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South Korean writer
Missing: 3, 4, 5, 6. Present digits repeat to show how many times they occur.
Tradition reads 1 as the number of origination — the point before anything has been divided. Practitioners associate it with people who move first, set direction, and carry the discomfort of being early. The same tradition is candid about the cost: the instinct that starts a thing is not the instinct that finishes it, and 1 is read as needing others precisely where it least wants to admit it.
The 7-8-9 column complete. Read as drive that has both the wish and the machinery — the traditional marker of someone who converts intention into position.
Concentrated self-direction. Read as conviction that does not need external agreement — and does not always seek it.
Read as difficulty getting the inner picture out — the thought is complete, the expression lags. Often described in people whose written voice is far stronger than their spoken one.
Read as impatience with structure and maintenance. Associated with starting well and leaving the scaffolding to someone else.
The centre of the grid, so its absence is weighted heavily. Read as difficulty adapting mid-course — a preference for the plan already chosen over the plan now indicated.
Read as a complicated relationship with obligation — either avoiding it or over-shouldering it, rarely a settled middle.
Moolank 9 comes from the day of the month alone; Bhagyank 1 from the whole date. They differ, which is the ordinary case — the two numbers answer different questions.
Mars. Force, conflict, courage, blood. Read as energy that must be aimed at something.
Bhagyank uses the same arithmetic as the Western life path, so the two will always agree. That is not two traditions confirming each other — it is one calculation under two names.
Humans will not hesitate to lay down their own lives to rescue a child who had fallen onto the train tracks, yet are also perpetrators of appalling violence, like in Auschwitz. The broad spectrum of humanity, which runs from the sublime to the brutal, has for me been like a difficult homework problem ever since I was a child. You could say that my books are variations on this theme of human violence.
I believe that trauma is something to be embraced rather than healed or recovered from. I believe that grief is something which situates the place/space of the dead within the living; and that, through repeatedly revisiting that place, through our pained and silent embrace of it over the course of a whole life, life is, perhaps paradoxically, made possible.
I don't see a single concept of 'national' or 'literature'. Rather, I've always been fascinated by language. I enjoy contemplating the great depth, complexity and delicacy of the layers of a culture in which a single language is in-built. I owe a great debt to poetry and fiction written in Korean, as I spent my adolescence immersed within these.
Writing is a way of questioning for me. I don't try to find an answer, but to complete the question, or to stay within the question as long as I can. In a sense, writing fiction can be compared with pacing back and forth. You go forward and then come back again, pondering questions that both sears and chills you internally.
For me, to write is to endlessly question what is life, what is death, what am I. When I write, especially when I'm writing novels, I'm exchanging one, two, three, sometimes four years for that book. So when I feel that I'm going forward as a writer, when I see that I explored what it means to be human in a certain way in this book and I went another way in another book, that's when I'm glad that I became a writer.
No. I have run away from a lot of publicity. I have tried my best to come back to my desk again. I needed a peaceful corner of my own for my next work. But it took time. Now I am adjusting myself to these new circumstances. I will try to write my next book as soon as possible.
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