Eros and Thanatos: Psychoanalytical Interpretation of the Movie <Decision to Leave>

In about two months after the movie was released, I watched it nine times, bought the script, and decided to write down all the thoughts that came to mind.

• All double quotation marks are directly from the movie.

• Spoiler Alert!

Unorthodox thoughts on love. Seorae is not bad.

This film affirms an unorthodox idea of love by capturing a subject “collapsing” between instinctual attraction and the reality principle, and looks sympathetically at the sound and “dignified modern man.”

Detective Haejun is a person who makes a living by seeing things correctly, but he cannot see his own desires correctly. On the other hand, the suspect, Seorae, is honest about her desires and has no hesitation in following them. As the movie reaches its midpoint, the relationship between the detective seeking the truth and the suspect trying to hide the truth is reversed. The detective conceals his desires, and the suspect voluntarily submits evidence and uncovers the truth.

The film satirizes the contractual relationship of marriage, which exercises exclusive monopolization over a person’s entire being (both body and mind). The Haejun (Park Hae-il) and Jung-an (Lee Jung-hyun) couple, who no longer feel attracted to each other, live together in order not to get divorced. Jung-an’s efforts to maintain the marital relationship even seem somewhat grotesque.

(Director Park Chan-wook revealed in an interview that while the character of Jung-an was originally designed to be more grotesque, certain scenes depicting her in a more grotesque manner were omitted from the final cut of the film due to the director’s personal regret towards actress Lee Jung-hyun.)

“Do people in Korea stop liking someone when they find out that person is married?” (Seorae)

The awkward word choices and slurred pronunciation of Seorae (played by Tang Wei) invites deeper contemplation, indicating that there are no boundaries or controls when it comes to instinctual attraction. We cannot “halt” our hearts. The director seems to be asking: “Can we stop our hearts based on age differences, gender, or marital status? Should we even try?” Despite restricdting conditions, the act of “liking someone” is inherently something we cannot “halt.” Through Seerae’s words, the director supports this viewpoint.

“Am I such wicked?” (Seorae)

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From the beginning of this love I’ve felt that unless I threw myself into it unreservedly, committing myself to it whole-heartedly, fully and forever, there would be absolutely no chance for me, and if I’ve thrown myself into it in the above-mentioned way, that doesn’t alter the fact that the chance is very small. But does it matter to me if the chance is larger or smaller? I mean, must I, can I, take that into account when I love? No — no thought to the winnings — one loves because one loves. … Oh Theo — let’s not talk about it, if you and I love then we love, that’s all there is to it. And then we keep a clear head and don’t cloud our minds nor restrain our feelings nor quench the fire and the light — but say simply, thank God — I love.

Vicent van Gogh’s letter to Theo

Like Gogh’s letter, there can be no calculation in love. The essence of Eros is purposelessness (no aim) and indiscrimination (no object). Is the reality principle, which suppresses desire, bad? Is Seorae, who is honest about her desires, bad? This movie asks the audience to “try to see their minds rightly” from beginning to end.

According to Haejun, more than half of the deceased die with their eyes open. Despite using eye cleaner, Haejun’s eyes are like those of the deceased-open but unable to see.

“Wind, please clear away the fog. … Open your eyes in the fog.” (From the OST of the film)

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Psychoanalytical Symbols

René Magritte, The Lovers, MoMA in Manhattan.

1. Eros and Thanatos

Eros only dreams of union with the desired object, without boundaries or purpose. Again, purposelessness (no purpose) and indiscrimination (no object) are the essence of Eros. When the reality principle blocks the energy of Eros, the ego enjoys a disguised peace by repressing the desire, but in return, it gives itself to Thanatos, the power of death and destruction. For example, when blocked by the reality principle, the murderer Hong Sanho, who shows a suicidal impulse, is dominated by Thanatos and commits suicide when he is unable to achieve love with his lover. However, unlike Haejun, Hong Sanho was a man who was honest about his desires. His eyes are the eyes that see rightly.

Seorae symbolizes Eros, while Haejun is under the dominion of Thanatos. The circumstances of being married and the reality principle of being a “proud police officer” prevent Haejun’s desires. The power of Thanatos in Haejun is expressed externally through his obsession with the murder case (a kind of neurosis), and it also turns inward in the form of more severe depression and insomnia. Only when he is with Seorae, even during his stakeout to watch her, can Haejun fall asleep.

Seorae recites a spell while putting Haejun to sleep. It is a spell to forget about the reality principle and discover the desires hidden deep in the unconscious mind. The sea and water symbolize the unconscious.

“Now go to the sea. Go into the water. You are a jellyfish. You have no eyes or nose. No thoughts.” (Seorae)

2. Return of the Repressed.

At the moment when the murder case is resolved, Haejun’s desire is resolved as well, by admitting for the first time his feelings for Seorae. However, upon realizing that the case hasn’t truly ended, Haejun becomes trapped once again by reality principles. In other words, he must “halt” his heart. But the heart cannot be “halted.”

