문장들로 남았다. 독수리의 그림자가 작아진다. 나는 고개를 든다. 그러나 눈이 부셔 아무 것도 보이지 않는다. 그리고 나는 또 다시 미끄러져 넘어진다.

 

-제대로 된 신발 없어요?

 

  누군가가 묻는다. 세 번째 듣는 질문이다. 어째서 사람들은 보이는 것을 묻는가? 나는 제대로 된 신발을 신고 오지 않았다. 이제는 제대로 된 신발이 무엇인지도 모르겠다. 제대로 된 신발이 없느냐는 질문이 제대로 된 문장을 쓰지 못하냐는 질문처럼 들린다. 자격지심이다. 나는 담배를 꺼낸다. 질문한 사람이 담배를 청한다. 나는 마지막 담배라고 말하며 나 대신 피우겠냐고 묻는다. 상대방은 어색하게 웃으며 거절한다. 그는 담뱃갑에 가득 들어있는 담배를 바라본다. 이번에는 보이는 것을 묻지 않는다. 그리고 가버린다. 앞으로. 선두에 선 누군가가 얼음이 단단하지 않으니 강둑으로 올라가라고 외친다. 사람들이 서둘러 강둑으로 올라간다. 그 이름은 주상절리다. 아까 보았던 요철이 심한 절벽은 주상절리라고 부른다. 머릿속이 잠시 밝아진다. 그러나 주상절리의 사전적 정의가 요철이 심한 절벽은 아닐 것이다. 나의 표현력에는 한계가 있다. 그러니 한 문장도 쓰지 못하는 것이 당연하다. 나는 홀로 수치스럽다. 휴대전화를 꺼내 사전 어플리케이션을 실행하고 주상절리를 입력한다. ……절리는 암석의 파단면으로서…… 파단면으로서…… 얼음이 깨지는 소리가 들린다. 순간적으로 얼음이 깨지는 모습을 본 것 같다고 생각한다. 그리고 잠시 아무 생각도 하지 않는다. 하지 않는 것이 아니라 하지 못하는 것이다. 냉기가 느껴진다. 이번에는 생각보다 감각이 빠르다. 그러나 감각을 정리하는 것은 생각이다. 나는 아래를 내려다본다. 왼발이 얼음 밑에 있다. 내가 주상절리의 사전적 정의를 검색하는 사이 다른 사람들은 이미 모두 강둑 위로 올라간 모양이다. 그들은 내가 강에 빠지는 소리를 듣지 못한 모양이다. 나는 뒤를 돌아본다. 아무도 없다. 사람들이 멀어지고 있다. 나는 강물에서 발을 빼낸다. 섬뜩하고 차갑다. 아니다. 감각이 없다. 냉기가 바늘처럼 온 몸을 파고든다. 나는 제대로 된 신발을 신지 않았다. 나는 33세이고 정신과 몸이 온전한지 썩어가는지는 모르겠지만 왼발이 얼어붙고 있다. 왼발을 잘라 얼음 아래 묻고 싶다. 얼음 밑으로 강이 흐르므로 잘린 왼발은 강을 따라 떠내려갈 것이다. 나는 삽을 가져오지 않았다. 그런데 내가 개를 묻었던가. 적어도 쉽게 쓴 문장에서는 개를 묻었다. 사람들이 멀어지고 있다. 얼음 밑으로 마른 나뭇가지가 혈관처럼 비쳐보인다. 나는 오른발도 빠지기 전에 강둑으로 올라간다. 제대로 된 것이 아닌 신발을 벗고 양말을 벗는다. 발은 파랗고 빨갛고 하얗다. 발이 얼기 전에 돌아가야 한다. 돌아가려면 얼마나 가야 할까. 주상절리와 화강암 바위를 다시 지나칠 때 나는 무엇을 볼 것인가. 파단면. 생경한 단어다.

 

  그리고 나는 잠에서 깨어난다.

