A castle built by the waves of time
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Description
Book Introduction
Art travelogue by Professor Kim Hwa-young of the French Literature Department at Korea University.
This volume contains writings from over 30 years ago to recent ones, written intermittently during my travels in Europe, India, and Africa.
A journey following the protagonist of a literary work set against the backdrop of a beautiful castle.
The poetic emotions evoked by each old, warm brick are dissolved like water and air in the flow of ‘life’ and ‘time.’
From the castles of Europe to the vast plains of Africa, it unfolds a wondrous mystery of human time, life on earth, and the people and literature within it.
Borrowing the format of an art travelogue, 『The Castle Built by the Waves of Time』 encompasses everything from the passion of youth to the present-day world of thought, and will serve as a dazzling secret key to following the literary path of Kim Hwa-young.
This volume contains writings from over 30 years ago to recent ones, written intermittently during my travels in Europe, India, and Africa.
A journey following the protagonist of a literary work set against the backdrop of a beautiful castle.
The poetic emotions evoked by each old, warm brick are dissolved like water and air in the flow of ‘life’ and ‘time.’
From the castles of Europe to the vast plains of Africa, it unfolds a wondrous mystery of human time, life on earth, and the people and literature within it.
Borrowing the format of an art travelogue, 『The Castle Built by the Waves of Time』 encompasses everything from the passion of youth to the present-day world of thought, and will serve as a dazzling secret key to following the literary path of Kim Hwa-young.
index
0.
Stones and Flowers
1.
Castle of Art
A castle built by the waves of time
The home of pastoralism - La Bastille d'Urfé Castle
The Gate of Silence - Château de Lamartine, Saint-Pouin
A Love's Ruins - The Château de Anney by Madame Diane de Poitiers
The lonely flower of classicism - the Château de Mentenon
In Search of Lost Time - Proust's Combray
A Lonely and Magnificent Landscape - Chateaubriand's Château de Combourg
Letter from a Mother - Madame de Sévigné's Chateau de Les Rochers
The Revelation of John - Angers Castle
The Little House Where Giants Were Born - François Rabelais's La Devinière
Sleeping Beauty - Wise Castle
A Disastrous Adventure in Perception - Leonardo da Vinci's Clos Lucé Castle
The Lily of the Valley - Balzac's Château de Sachet
The Castle Built by a Storm of Love - George Sand's Château de Nohant
Life's final citadel - Père Lachaise Cemetery
2.
Finding Bovary
A narrow path between reality and fiction
A desert called Paris
Bovary, Delaunay, Delamare
Traveler in Normandy
3.
Paris Travelogue
Eternity engraved in the midst of vanity - the Arc de Triomphe in Paris
Notre Dame Cathedral in the Moonlight
The King's Palace, the Queen's Prison and the Poet's Prison - The Conciergerie
The Louvre, a castle of art built on 800 years of dreams - a palace conquered by art
4.
India travelogue
The eroticism of God and touch
A country where incompetence is not a crime
You can see India when you ride a rickshaw.
A long journey into old tales
Splendid palaces, praise, rebirth, transience
A moonlit dream without time or space
5.
A brilliant morning in Africa
In search of memories from Out of Africa
6.
Where the road ends
Strange places, strange people calling
Stones and Flowers
1.
Castle of Art
A castle built by the waves of time
The home of pastoralism - La Bastille d'Urfé Castle
The Gate of Silence - Château de Lamartine, Saint-Pouin
A Love's Ruins - The Château de Anney by Madame Diane de Poitiers
The lonely flower of classicism - the Château de Mentenon
In Search of Lost Time - Proust's Combray
A Lonely and Magnificent Landscape - Chateaubriand's Château de Combourg
Letter from a Mother - Madame de Sévigné's Chateau de Les Rochers
The Revelation of John - Angers Castle
The Little House Where Giants Were Born - François Rabelais's La Devinière
Sleeping Beauty - Wise Castle
A Disastrous Adventure in Perception - Leonardo da Vinci's Clos Lucé Castle
The Lily of the Valley - Balzac's Château de Sachet
The Castle Built by a Storm of Love - George Sand's Château de Nohant
Life's final citadel - Père Lachaise Cemetery
2.
Finding Bovary
A narrow path between reality and fiction
A desert called Paris
Bovary, Delaunay, Delamare
Traveler in Normandy
3.