“Throw that phone into the sea. Let it sink deep so no one can find it.” (Heajun)

If the heart cannot be halted, it must be repressed. Haejun pushes his forbidden desires, along with the evidence of the murder case, into the subconscious symbolized as the “deep sea.” The murder case becomes unresolved again, and the desire that Haejun deliberately ignored remains unresolved as well. This will eventually come back to haunt Haejun making him “shattered” once again. Thus, Freud’s famous dictum: “Return of the repressed.”

“After leaving me, you couldn’t sleep comfortably for a single night, right? Even when you forced your eyes closed, you saw me, right? When we accidentally met again in the market that night You suddenly felt like you were living again, right? At last.” (Seorae)

In the scene where the two reunite, there is a scene where the dim fish’s eyes are wiped away. Now Haejun will open his eyes. The desire for Seorae, which had been buried, arises again and more intensely.

3. Kiss on the cliff. A kiss of salvation bestowed by Eros.

Screenshot

In the deep night, Haejun and Seorae stand facing each other on the cliff. Seorae has called Haejun to a place without fog to help him open his eyes again. The searchlight on Seorae’s head continues to shine on Haejun’s eyes as if performing eye-opening surgery like a doctor. And then, their first kiss.

This scene immediately evokes Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss.” Two lovers are kissing on a cliff. A kiss of salvation from Eros to the subject dominated by Thanatos. (It is well known that Klimt was greatly influenced by Freud.)

Director Park Chan-wook has commented that Seorae follows her own principles and desires rather than the reality principle, and therefore, while she may not be a figure to be ethically admired, she is certainly an attractive character (and thus he indirectly affirmed Seorae’s love). That is why Haejun likes Seorae, that is, her “upright” attitude that he lacks. Haejun acknowledges his desires again.

“You’re curious why I like you, right? Seorae, your body is upright. Few people are so straight without being tense. I think that tells me a lot about Seorae.” (Haejun)

4. The death of Seorae. Orpheus and Eurydice.

The scene where Seorae buries the dead crow foreshadows her own death. She uses the same water bucket she used then to dig her own grave.

The imagery of descent shown in Seorae’s death resembles the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. In the myth, Orpheus rescues Eurydice from the underworld, but on their way back, he fails, causing Eurydice to descend back to the underworld.

This contrasts with the imagery of ascent shown when they first confirmed each other’s feelings. If we substitute the underworld (Hades) with the unconscious, this myth parallels the plot of the movie.

Perhaps it was the kiss bestowed by Eros (Seorae). Haejun realizes his desire for Seorae, which he has repressed in the unconscious. However, he cannot overcome the reality principle and Seorae’s desire is dragged back down to the deeper underground world of the unconscious.

“When did I say I loved you? When?” (Haejun)

“Haejun, throw away the phone you found in the sea. Throw it into a deeper sea.” (Seorae)

With the original recording file of Haejun’s voice saying he loves Seorae, Seorae descends into “deeper waters.” ​

Usually, the sea symbolizes the unconscious, and in this film (as per the director’s words), it particularly represents the overwhelming power of waves, something that overwhelms human will, causing chaos, hinting at the human unconscious and the desires and motives inherent there.

In the setting where the unconscious and desires swirl along the seashore, Haejun suddenly awakens to his desire for Seorae and sets out to find her. But, Seorae is no longer there, and so, his desire remains unresolved, sinking deeper into the unconscious forever.

Now, Seorae is right under Hae-jun’s feet, unresolved in his unconscious, as an unfulfilled desire, and will forever come back to haunt him, just as Orpheus was haunted. Haejun, like Orpheus, will gradually wither away.

“I think I came to Ipo to become your unresolved case. Put my picture on the wall and find yourself unable to sleep, only thinking about me.” (Seorae)

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Only shame remains.

I wanted only to try and live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult?

Hermann Hesse, Demian.

Perhaps because Haejun could not follow his desires like “upright” Seorae and instead conformed to the reality principle? Haejun feels a deep sense of shame for not living “in accord with the promptings which came from [his] true self.”

The Whence of Being and Meaning (Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything)

Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything (New York: Broadway Books, 2003)

[IN A NUTSHELL]
The journey from cosmic birth to human emergence that unveils the human place and meaning in the vast history of the Universe

With Bill Bryson known for his unique humor and satire, I didn’t have high expectations for the content of the book and even postponed reading it several times, opting for other books instead. However, my expectations were completely surpassed. This book, nearly 500 pages in B5 format, spanning 30 chapters in its English original, unfolds a meticulous presentation of nearly everything’s history, just as the title suggests, supported by solid research materials.

The author delves into nearly every field of science to explain the history of nearly everything, leading readers into a feast of ‘ologies’ and ‘isms’ in each chapter: cosmology (Big Bang theory, multiverse theory, string theory), physics (classical mechanics, electromagnetism, relativity theory, quantum mechanics), geology, climatology, chemistry, evolutionary biology, molecular biology, genetics, phylogenetics, archaeology, zoology, and so on.