 

  이미 해가 진 것 같다. 벽을 더듬어 불을 켠다. 왼발이 따갑고 아프다. 견딜 수 있는 정도다. 꿈에서 왼발을 자르지 않았다. 강에 빠지지도 않았다. 독수리를 보지도 않았다. 새 양말을 꺼내 신고 아직 습기가 남아있는 신발을 신는다. 짐을 챙겨 숙소를 빠져나온다. 왼발이 얼얼하다. 다른 사람들은 아직 돌아오지 않았다. 고요하다. 자동차 열쇠를 꺼내 버튼을 누른다. 불빛이 번쩍인다. 잠김이 해제되는 소리가 유독 크게 들려온다. 뒷좌석에 짐을 두고 트렁크를 연다. 삽이 들어있다. 삽에는 마른 흙이 남아있다. 나는 개를 정말로 묻었던 것일까. 트렁크 안쪽에 맥주 캔 하나가 있다. 그것을 꺼내 흔들어본다. 액체가 흔들리는 소리가 나지 않는다. 나는 파단면이라는 단어를 잊는다. 차 위에 쌓인 눈을 털어내고 운전석에 앉는다. 시동을 건다. 걸리지 않는다. 다시 한 번 시동을 건다. 걸리지 않는다. 배터리가 방전된 모양이다. 나는 다시 숙소로 걸어가 관리인을 찾는다. 카운터에 놓인 벨을 누르자 잠시 후 관리인이 나타난다. 어제 본 사람이다. 그러나 통화를 하던 쪽이었는지 통화를 하는 사람에게 말하던 쪽이었는지는 기억나지 않는다. 그는 나를 흘끗 바라보고 앞장선다.

 

-서울로 가시려면 힘드실텐데.

 

  그가 말한다.

 

-눈이 이렇게 많이 와서.

 

  아무려나 그는 나로서는 알 수 없는 물건으로 자동차 배터리를 충전한다.

 

-한 삼십 분 동안 시동을 끄지 마세요.

 

  나는 그 물건의 이름을 물어보려다가 그만둔다. 시동이 걸리고 라디오가 켜진다. 내가 인사를 건네기도 전에 그는 건물 쪽으로 돌아선다. 시간을 확인한다. 일곱 시 사십삼 분이다. 여덟 시 십삼 분까지 시동을 끄면 안 된다. 그 전에 시동을 끌 일은 없을 것이다. 나는 주차장을 빠져나가 도로로 접어든다. 문득 트렁크에서 삽을 꺼내 조수석에 두었어야 한다는 생각이 든다. 이미 늦었다. 불길한 생각이 든다. 삽으로 눈을 치워야 할 일이 있을지도 모른다. 눈은 생각보다 높이 쌓여있다. 도로 양쪽으로 눈이 제방처럼 쌓여있다. 도로가 얼어있다. 나는 천천히 국도로 향한다. 표지판이 나타난다. 좌회전을 하면 한탄강이다. 문득 파단면이라는 단어가 생각난다. 생경한 단어다.

  돌아가면 글을 써야 한다. 반드시 써야 하는 것은 아니다. 그러나 쓰고 싶다. 그러나 써지지 않는다. 한 문장으로 이루어진 글을 쓰고 싶다. 그 글의 제목은 파단면이 될 것이다. 왼발이 젖어 다행이라는 생각이 든다. 젖은 왼발로는 브레이크를 필요할 때 필요한 만큼 밟을 수 없을 것이다. 그러나 얼어붙은 도로에서 필요한 때와 필요한 만큼이 언제인지 감각적으로 알 수 있을 정도로 운전 경험이 많지는 않다. 그러나 파단면이라는 단어가 제목으로 적절하지 않다는 것은 감각적으로 알 수 있을 정도로…… 경험이……. 나는 파단면을 버리기로 한다. 그렇다면 시동을 끄지 마세요는 어떨까. 삼십 분 동안 자동차의 시동을 끄지 못해서 누군가가 죽는 이야기다. 아니다. 나는 어째서 늘 누군가의 죽음을 쓰려고 하는가. 게다가 시동을 끄지 못해서 차에 타고 있던 누군가가 어쩔 수 없이 죽는 이야기의 제목으로 시동을 끄지 마세요는 적절하지 않다. 시동을 끄세요가 더 나을지도 모른다. 아니다. 시동을 끄지 마세요라는 역설적인 제목이 나을 수도 있다.

