As we get older and wiser, we try not to make any enemies, whether personal or political. After all, life is too short to spend struggling with and retaliating against our foes. When we grow old, therefore, we want to reconcile with our adversaries, practicing the “forgive and forget” policy. What is the use of being revengeful or harboring a grudge when we await the arrival of the carriage of death? Would it not be better to enjoy emotional serenity and peace, instead of hating someone until death? Reminiscing about our life, therefore, we wish we could say, “I strove with none/ for none was worth my strife,” as the British poet Walter Savage Landor wrote in “On His 75th Birthday.” 

Alas! But we are only human and thus often find it difficult to lead such peaceful lives, for a host of reasons. At home, we are frequently disappointed in our children, who no longer seem to respect us or care about us. At work, we often encounter people who try to antagonize or slander us for political gain. On the street, we always bump into people who are intolerably offensive and rude. And in social circles, our friends betray us from time to time, completely forgetting all the favors we have done for them.

Perhaps that is why we become sulky and sullen as we grow old. We click our tongues, muttering, “How could he! After all the favors I have done for him!” We feel betrayed when people callously decline our small requests, after having relished the sweet fruits of our help and care in the past. When we were powerful and useful, these people flattered us. When they no longer find us useful, however, they abandon us unhesitatingly. That is wrong in every sense.

The same thing goes for international relations. For example, we should be grateful to the 16 countries that helped us during the Korean War and return the favor. We should gain the confidence of the international community by proving that we are a highly reliable, responsible people. And we should make South Korea a trustworthy country that never turns its back on those who need its help. Dispatching a rescue unit to Malaysia last week was a good gesture.

These days, I, too, find ingrates around me and am disappointed in them. For example, I feel excruciating pain in my heart when a small, humble request is brutally turned down by someone whom I have helped and stood by whenever he needed me. Surprisingly, there are quite a few people who are ungrateful in our society; they take your help for granted and never try to return your favors. And these inappreciative people even turn their back on you when you ask for help. They may think of themselves as having excellent social skills. In fact, they are nothing but social piranhas.

On the other hand, there are socially reclusive and even unsociable people. For example, professors may seem to have questionable social skills because they spend the whole day in their small offices alone, and yet seem to be perfectly all right. That is not all. When someone knocks on their door and tries to enter, most professors do not welcome the intruding visitor. Rather, they prefer solitude and serenity.

Certainly, not all professors enjoy being alone. Some professors are quite sociable and mingle with others comfortably. Some of them are superb administrators who contribute to the development of their university significantly. Others enter the political arena and prove themselves to be competent politicians. Even among professors, social piranhas can be found. And there are bohemians who are defiant of academia, which they find stifling.

As for me, I have always thought of myself as a professor with awkward social skills. I have chosen the life of a scholar and educator in the ivory tower called a “university.” A university has an addictive intoxication to it that holds professors under its spell: the enticing fragrance of books in the library, vibrant students in the classroom and decent colleagues with outstanding professional skills.

As I get closer to retirement, I now live a kind of twilight existence on campus. In “Leaving Las Vegas,” Ben Sanderson is a hopeless down-and-out alcoholic who also leads a kind of twilight life, attracted to what Las Vegas offers him. Enticed by the mesmerizing atmosphere of the city, Sanderson cannot leave; the only way he can leave Vegas is to drink himself to death. Likewise, I, too, won’t be able to leave academia, even after I retire from my university. The only way I can leave academia is to “read myself to death.” Meanwhile, I will continue to enjoy the pleasure of reading, learning and, above all, being alone. Perhaps I am a hopelessly lonesome, self-appointed social pariah.

By Kim Seong-kon

Kim Seong-kon is a professor of English at Seoul National University and president of the Literature Translation Institute of Korea. ― Ed.