The reason why one should read this book is clear. No one can unravel the vast history from the birth of the universe to the emergence of humanity as easily, accurately, and, most importantly, entertainingly as Bill Bryson does.

Of course, since the book contains scientific achievements up until the author’s writing in 2003, readers who approach this book as specialists may be disappointed, given that it was published over 20 years ago. Like in other fields, scientific knowledge can quickly become outdated, especially in the rapidly evolving era of science and technology. Therefore, readers may prefer to read freshly published scientific literature in today’s fast-paced world of advancements.

However, the reason why one should read this book is clear. No one can unravel the vast history from the birth of the universe to the emergence of humanity as easily, accurately, and, most importantly, entertainingly as Bill Bryson does. This, in my opinion, is the greatest advantage of this book. The introduction of various famous theories, which can be quite perplexing to the general reader, is presented in a straightforward manner without distortion, a point that even specialists would appreciate (though it’s obvious that in order to “really” understand the latest physics theories, one must sit down and study mathematics).

I encountered sentences that made me laugh every few pages, and I was very happy about it, wrote them down, and envied his talent.

Furthermore, this book boasts an astonishingly good readability. As the author states in the preface, writing a science book that is accessible to the general public has been the author’s lifelong dream. As a child, the boring and difficult textbooks reduced the author’s interest in science (and therefore successfully reduced the author’s grades), but it did not completely reduce the spark of interest.  With a deep-seated desire to understand the universe and humanity, a wish held like a lifelong homework assignment, the author meticulously crafted this book with dedication. This involved extensive research, interviews, and on-site investigations, all presented in a way that ordinary readers can easily grasp.

Despite the author’s occasional seriousness, his unique sense of humor made this hefty book much more enjoyable to read. While the author strives to maintain a somewhat solemn tone compared to his other essays, he effortlessly showcases his remarkable sense of humor without reservation. He possesses an amazing talent for making readers laugh without going overboard, using themes like human ignorance, quirks, limitations, the vastness and wonder of nature, and the complexity of situations. In fact, I encountered sentences that made me laugh every few pages, and I was very happy about it, wrote them down, and envied his talent.

Now, I must say a couple of things that I am disappointed about. While the author delves into the vast expanse of the universe in this book, from its birth to the emergence of life on Earth and the appearance of human beings, they fail to demonstrate their deep reflection on the meaning of human existence. Although the author shares their literary sensibility through personal reflections on scientific discoveries in each chapter, it feels somewhat superficial and lacking in depth. As someone who expected a more profound contemplation from a renowned author who has conducted grand research and writing, this aspect leaves much to be desired. If only the author had included a chapter on topics like religion, ethics, or the meaning of life, the satisfaction level would have been much higher.

The combination of serious content, solid scientific evidence, accessibility, and humor. These elements are well blended in Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything, ultimately aiming to explore the meaning of human existence from the perspective of cosmic origins and evolutionary biology.

Another disappointing aspect is that this book does not cover present-day and future humans. In other words, the book relies solely on natural sciences to discuss the history of the universe and humanity and does not deal with the history of human civilization, which falls under social sciences (economics, politics, culture, religion, etc.).  The author only explores the emergence of our species (Homo sapiens) and does not mention the subsequent development of humans in terms of civilization, culture, art, and religion. Furthermore, personally, I was hoping to hear about issues related to our future from this excellent writer, such as artificial intelligence and space exploration. However, since the title of the book is “History,” I cannot blame the author for not fulfilling this obligation.”

Interestingly enough, Yuval Noah Harari’s book Sapiens starts precisely from the emergence of our Homo sapiens in Earth’s history and delves deeply into the future of sapiens as well. It almost feels as if these two books were published as the first and second volumes of a series, covering different aspects comprehensively. Of course, Sapiens, dealing with the future, provides us with more food for thought.”

The combination of serious content, solid scientific evidence, accessibility, and humor. These elements are well blended in Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything, ultimately aiming to explore the meaning of human existence from the perspective of cosmic origins and evolutionary biology.

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According to Bryson, humans are not here by inevitability. We are the product of an endless series of coincidences. Our lives have no inherent value, purpose, or meaning. From a cosmic perspective, humans are virtually nothing, and from the perspective of Earth, we are parasites. The emergence and extinction of a species are natural and repetitive processes in the 4.5 billion years of Earth’s history and 3.8 billion years of life history. Furthermore, the short lifespan of an individual human is simply ephemeral. Eastern religious and philosophical traditions have already realized this, and even some Western nursery rhymes reflect this insight.

    Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream.
    Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but a dream.

I want to tell it like this. Our lives are like small sailboats. We ride that sailboat along a vast river without even knowing the whither, drifting aimlessly. That vast river is the universe. Like other fellow creatures, we can only follow the irresistible, vast, and ruthless flow of the universe. However, we don’t need to panic in the face of the randomness and transience of our lives. We also don’t need to be sad looking at the vast universe that is completely indifferent to its offspring. Unlike other life forms, we humans can “merrily” row the oars.