  그러는 사이 나는 4차선 도로에 진입한다. 양방향 도로다. 차들은 많지 않다. 앞서가는 차들 역시 느린 속도로 가고 있다. 마주오는 차들도 마찬가지다. 가끔 전조등 불빛에 눈이 부시다. 라디오에서 교통정보가 나온다. 내가 있는 지역에 관한 정보는 아니다. 외곽순환도로에서 사고가 있었다고 한다. 강변북로에 고장차가 서있다고 한다. 서울 곳곳의 도로가 폭설로 체증을 빚고 있다고 한다. 나는 시동을 끄지 마세요를 버리기로 한다. 휴대전화가 울린다. 말없이 사라진 나를 찾는 전화일지도 모른다. 다른 사람의 전화일 수도 있다. 금융사기범의 전화일 수도 있다. 휴대전화는 뒷좌석에 있다. 팔을 뻗어보지만 닿지 않는다. 안전벨트를 풀고 몸을 돌려 뒷좌석을 더듬는다. 그러나 잡히지 않는다. 나는 전화를 포기한다. 벨소리가 끊어진다. 왼발이 아파온다.

  제주도에 갔을 때를 생각한다. 한라산을 지나는 도로에서 노루나 사슴이 차에 치어 죽는 사고가 제법 많다고 들었다. 나는 노루나 사슴을 차로 칠 수 있기를 바라며 그 도로를 지났다. 한 번. 두 번. 세 번. 그러나 노루도 사슴도 보지 못했다. 여름이었다. 차창을 내리면 끈끈하지만 시원한 바람을 느낄 수 있었다. 노루를 본 것은 수목원에서였다. 골프장을 지나다 고라니를 보았다. 고라니가 골프공에 맞기를 기다리며 잠시 멀리서 바라보았다. 고라니는 곧 수풀 속으로 사라졌다. 내가 무엇을 보기를 원했는지 알 수 없었다. 내가 대체 무엇을 보고 싶었는지 알 수가 없다. 차로 치어 죽이고 싶었던 것은 나였는지도 모른다. 골프공에 맞아 머리통이 깨지고 싶었던 것은 나였는지도 모른다. 눈이 내리기 시작한다. 전면 유리창에 눈송이가 내려앉고 곧 녹는다. 유리창에 김이 서린다. 나는 히터를 세게 튼다. 졸음이 몰려온다. 그러나 잠들어서는 안 된다. 아직 삼십 분이 지나지 않았다. 일곱시 오십구 분이다. 나는 초조한 마음으로 여덟 시가 되기를 기다린다. 일 분이 이토록 길었던가. 한참 더 가야 휴게소가 나올 것이다. 거기서 끼니를 때우고 잠시 잠들 것이다. 사슴을 치어 죽이는 꿈을 꿀 것이다. 그리고 그 꿈으로 한 문장을 쓸 것이다. 다시 쉽게. 너무나 쉽게. 지나치게 쉬운 한 문장을.

 

  그리고 나는 잠에서 깨어난다.

 