Paris Travelogue
Eternity engraved in the midst of vanity - the Arc de Triomphe in Paris
Notre Dame Cathedral in the Moonlight
The King's Palace, the Queen's Prison and the Poet's Prison - The Conciergerie
The Louvre, a castle of art built on 800 years of dreams - a palace conquered by art
4.
India travelogue
The eroticism of God and touch
A country where incompetence is not a crime
You can see India when you ride a rickshaw.
A long journey into old tales
Splendid palaces, praise, rebirth, transience
A moonlit dream without time or space
5.
A brilliant morning in Africa
In search of memories from Out of Africa
6.
Where the road ends
Strange places, strange people calling
Into the book
One day in late April 1974, I received my doctorate from the University of Provence with a thesis titled “Images of Water and Light in the Works of Albert Camus,” and I felt relieved.
So I went to Lourmarin, a village not far from where I live.
I heard that Camus lived in a country house there, and that his grave is in that area.
I met a beautiful boy at the entrance to the village.
The sight of her holding a bouquet of daffodils made the light even brighter.
When I asked where he had picked them, he replied that there were many of them blooming along the water's edge and that he would give them to me as a gift if I wanted them.
I took this picture after receiving that rare gift in my life.
And then I went to Camus' grave and placed a flower in the empty jar in front of the tombstone.
He spoke on the beach at Oran.
"Here is a small stone as sweet as a daffodil.
This stone lies at the beginning of everything."
The boy who gave me that bouquet of flowers at the beginning of everything must be an adult now.
Still, flowers and stones are at the beginning of everything.
"It's noon now.
Even broad daylight itself reaches balance.
After completing the ritual, the traveler receives the reward of liberation.
"It is a small pebble, soft and warm like a daffodil, which he picked up from the cliff." - Albert Camus, "Ariadne's Stone"
So I went to Lourmarin, a village not far from where I live.
I heard that Camus lived in a country house there, and that his grave is in that area.
I met a beautiful boy at the entrance to the village.
The sight of her holding a bouquet of daffodils made the light even brighter.
When I asked where he had picked them, he replied that there were many of them blooming along the water's edge and that he would give them to me as a gift if I wanted them.
I took this picture after receiving that rare gift in my life.
And then I went to Camus' grave and placed a flower in the empty jar in front of the tombstone.
He spoke on the beach at Oran.
"Here is a small stone as sweet as a daffodil.
This stone lies at the beginning of everything."
The boy who gave me that bouquet of flowers at the beginning of everything must be an adult now.
Still, flowers and stones are at the beginning of everything.
"It's noon now.
Even broad daylight itself reaches balance.
After completing the ritual, the traveler receives the reward of liberation.
"It is a small pebble, soft and warm like a daffodil, which he picked up from the cliff." - Albert Camus, "Ariadne's Stone"
---pp.
14~17
14~17
"And Quasimodo, who had been out of breath for some time, saw the poor girl hanging from the end of a rope two fathoms above the vineyards, swinging.
The rope went round and round several times.
Quasimodo saw a terrible convulsion run through the gypsy girl's body.
Esmeralda had just died, tied up in ropes.
Quasimodo, enraged, ran behind the archdeacon who was looking down with a devilish laugh and pushed him away fiercely.
Frollo's body "glided swiftly across the roof like a falling tile, and fell upon the pavement." Quasimodo cries out from the dim bell tower, looking down at the two lives that had just fallen and been shattered.
"Oh! I loved all that!" Everything we love falls into the void and crumbles.
Love, desire, and suffering.
For that lovely, fragile, and fleeting life that is broken, humans will build great temples over the centuries.
As if trying to block the irresistible waves of time that sweep away our love, our pain, and our longing, humans build walls and towers of stone like breakwaters.
People call the massive tower, which is 127 meters long, 40 meters wide at the front, 33 meters high at the vault, and 69 meters high at the bell tower, and the sphinx that casts an enigmatic smile toward the fate of mankind, the 'Notre Dame Cathedral'.
There are 'Notre Dame Cathedrals' in Chartres, Bourges, and Rheims, but only the cathedral in Paris is called 'Notre Dame Cathedral' without the possessive modifier 'of Paris'.
(...)
Milestones along all French highways display the distance from that point to Paris in numbers.
The distance always means the distance to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Anyone who visits Paris must reach the cathedral before they can truly arrive in Paris.