Only when we begin the exploration to find them, do they emerge fragmentarily and momentarily in the journey of our exploration. In other words, meaning exists only through and as a process of self-exploration.

We are meaning-making creatures, while there is no inherent value, purpose, or meaning in life itself. They are not found within us or outside of us, nor are they given to us by some divine entity. Only when we begin the exploration to find them, do they emerge fragmentarily and momentarily in the journey of our exploration. In other words, meaning exists only through and as a process of self-exploration. We can merrily attribute meaning to our dream-like lives.”

Rilke once said that there is only one journey in this world, and that is the journey towards one’s own inner self. This can be seen as a poetic expression of Feuerbach’s famous dictum, “Theology is anthropology.” I believe that art, philosophy, theology, and religious studies are all forms of anthropology carried out in the name of beauty, truth, and the divine. In this sense, the dictum means that all our inquiries are ultimately journeys to discover ourselves. And discovery is actualization. (In the English word self-realization, the verb realize has the meanings of “to discover” and “to actualize” at the same time.) At the end of all inquiry, one finds and thus fulfills oneself (and not God or any other divine or noble things), which is called self-realization, and only through which one finds meaning. Then, we come to realize that chance and necessity are ultimately the same, that freedom and destiny are essentially indistinguishable, and that God and I were one from the beginning.

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The Music of Secret Love (Berg’s Lyric Suite)

• National Symphony Orchestra – Gianandrea Noseda (Conductor)
• Alban Berg, Three Pieces from the Lyric Suite (arr. for string orchestra)
• Monday, February 12, 2024 / Carnegie Hall, NY, USA

[IN A NUTSHELL]
In the harsh dissonance, Berg's music, with its lyrical beauty, was like a coded love letter expressing forbidden love.

I went to the concert hall to listen to Beethoven’s famous Symphony No. 3, also known as the Eroica Symphony. This captivating piece kept me engaged from start to finish, and the story behind Beethoven’s attitude towards Napoleon added even more intrigue. Beethoven composed this heroic symphony envisioning Napoleon as a revolutionary figure who would bring freedom to all of Europe. However, upon Napoleon’s self-coronation as emperor and his subsequent reactionary behavior, Beethoven, disappointed, chose to depict his idealized hero instead.

The witty portrayal of the ups and downs the hero should endure in the first two movements was commendable, but personally, I found the section from the middle of the fourth movement, with its dance-like feel, all the way to the finale, to be exceptional. While Noseda’s brisk and restrained conducting felt rushed in the more solemn atmosphere of the second movement, it shone brightly in the fourth movement. However, the music that truly captivated me that day was the unexpected and unheard-of first piece from Part I, Alban Berg’s orchestration of the Lyric Suite.

This score was “a coded love letter” full of fervent affection, making this music simultaneously discordant yet poignantly lyrical.

As the performance began, I initially heard only the sounds of the strings. Puzzled, I glanced back at the stage and checked the program. It was then that I realized this piece had been arranged for a string orchestra. Throughout the 15 minutes of the performance, the jarring dissonances influenced by Schoenberg’s twelve-tone technique grated on my ears, while the fragmented rhythm seemed to synchronize perfectly with the conductor’s segmented gestures. It felt as though choreography had been intentionally crafted to match the music.

Many people often struggle when appreciating contemporary music or art. In such moments, I advise focusing on the sensations conveyed by the artwork itself—its colors, shapes, textures, sounds, lighting, smells, and so on—rather than trying to understand it intellectually. I add it’s important to simply immerse oneself in the moods or emotions evoked by these sensations. Of course, contemporary art isn’t always accommodating to the viewer’s mood, but regardless, Berg clearly had something he wanted to express through this piece.

Berg subtly exposed forbidden love, intertwining his contradictory emotions of caution and impatience, boundless affection and sensitivity, hope and despair in a subtle blend within the music.

Berg sent the score of this piece to Hanna Fuchs-Robettin, whom researchers revealed was his lover. As if to prove it, Berg clandestinely expressed their hidden love through the grammar of music. The main theme of the piece consists of A—B-flat—B-natural—F, which in German notation represents A—B—H—F, the initials of Alban Berg and Hanna Fuchs-Robettin. Thus, this score was “a coded love letter” (Peter Laki) full of fervent affection, making this music simultaneously discordant yet poignantly lyrical.

However, both were already married, so they knew their love could never be fulfilled from the start. This music resonated with a consistent dissonance from the sharpness of the strings, intertwined with a poignant melancholy. Caution and impatience vied with each other, leading and lagging in competition. In the second movement, as the strings whispered amidst dissonance, it felt as if conflicting thoughts were debating in Berg’s mind. Through his music, Berg subtly exposed forbidden love, intertwining his contradictory emotions of caution and impatience, boundless affection and sensitivity, hope and despair in a subtle blend within the music.