  멀리서 사이렌 소리가 들려온다. 나는 황급히 전방을 주시한다. 앞서가는 차의 번호판이 보인다. 1477. 전부 더하면 19가 된다. 시계는 여덟 시 정각을 가리키고 있다. 라디오에서 익숙한 시그널 음악이 흘러나온다. 곡명은 알 수 없다. 십오 초 가량 졸았던 모양이다. 주행속도가 느리기에 십오 초 가량의 주행거리도 길지 않았다. 사이렌 소리가 가까워진다. 마주오는 차선은 아니다. 앰뷸런스에 실려 눈길을 달려가는 환자의 병명이 궁금하다. 룸미러로 뒤쪽을 살핀다. 앰뷸런스가 다가오고 있다. 뒤에서 오던 차들은 앰뷸런스를 위해 길을 내줄 생각이 없는 것처럼 보인다. 한탄강에서 보았던 설경이 떠오른다. 그런 풍경을 설경이라고 부를 것이다. 텐트와 얼음 밑의 마른 나뭇가지. 독수리의 그림자와 담배꽁초. 사이렌 소리가 신경질적으로 커진다. 다시 뒤를 돌아본다. 앰뷸런스가 다가오고 있다. 뒤쪽의 차들이 굼뜨게 옆으로 비키며 길을 내어주고 있다. 문득 설경이라는 단어를 생각하고 강가에 있던 텐트와 텐트 앞에 있던 등산화 한 켤레를 생각한다. 그 등산화도 강물에 젖었던 것일까. 등산화의 주인은 등산화를 말리고 있던 중이었을까. 혹은 등산화가 강물에 젖기를 기다리고 있었던 것은 아닐까. 아직 젖지 않은 것은 언제고 젖게 된다. 아직 죽지 않은 것은 언제고 죽게 된다. 가속페달을 밟는다. 그러자 안전벨트를 매지 않았다는 경고음이 울리기 시작한다. 연속적으로 들려오는 사이렌의 대단히 짧은 휴지기를 경고음이 메운다. 경고음이 신경질적으로 커진다. 사이렌 소리와 경고음이 놀라운 협화음을 만들어낸다. 귀가 따갑다. 귀가 따가워서 죽어버리고 싶을 정도다. 거짓말이다. 다시 뒤를 돌아본다. 앰뷸런스와 나 사이에는 두 대의 차들이 있다. 시동을 끄지 마세요를 반드시 제목으로 사용하겠다고 생각한다. 그리고 운전대를 옆으로 꺾는다. 얼어붙은 도로 위에서 운전대를 어느 정도로 꺾어야 안전한지를 알 수 있을 정도로 운전 경험이 많지는 않다. 운전대를 꺾으며 안전벨트를 다시 매야겠다고 생각한다. 경고음이 곧바로 해제되지 않는다면 죽어버리고 싶을 정도다. 뒤로 바짝 따라붙은 앰뷸런스를 본 것 같다고 생각한다. 붉은 불빛을 보지 않아도 볼 수 있다. 온통 붉은 사이렌이 눈 앞을 가득 메운다. 경고음도 붉다. 낮에는 설경을 보았다. 밤에는 붉음을 본다. 전면 유리창에 떨어진 눈송이 하나가 붉게 녹는다. 그 속도를 문장으로 쓰고 싶다. 그 붉음을 문장으로 쓰고 싶다. 눈으로 제방을 쌓으려면 얼마나 많은 눈송이가 필요한가. 학자가 아닌 누구에게라도 내 눈을 주었어야 했다. 아무에게나 내 눈을 주고 싶다. 트렁크에서 삽을 꺼냈어야 했다. 삽으로 나를 묻었어야 했다. 그러나 죽은 내가 나를 묻을 수 있는가. 내가 나를 묻지 않는다면 누가 나를 묻어줄 것인가. 경고음이 발작적으로 울린다. 경고음이 무엇을 경고하는지는 알 수 없다. 무엇을 경고하더라도 이미 늦다. 빠르게 더 빠르게. 시동이 꺼지면 안 된다. 오른발이 브레이크를 찾는다. 오른발은 젖지 않았지만 이미 늦다. 느리게 더 느리게. 속도가 사라진다. 속도가 사라진다는 문장이 마음에 든다. 속도가 사라진다를 첫 문장으로 쓰겠다. 첫 문장을 썼으니 다음 문장을 쓰고 싶다. 그러나 나는 지금 무엇을 보고 있는가. 붉음이 문장을 지운다. 그것이 무참하게 슬펐다. 안 된다. 과거형으로 말해서는 안 된다. 죽은 나의 문장은 누가 쓸 것인가. 죽은 나의 없는 문장은 누가 쓸 것인가. 죽은 나의 없는 문장은 어떻게 존재하는가. 죽은 나의 없는 문장들을 어떻게 묻을 것인가. 죽은 나의 없는 문장들을 누가 읽을 것인가. 빠르게 더 빠르게. 느리게 더 느리게. 속도가 사라진다. 속도를 잃은 문장들이 있기도 전에 사라진다. 빠르게 혹은 느리게. 모든 속도는 둘 중 하나로 표현될 수 있다. 크게 더 크게. 크게 더 크게. 크게 더 크게. 소리가 속도를 압도한다. 붉음이 가까워진다. 온통 붉음이다.

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