So when you finally get there, like Victor Hugo, feel around somewhere in the dark walls of the tower.
"Greek letters engraved deep into the stone, blackened by the passage of time, letters with a characteristic Gothic expression emanating from their shape and appearance, as if to tell that they were written by the hand of someone in the Middle Ages." Until the words 'AN'AKAH (宿命)' were palpable at the tip of one's fingers.
Until the fateful emotions of those years reach my heart painfully.
"And Quasimodo, who had been out of breath for some time, saw the poor girl hanging from the end of a rope two fathoms above the vineyards, swinging.
The rope went round and round several times.
Quasimodo saw a terrible convulsion run through the gypsy girl's body.
Esmeralda had just died, tied up in ropes.
Quasimodo, enraged, ran behind the archdeacon who was looking down with a devilish laugh and pushed him away fiercely.
Frollo's body "glided swiftly across the roof like a falling tile, and fell upon the pavement." Quasimodo cries out from the dim bell tower, looking down at the two lives that had just fallen and been shattered.
"Oh! I loved all that!" Everything we love falls into the void and crumbles.
Love, desire, and suffering.
For that lovely, fragile, and fleeting life that is broken, humans will build great temples over the centuries.
As if trying to block the irresistible waves of time that sweep away our love, our pain, and our longing, humans build walls and towers of stone like breakwaters.
People call the massive tower, which is 127 meters long, 40 meters wide at the front, 33 meters high at the vault, and 69 meters high at the bell tower, and the sphinx that casts an enigmatic smile toward the fate of mankind, the 'Notre Dame Cathedral'.
There are 'Notre Dame Cathedrals' in Chartres, Bourges, and Rheims, but only the cathedral in Paris is called 'Notre Dame Cathedral' without the possessive modifier 'of Paris'.
(...)
Milestones along all French highways display the distance from that point to Paris in numbers.
The distance always means the distance to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Anyone who visits Paris must reach the cathedral before they can truly arrive in Paris.
So when you finally get there, like Victor Hugo, feel around somewhere in the dark walls of the tower.
"Greek letters engraved deep into the stone, blackened by the passage of time, letters with a characteristic Gothic expression emanating from their shape and appearance, as if to tell that they were written by the hand of someone in the Middle Ages." Until the words 'AN'AKAH (宿命)' were palpable at the tip of one's fingers.
Until the fateful emotions of those years reach my heart painfully.
The rope went round and round several times.
Quasimodo saw a terrible convulsion run through the gypsy girl's body.
Esmeralda had just died, tied up in ropes.
Quasimodo, enraged, ran behind the archdeacon who was looking down with a devilish laugh and pushed him away fiercely.
Frollo's body "glided swiftly across the roof like a falling tile, and fell upon the pavement." Quasimodo cries out from the dim bell tower, looking down at the two lives that had just fallen and been shattered.
"Oh! I loved all that!" Everything we love falls into the void and crumbles.
Love, desire, and suffering.
For that lovely, fragile, and fleeting life that is broken, humans will build great temples over the centuries.
As if trying to block the irresistible waves of time that sweep away our love, our pain, and our longing, humans build walls and towers of stone like breakwaters.
People call the massive tower, which is 127 meters long, 40 meters wide at the front, 33 meters high at the vault, and 69 meters high at the bell tower, and the sphinx that casts an enigmatic smile toward the fate of mankind, the 'Notre Dame Cathedral'.
There are 'Notre Dame Cathedrals' in Chartres, Bourges, and Rheims, but only the cathedral in Paris is called 'Notre Dame Cathedral' without the possessive modifier 'of Paris'.
(...)
Milestones along all French highways display the distance from that point to Paris in numbers.
The distance always means the distance to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Anyone who visits Paris must reach the cathedral before they can truly arrive in Paris.
So when you finally get there, like Victor Hugo, feel around somewhere in the dark walls of the tower.
"Greek letters engraved deep into the stone, blackened by the passage of time, letters with a characteristic Gothic expression emanating from their shape and appearance, as if to tell that they were written by the hand of someone in the Middle Ages." Until the words 'AN'AKAH (宿命)' were palpable at the tip of one's fingers.
Until the fateful emotions of those years reach my heart painfully.
"And Quasimodo, who had been out of breath for some time, saw the poor girl hanging from the end of a rope two fathoms above the vineyards, swinging.
The rope went round and round several times.