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I was in fifth grade. I remember feeling amazed when I realized that I liked someone from the same class. I had already experienced liking someone in the second grade, but this was the first time I desperately wanted to tell anyone about it. Unable to stay still, I rode my bike to the farthest place I could go and found secluded places. With my heart pounding like a drum, I arrived at a quiet neighborhood or a back alley of a market and shouted out loud several times, “000 likes 000!”

Since then, I’ve had several secret crushes, and whenever I wanted to subtly express my emotions, I struggled to control the urge to let the world know. What do we do in those moments? Feelings that had to be kept hidden because they were shy or not allowed would suddenly pop up due to impatient haste, only to be frightened by sober thoughts and decide to keep them a secret again. Yet, there was a longing for the excitement of being caught in a mistake. I would secretly hope for someone to pick up on the subtle clues I left behind, scattering these coded emotions throughout my daily life for careful observation.

Berg’s music revitalizes those moments in life when we were a bit more passionate, a bit more faithful to our emotions.

Now, holding back has become much easier. It’s partly because the youthful innocence of childhood has faded away and partly due to the resigned attitude I’ve acquired with age to protect myself. It’s not necessarily something to rejoice about. Sometimes, I long for the innocent passion of the youth. It’s not a great consolation to remind myself that I can maintain better mental and physical composure now.

Berg’s music revitalizes those moments in life when we were a bit more passionate, a bit more faithful to our emotions. While those moments weren’t always glorious or happy, don’t we all occasionally wish we could relive them once more if given the chance?

The Duty, the Arrogance, and the Solitude of the Genius (Ray Monk, Ludwig Wittgenstein)

Ray Monk, Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius (1990)

[IN A NUTSHELL]
The art of philosophical deconstruction of a solitary thinker whose world-reengineering elitism made him isolated and shivering in loneliness.

What readers expect from a biography will differ from what they expect from a philosophical treatise. Examining the most crucial moments in a philosopher’s life is as enlightening (if not more so) as delving into their own works. What an individual puts out into the world is the most faithful expression of their life, whatever form it may take. A philosophical system, of course, but also works of art, literary compositions, political decisions, and even the attitude of a waiter serving a glass of water to a guest, or the subtle gestures made during a conversation—all of these are acts of self-expression. Therefore, the best way to understand someone’s body of work is to become a thoughtful witness to their life.

Ray Monk made an effort to illuminate both the public and private lives of Ludwig Wittgenstein, citing a significant amount of personal correspondence. Through his equally intriguing life, readers could gain a clearer understanding of his philosophy. However, more serious philosophical readers may feel disappointed that the author devoted too little space to explaining Wittgenstein’s philosophy itself.

In this book, the relatively sparse discussion of philosophical reasoning itself compared to other philosophers’ biographies may stem from the fundamental difference in philosophical attitude between Wittgenstein and other philosophers. Let’s compare Hegel and Wittgenstein. Hegel established a complex and grandiose metaphysical system, upon which he based extensive systematic writings throughout his life on many key areas such as mind, history, logic, politics, law, and religion.

Wittgenstein’s philosophy is more like a sharp dagger piercing through the ambitions of constructing grand philosophical systems.

On the other hand, Wittgenstein’s philosophy is more like a sharp dagger piercing through the ambitions of constructing grand philosophical systems. He believed that it was sufficient to undermine the foundation of philosophical reasoning, namely language. He asserted that the grammar of thought should be poetic rather than systematic or logical, which succinctly summarizes his attitude toward philosophy.

Wittgenstein, instead of constructing another system to dismantle metaphysical frameworks, scrutinizes the fundamental operations of philosophy, namely language and logic. He believed that the “primary condition” for philosophy is “doubt about grammar,”, and if he were to draft his philosophical manifesto, the opening sentence might have been “All philosophy can do is a critique of idols.”¹ These idols represent all kinds of grand doctrinal systems attempting to interpret the world and claiming to be successful—be it religious, philosophical, or political. Therefore, perhaps a lengthy discourse might not be necessary to explain his philosophy. Wittgenstein himself did not leave behind a comprehensive philosophical system, nor did he desire one. Furthermore, due to his perfectionist nature, he was unable to publish a single book properly.

Wittgenstein was not interested in addressing the problems that philosophy was supposed (and believed) to solve. Instead, he questioned the validity of philosophizing itself and sought to reveal its inherent limits. Reasoning can only occur through the medium of language, which necessarily consists of symbolic and abstract symbols, and language is inevitably a product of a specific culture. While we reason with the symbolic system of language bestowed upon us by society, we unwittingly accept the worldviews and assumptions deeply embedded within that language. For example, in traditional societies, the prevalent assumption is that there are only two sexes or genders, male and female. There are no words to express various other gender forms (in fact, the concept of gender itself is a modern invention and importation). This demonstrates that the assumptions inherited from traditional societies, namely that biological sex and social gender roles are identical, are already ingrained in the language we use. And language users comprehend the world through these assumptions.

