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If, the last time I went swimming in Santa Monica (California), instead of returning to the land, called back
by who knows what Hollywood frivolities, I had continued straight ahead, I would have arrived today, if I
calculate right, at Sonsan beach -where I am. Rendezvous in Samarra.

Sunday in Sons: on a platform planted with trees, the changgo and the accordion play by turns. Under the
pale yellow sun of late afternoon, the dancers -couples of men, couples of women, even a Pierrot Lunaire
dancing only for himself- appear and disappear in my viewfinder like visitors to an aquarium. When the
music stops, one hears the sleeper’s sigh of the nearby Pacific, a hard sleeper.

Indolence, that famous Korean indolence (no doubt their transparency before the military brutes) had its
anthropological guarantee: an Oceanian connection. Only the sound and fury of an incomparable history
could have shifted the destinies of a second Tahiti.

Must one be thankful to history for preserving Korea from the terrible old age of former paradise, for
helping it, not to corrupt its beauty but rather to clothe its innocence, to exchange its Gauguins for Renoirs,
and to choose the right Robinson?