In Memoriam P.C. D. > IDEAS & IDEALS

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Three months ago, on May 25, there was a gathering of about two hundred people before a modest grave at the Moran Cemetery Park on the outskirts of Seoul. They gathered there to commemorate the first anniversary of Mr. Pi Chyun-deuk's demise, former professor of English at Seoul National University, famous poet and essayist. He passed away at the venerable age of ninety-seven. All the people present seemed fully entitled to be there. Most of them were his former students who revered, admired and loved him, and some from other walks of life who made special kinship with the deceased during his lifetime. The event was arranged by his devoted son, Dr. Pi Soo-young of Hyundai Asan Hospital.

     The anniversary was especially marked by the unveiling ceremony of a memorial stone on which one of his beloved poems was engraved. This special votive stone was offered by some of his old students. Their individual names were inscribed at the opposite side of the stone. Mine was one among them.

     After the ceremony all the guests were cordially invited to the anniversary dinner party spread on the beautiful lawn garden adjacent to the park cemetery. There were speeches made by several distinguished guests in remembrance of the deceased and musical performances by a pianist, a violinist and a soprano who volunteered to pay homage to the departed. The son knew what his father liked. Everything was exactly what the late person would have liked to have. His father would surely be immensely pleased to see all his admirers assembled together in one place. I felt as if he was somewhere among us enjoying his party.

     The mood of the anniversary was predominantly that of a celebration for the man who lived well and died well. All knew he lived a long and happy life. He was physically healthy and mentally acute to the last day of his life. He was always surrounded by his old students, followers, and admirers. And he was famous. His name was known almost to all throughout the country. Most of us have read some of his poems or essays and liked them. His book of essays was a bestseller. By the time of his death he has made himself something like a national figure, a unique brand of celebrity in our country. To be seen with him was a great honor.

     I was lucky enough to be with this famous man long in my life from the time when I met him first as a student of English in the classroom at college to a few hours before he breathed his last breath on the earth. For the last ten or more years before he died I dropped in on his apartment house at short notice as often and frequently as time and occasion allowed, and had the pleasure of talking with him on any subjects under the sun. He liked talking. Our conversation did not exclude gossips. On the contrary, we enjoyed them immensely between us.  

     He was unique in many ways, but never eccentric, odd or queer. More than anything else, he prized common sense and naturalness in every aspect of life. He did not like unnatural or uncommon conduct and behaviour. He was mostly alone, but he was not lonely. He was cheerful always or tried to be so at least before me. He was rarely solemn or serious. He laughed well and often. I have not seen him depressed or dejected. He never lamented the world. He said often that the world was progressing for the better in the long run. He was an optimist.

     He was more of a humanist than of a moralist. His concern and attention was always here and now. He was religious but he did not talk much about religion or God. He did not seem to believe in the afterlife. He did not seem very much concerned about hell or heaven either. He was a catholic formally, but he did not attend mass or observed any catholic rituals in his lifetime. He was free in thinking, doing and believing. He was a free man.

     And, a writer seeking after literary fame. As a writer of poems and essays he has achieved it and enjoyed it more than any other literary men in our country, but he wanted more. He was wise and intelligent enough to see the danger, vanity and the futility of it, but he could not be so indifferent to this "last infirmity of the noble mind," as John Milton said in his elegy Lycidas. He could not transcend this human weakness or desire. Like you and me, he was a man.

     Last week I made an impulsive visit to his apartment at Banpo where his ninety-year old wife is still living. She has been suffering from some form of illness even when her husband lived, and she is now being taken care of by a nurse. I was greeted by the nurse whom I had known, and shown to the room where the invalid woman was lying. The nurse woke her up and told her who came, helped her sit for a while and told her to say something to my greetings. She made a very feeble response to my greetings as was her wont.

     I was given a cup of tea as I was used to be given when Mr. Pi lived. As I expected, everything has undergone a sea change during the time. To my great sadness, all the belongings to him - the desk, chairs, collections of books, photographs of the famous English poets whom he loved in his lifetime, Chinese calligraphies - were gone. The room in which he always sat and greeted me was hollow and empty. The telephone which rang ceaselessly once was also dead and silent.
    
     But I could see something which I could not see when he was alive. Man dies, nor he alone, but that which each man loved and prized in his peculiar nook of earth dies with him and very soon there will be not a memorial left. We wish otherwise, but how foolish are such thoughts! Most probably my steps will not approach this door again. Soon even the old woman and the nurse who welcomes me today will be gone too. He is dead, the light is extinguished of the house, and the house itself will be taken by some strangers. And, I saw his smile, heard his voice and laughter, felt his warm hands clasping mine for the last time.  
     (August 25, 2008)