When Wittgenstein said, “The limits of my language are the limits of my world,” he meant precisely this.

However, such assumptions are not a necessary way of perceiving the world but rather arbitrary ones based on the uniqueness of culture and language. Using language without recognizing its historicity and relativity is to uncritically accept the assumptions inherent within it. We do not have our current worldview because of its accuracy but rather because we have inherited it. When Wittgenstein said, “The limits of my language are the limits of my world,” he meant precisely this. This is a very accurate observation and should no longer be a new fact that feels revolutionary now.

“But I did not acquire my picture of the world by convincing myself that it was right. Nor do I acquire it by being convinced that it was correct. Not at all. It is the background we have inherited, and on this background, I distinguish between truth and falsehood.”

Consider people sharing the same language and culture and engaging in conversation using words like justice or love. From a hermeneutic perspective, the meanings each person ‘actually’ intends when using those words must not be equivalent. Simply put, the process through which the meaning of a given word is formed as a specific meaning—emotion, feeling, or image, for instance—for an individual is entirely unique, so even within the same cultural context, the specific meanings of words used by individuals vary. If we were to judge rigorously, communication of the kind where meanings are a hundred percent definitively expressed and interpreted is theoretically impossible.

“We cannot speak about what a word means. … How do I know that when two people say they believe in God, they mean the same thing?”

The traditional philosophy that relies on language can say nothing at all. Such philosophy is nothing but a meaningless language game, and the arrows shot by so-called academic philosophers miss the target of truth entirely, flying off into absurd directions. Therefore, philosophy must now remain silent. Philosophy speaks about what cannot be spoken about, and what Wittgenstein meant to say is this very ‘not-being-able-to-be-spokenness.’ Wittgenstein ruptures this language game. He cleanses the “foundation of language,” which supports our world of meaning, in order to collapse that world, which is like a “house of cards made of language.” Perhaps this is the duty of the genius Wittgenstein.

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It is clear that we cannot reach complete objective truth through a specific language, which is a product of culture. Nevertheless, we still make sense of our lives based on our inherited cultural background. Even though our perspectives may be confined by specific languages and methodologies, the meaning we give to our lives is never ‘non-truth.’ It is through this meaning-making that makes us human. This is the essence of being human, and therefore, we inevitably need a horizon of meaning. Wittgenstein also understood this point well and acknowledged the validity of religion in providing a horizon of meaning.

“I have my own picture of the world. Is it true or false? Above all, it is the foundation of all my inquiries and assertions. There is no reason why religious faith cannot provide this foundation, and there is no reason why religious belief should not become part of “the background against which we distinguish between true and false, the background we have inherited.”

Like iconoclasts, it was Wittgenstein’s duty to shatter all philosophical idols. However, after completing the demolition of philosophical dogmas, he generously left room for religious faith. Since life is lived not through rigorous philosophy but through passion, Wittgenstein himself longed for such faith. Of course, this faith does not mean intellectual agreement with doctrines but rather a specific attitude aroused by passion. He distinguished between wisdom (philosophy and rigor) and passion (faith and action), stating that “wisdom is ashy” while “life and religion are colored.” In other words, a passionate attitude (faith) redeems human existence.

“Faith is not about my rational intellect; it is about believing in what my heart and my soul demand. Because what needs to be saved is not my abstract mind but my soul, which is imbued with passion, so to speak, with flesh and blood.“

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The subtitle of the book, “The Duty of Genius,” makes me somewhat uncomfortable. It reminds me of a friend armed with an elitist consciousness. Although we are now estranged, he is also the one who recommended this book to me. He bears many resemblances to Wittgenstein in various aspects, so I couldn’t help but wonder if he gave me this book as his own introduction to me. I even had the thought that he was imitating and mimicking Wittgenstein, adopting his tastes and attitudes as if they were his own. And certain aspects of both of them made me quite uncomfortable.

Wittgenstein’s philosophizing is undoubtedly valuable, but his arrogant attitude is almost unbearable.

Wittgenstein’s philosophizing is undoubtedly valuable, but his arrogant attitude is almost unbearable. He completely disdained tastes that did not meet his standards and openly expressed his discomfort with individuals who held such tastes. Social conventions and etiquette were lightly dismissed, like ignoring STOP signs on the road, and his emotions were expressed unfiltered to those around him. Perhaps because his greatest ethical challenge in life was uncompromising honesty, he seemed quite content with this “honest” attitude of his, which was sufficient to isolate himself.

He showed his first-class instinct for human re-engineering without hesitation towards those who seemed to be ill-cultivated among his acquaintances, and I found these very traits in the friend who recommended this book to me. Elitism, the mission of re-engineering humans and the world, and the discomfort and pettiness expressed when one’s own will is not fulfilled, are, of course, uncomfortable aspects that are found in a milder form (this is very fortunate) in me as well.

“My day passes with logics, whistling, walking, and getting depressed.”

