“If you drink it slowly and quietly for a long time, anyone will feel it.
“Compassion for all living things…”

It comforts our tired lives with deep emotions and lingering feelings.
An essay praising drinking by author Jeong Ji-ah of "Father's Liberation Diary"

Author Jeong Ji-ah, who moved countless readers with her best-selling book, “Father’s Liberation Diary,” has published her first essay, “Because It’s a Night I Can’t Help Drinking.”
As a writer known for his love of alcohol, he has written 34 stories about alcohol and people he has encountered, sometimes humorously and sometimes with sincerity.

From the sweet memories of first being introduced to the world of alcohol through her socialist father, to the dizzying memories of drinking whiskey secretly while hiding her wanted status and climbing Jirisan Mountain, to the power of makgeolli that brought together artists with loud voices and strong personalities, to the identity of the two-drinking benefactor who helped Jeong Ji-ah become a solid novelist, these high-alcohol stories unfold without pause, guaranteeing fun and emotion.
The story is not limited to the domestic context.
This turbulent journey, spanning Japan, Vietnam, Mongolia, and even as far as Ireland, makes us reflect on our lost history and feel compassion for all living things.
So, by the time they close the book, readers will have encountered a wondrous experience where the high barriers between people are effortlessly broken down through alcohol, and a night where they cannot help but drink.

The winter nights were long.
Even though our parents weren't around, we played more quietly than we did at other homes.
I didn't even play card games or Go-Stop as an excuse to grab someone's wrist.
Although we went to the lighthouse a few times, no one drank so much that they got drunk.
We just exchanged stories about this and that.
The sound of snow falling softly occasionally seeped into the silence.
Someone opened the door to go to the bathroom and let out a gasp.

“Wormmaya!”

Everyone walked towards the door in a sitting position.
I shivered in the cold air and craned my neck to look outside. The outside was a pure white snow field.
It was pure white with not a single footprint.
Without saying a word, everyone ran out into the yard.
There was a handful of snow on both the plum and persimmon trees.
The bamboo trees in the backyard were bent down to the ground, unable to bear the weight of the snow.
Everyone was speechless before the spectacle of nature.
Someone shined a light into the sky.
Inside the pillar of light, fist-sized snowflakes were falling vertically.
It was the first and last time I was overwhelmed by purity.
I think I had that thought that day.
I want to live so purely, so overwhelmingly.
Seeing as no one dared speak, I wondered if my friends felt the same way. At nineteen, I believed it.
We can live the pure time that awaits us in pure white.
---From "Part 1: Dad's First Drink"

My glass was also filled with Macallan 1926, known as the Rolls Royce of single malts.
The guy was hot, deep and rich.
It was a sticky, endless taste that dragged me into a swamp.
As I sipped the Macallan 1926, I thought of my father, a failed socialist.
My father, who traded the 18-year-old Chivas Regal I sent him to taste good liquor before he left this world for a box of soju.
In their youth, they both advocated for national unification and equality, but their endings were completely different.
I always felt sad and sorry for my father, a failed socialist.
I was sure that my father himself would find your life lonely.
But as I drank Macallan 1926, I realized:
That my father's ending suits my taste better.
I know my father feels the same way.
Isn't it truly fortunate that there was no chance of success, no chance of failure!
---From "The Taste of Corruption, Part 2, Macallan, 1926"

At such moments, the taste of the alcohol is not that important.
On nights when the stars shine, the sky and the meadow meet, and the bonfire burns brightly.
As the alcohol took effect, the words gradually disappeared.
Some people stared intently at the bonfire, some looked up at the sky, and some gazed at the endless grassland.
We were just quietly drinking, and the people who had gone to sleep came over to us one by one.
They also sat down next to us and drank in silence.
They were no different from us.
They too needed a little alcohol at moments like this.
They and we, I mean, just us, experienced the wonder that day, using the power of alcohol to sink into ourselves or become a part of the universe for a moment.
New stars rose, the moon raced across the meadow, the alcohol slowly warmed our veins, the campfire was burning, and so the night deepened in the meadow.
---From "When the Campfire in the Prairie Dies Out"

Even though it was summer, I felt a chill on the rocks in the valley and got goosebumps.
Will I make it out alive? Throughout my journey in North Korea, I was prohibited from acting independently except in designated areas.
South Korean officials had warned us several times that acting alone would lead to serious problems.
I'm acting alone right now, and I don't even know where I am... I can't help but get goosebumps.

I looked around.
Fortunately, I saw the lights of the hotel I had checked into yesterday not far away.
There was not a single light to be seen outside the hotel, let alone a single person.
The security agents were always guarding and monitoring the hotel. What could have been? Thinking back, I think it was probably because the area was so remote and remote that they had no chance of contact with North Koreans.
At that time, I didn't even think about it, and as soon as I realized the situation, I started running towards the hotel.
It wasn't far.


About 200~300 meters.
We arrived at the hotel, out of breath.
The hotel was plunged into deep darkness without a single guard.
Only a few dimly lit rooms where South Korean writers were probably staying were illuminated.
It seemed to be a nightlight.
My mind was blown.
Drinking, getting drunk, blacking out, staggering along a mountain path, drunk on alcohol and romance, falling asleep while looking at the Milky Way—what! People can do that! And they could.
Even in that forbidden land, North Korea.
---From "I've Been There for a Long Time"

“Teacher! Me too.”
A child with blue lips held out his hand.
Even though it was midsummer, the stream water was chillingly cold.
He filled the blue bottle and handed it to the child.
The child, who had just finished a glass, jumped around in the water, as if trying to ward off the cold.
I put a piece of cheese in the child's mouth.
Blue Lani, enjoying the cold water naked! I wish I could jump in, just like a child, just as I was born.
But unlike when I was born, I was covered in the dirt of the world and couldn't muster up the courage at all.
I was embarrassed so I drank the blue again.

The bright child jumped up and down and went to the end of the pool shaded by the banyan tree.
Then he jumped up and floated his body on the water.
In that state, the child began to swim.
It was a properly learned backstroke.
As the child threw his arms back, his body was pushed backwards.
At some point, the child's body slid beyond the border of the banyan tree's shade and into the hot sunlight shimmering on the surface of the water.
I watched the scene as if I was possessed.
Her small, round chest was floating in the sunlight.
As my child swam backstroke across the pool, only one thought crossed my mind.
It's splendidly beautiful.

I must have had a brilliant youth too.
At that time, I didn't even look back on my body.
The body was insignificant.
The mind is noble, the body is trivial.
So I abhorred all acts that yielded to the desires of the flesh.
What a disgusting thing.
Because there is a body, there is a mind.
I was so insignificant when I was young.
With that thought in mind, I generously offered blue, the precious blue, to my poor body, which I had treated so insignificantly.
In a summer paradise where beautiful bodies and radiant youth unfold.

---From "Part 4: Paradise on a Summer Day"