Due to his incredibly meticulous thinking and even more meticulous sense of elitism, Wittgenstein was lonelier than anyone else and sometimes wanted comfort from a same-sex lover. However, he tortured himself by thoroughly hating his vulnerability and solitude. He firmly believed that it was his “perpetual alienation”-the fact that he did not belong to any specific relationship or community-that made him a philosopher. He wrote, “My day passes with logic, whistling, walking, and getting depressed.” His loneliness was self-inflicted, and the gravity of his loneliness is heavy enough to evoke the reader’s sympathy. If we closely and kindly witness to life of a human being, it would be hard not to feel sympathy for him or her.

Wittgenstein was undoubtedly a genius, and he was faithful to the duty given to the genius. He prayed, “May I become more intelligent and may everything become clear to me in the end, or else may I not need to live longer (146).” Is there an item on the sacred duty list of geniuses, such as “Must be arrogant!” in addition to examining the presuppositions of our world and presenting new perspectives? I often sense a sign of a dictator in geniuses who show almost missionary zeal to reengineer the world. A sentence written by Michel Foucault in the “Preface” of Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari’s Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia suggests a certain relationship between a dictator and a genius who is trying to fulfill his or her sacred duty.

“How does one keep from being fascist, even (especially) when one believes oneself to be a revolutionary militant? How do we rid our speech and our acts, our heart and our pleasures, of fascism? How do we ferret out the fascism that is ingrained in our behavior?“

1. All Wittgenstein citations are my private reverse translations from the Korean translation of the original English work. ↩︎

Life as Thirty Variations (Bach’s Goldberg Variations by Ólafsson)

• Wednesday, February 7, 2024 / Carnegie Hall, NY, USA
• Vikingur Ólafsson
• J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations

[IN A NUTSHELL]
Reflecting on the essence of life through Bach's music, and the faithful rendition of it by Olafsson's performance.

When I boarded the subway at the World Trade Center in Lower Manhattan, there was still a hint of afternoon light lingering. Exiting at 59th Street, near the entrance to Central Park, I found myself amidst a throng of people, and the sky had already begun to darken. Eager to warm up and nourish my body, I stopped by Le Pain Quotidien for a lentil soup before setting out again for the performance.

At just past 8 o’clock, Vikingur Ólafsson, tall and elegantly dressed in a suit, strode onto the stage. After a light nod of greeting, he promptly took his seat at the piano. Due to his large stature and long legs, the chair appeared smaller and somewhat uncomfortable. After taking a deep breath, he lightly swept his hands from the middle of the piano keyboard to the farthest ends, and then, to everyone’s anticipation, he played the first notes of the music.

J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations, composed in 1741, consists of an Aria followed by 30 variations, concluding with a repeat of the initial Aria. Ostensibly, it was composed as a study and exercise in musical form and performance technique. However, according to some scholars—albeit with questionable credibility—Bach had a particular insomniac Count in mind when composing this music. According to this story, the Count, unable to sleep, would call upon a young musician he employed to play for him. One day, the Count requested Bach to provide new keyboard music for this young musician to play, and that musician happened to be none other than Bach’s student, Goldberg.

With such a famous piece already interpreted and performed by countless musicians, how can one possibly appeal to the audience in a unique way? Trying too hard to inject personal flair may backfire. On this day, Ólafsson’s performance demonstrated just that.

Trying too hard to inject personal flair may backfire. On this day, Ólafsson’s performance demonstrated just that.

From the very first phrase of the famous Aria, there was a sense of unease. The performer’s rubato seemed particularly pronounced that day, to the point where even a classical music amateur like myself could almost certainly detect a slight mistouch. Of course, not being an expert, I couldn’t decisively determine whether it was a mistake or intentional expression of freedom. I remember making an effort to understand it positively, attributing it to youthful impetuosity or a stylistic choice akin to a private play. I recalled a recital by Khatia Buniatishvili, especially when performing Chopin’s Polonaise, her rubato was nearly unbearable at times. In comparison, Ólafsson’s performance that day didn’t feel as jarring.

How did the young Goldberg, barely in his teens, play this mucis? Unlike Ólafsson, who had to persuasively perform the music that had been reinterpreted countless times, Goldberg likely experienced a different kind of pressure. Imagine the heightened sensitivity of the count, plagued by insomnia, as he implored, “Please, play something to lull me to sleep.” In such a scenario, Goldberg might have rushed to convey some specific feelings through his playing, perhaps even unaware of what exactly he was playing.

I found myself adjusting my posture, holding my breath until the end of the Aria, feeling each note resonate throughout my being.

However, as each variation unfolded one by one, Goldberg would have started to confront only the music of his master. And when he played the Aria again at the very end, he wouldn’t have tried to evoke any particular feeling anymore. Just as Ólafsson did.

As the performance progressed into the latter part, Ólafsson’s playing gradually became more serene. It was a depiction of him letting go of himself, solely focusing on allowing the music to be fully expressed through him. The last of the thirty variations was intense yet carried a subdued melancholy that was palpable. It seemed to foreshadow the impending arrival of the final Aria. How many seconds passed between the end of the 30th variation and the first note of that last Aria? Amidst the poignant silence, he played that mournful first note with perfect timing, and I found myself adjusting my posture, holding my breath until the end of the Aria, feeling each note resonate throughout my entire being.

Bach’s intricate music will itself reveal its sublime essence to us.

Bach himself emphasized a light and even touch when it came to keyboard playing. In light of Bach’s approach, one should simply play lightly and follow the score as written. Then, Bach’s intricate music will itself reveal its sublime essence to us.

After completing all the performances, Ólafsson explained why he couldn’t perform an encore this time. He didn’t want to compromise the integrity of Bach’s music. He said that the only suitable encore for this music would be the Aria he had just performed, and that once he started playing the Aria, he would have to replay all the variations that followed it. It was a witty explanation to appease the somewhat disappointed audience, but I thought his explanation eloquently represented the essence of Bach’s music.

“In my beginning is my end.”

T. S. Eliot

Bach’s Goldberg Variations conclude with the repetition of the first Aria at the end. After performing the initial Aria, the musician, having traversed thirty variations in a whirlwind, must now play the same Aria once again. The performer encounters the Aria anew, as if playing it for the first time. Therefore, this time, they play it differently, with a gentle touch, effortlessly.

“The end of my exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

T. S. Eliot

Our lives are likewise. Ignorant of the meaning of life, we begin our world, traversing diverse variations of life before encountering once again where we stared. When we face moments of questioning who we are and what the meaning of our lives is, that’s when we rediscover the roots of our existence—the existential conditions given to us (times, race, region, parents, gender, class, etc.). Only after these thirty variations do we finally come to know and embrace our starting point anew, i.e., the world we are thrown into. It’s not that we have changed; it’s that we have begun to recognize ourselves anew. Therefore, life is a journey of thirty variations, leading towards the aria of self-realization.

Crispy on the outside and tender on the inside (Brahms’ Symphony no.1)

• Sunday, February 4, 2024
• Carnegie Hall, Manhattan, NY
• Munich Philharmonic – Zubin Mehta (Conductor)
• Brahms Symphony 1 & Symphony 2

[IN A NUTSHELL]
The Munish Philharmonic plays, with its dignified sound, the music that appears tough on the outside but is tender on the inside, music that resembles ourselves.

Instead of Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto, his First Symphony was performed. Having recently been let down by a disappointing performance of the same piece from another orchestra, my interest in this piece had waned. Furthermore, with no time to find a replacement for Bronfman, the cancellation of the piano concerto left a sense of regret.

I found myself deeply engrossed in the music, realizing how wonderful Brahms’ First Symphony truly is.

As the performance began, the Munich Philharmonic’s rich and stable sound helped to fully immerse in the music. While some may find their sound a bit too blunt, preferring more agile pieces and auditory pleasure, the orchestra’s performance allowed for a focused appreciation of the music. Having performed Brahms’ First Symphony in their previous concert, there likely wasn’t even time for a rehearsal for this performance. Hence, Mehta conducted Symphony №1 with a bold baton, making the music feel more familiar and accessible compared to Symphony №2 performed in the second half. Ultimately, thanks to their excellent performance, I found myself deeply engrossed in the music, realizing how wonderful Brahms’ First Symphony truly is.

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The sweetness hidden behind the solemnity of an earnest artist must have been reserved only for a few.

The first movement was majestic to the extent to which it felt almost pathetic, while the following movements were serene and gentle. In the fourth movement, the energy surged again, making the overall experience crispy and tender at once, much like the texture of a well-prepared dish. The first and fourth movements wrapped the piece with toughness while tenderly embracing a soft interior in between I may not know much about Brahms as a composer, but I couldn’t help but think, “Ah, this must have been what he was like.” The sweetness hidden behind the solemnity of an earnest artist must have been reserved only for a few.

The fourth movement, though tougher compared to the second and third ones, was less crispy compared to the first movement. It felt much softer, almost as if the crispy exterior was infused with a moist interior. Especially in the middle of the fourth movement when the theme of the first movement was repeated, there was a sense of maturity yet youthfulness, exuding an air of a presentable young man. Brahms must have reconciled with his past self. The sharpness and stiffness of his youth softened, revealing a more tender interior.

Still, I hope they don’t lose their moist interior.

I know several people around me who are crispy on the outside and tender inside, some by nature, and some to withstand the harsh realities of the world. Perhaps more and more people are in the process of ripening, under the scorching sun of competition and labor, pretending not to care about the harsh storms just to survive, trying not to appear weak in the midst of competition.

Still, I hope they don’t lose their moist interior. I hope they courageously display their simple, tender side as often as possible. I hope they become affectionate people who recognize innocence, vulnerability, and sadness of each other beneath the prickly exterior.