Quasimodo saw a terrible convulsion run through the gypsy girl's body.
Esmeralda had just died, tied up in ropes.
Quasimodo, enraged, ran behind the archdeacon who was looking down with a devilish laugh and pushed him away fiercely.
Frollo's body "glided swiftly across the roof like a falling tile, and fell upon the pavement." Quasimodo cries out from the dim bell tower, looking down at the two lives that had just fallen and been shattered.
"Oh! I loved all that!" Everything we love falls into the void and crumbles.
Love, desire, and suffering.
For that lovely, fragile, and fleeting life that is broken, humans will build great temples over the centuries.
As if trying to block the irresistible waves of time that sweep away our love, our pain, and our longing, humans build walls and towers of stone like breakwaters.
People call the massive tower, which is 127 meters long, 40 meters wide at the front, 33 meters high at the vault, and 69 meters high at the bell tower, and the sphinx that casts an enigmatic smile toward the fate of mankind, the 'Notre Dame Cathedral'.
There are 'Notre Dame Cathedrals' in Chartres, Bourges, and Rheims, but only the cathedral in Paris is called 'Notre Dame Cathedral' without the possessive modifier 'of Paris'.
(...)
Milestones along all French highways display the distance from that point to Paris in numbers.
The distance always means the distance to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Anyone who visits Paris must reach the cathedral before they can truly arrive in Paris.
So when you finally get there, like Victor Hugo, feel around somewhere in the dark walls of the tower.
"Greek letters engraved deep into the stone, blackened by the passage of time, letters with a characteristic Gothic expression emanating from their shape and appearance, as if to tell that they were written by the hand of someone in the Middle Ages." Until the words 'AN'AKAH (宿命)' were palpable at the tip of one's fingers.
Until the fateful emotions of those years reach my heart painfully.
--- pp.
255~257
255~257
"And Quasimodo, who had been out of breath for some time, saw the poor girl hanging from the end of a rope two fathoms above the vineyards, swinging.
The rope went round and round several times.
Quasimodo saw a terrible convulsion run through the gypsy girl's body.
Esmeralda had just died, tied up in ropes.
Quasimodo, enraged, ran behind the archdeacon who was looking down with a devilish laugh and pushed him away fiercely.
Frollo's body "glided swiftly across the roof like a falling tile, and fell upon the pavement." Quasimodo cries out from the dim bell tower, looking down at the two lives that had just fallen and been shattered.
"Oh! I loved all that!" Everything we love falls into the void and crumbles.
Love, desire, and suffering.
For that lovely, fragile, and fleeting life that is broken, humans will build great temples over the centuries.
As if trying to block the irresistible waves of time that sweep away our love, our pain, and our longing, humans build walls and towers of stone like breakwaters.
People call the massive tower, which is 127 meters long, 40 meters wide at the front, 33 meters high at the vault, and 69 meters high at the bell tower, and the sphinx that casts an enigmatic smile toward the fate of mankind, the 'Notre Dame Cathedral'.
There are 'Notre Dame Cathedrals' in Chartres, Bourges, and Rheims, but only the cathedral in Paris is called 'Notre Dame Cathedral' without the possessive modifier 'of Paris'.
(...)
Milestones along all French highways display the distance from that point to Paris in numbers.
The distance always means the distance to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Anyone who visits Paris must reach the cathedral before they can truly arrive in Paris.
So when you finally get there, like Victor Hugo, feel around somewhere in the dark walls of the tower.
"Greek letters engraved deep into the stone, blackened by the passage of time, letters with a characteristic Gothic expression emanating from their shape and appearance, as if to tell that they were written by the hand of someone in the Middle Ages." Until the words 'AN'AKAH (宿命)' were palpable at the tip of one's fingers.
Until the fateful emotions of those years reach my heart painfully.
"And Quasimodo, who had been out of breath for some time, saw the poor girl hanging from the end of a rope two fathoms above the vineyards, swinging.
The rope went round and round several times.
Quasimodo saw a terrible convulsion run through the gypsy girl's body.
Esmeralda had just died, tied up in ropes.
Quasimodo, enraged, ran behind the archdeacon who was looking down with a devilish laugh and pushed him away fiercely.
Frollo's body "glided swiftly across the roof like a falling tile, and fell upon the pavement." Quasimodo cries out from the dim bell tower, looking down at the two lives that had just fallen and been shattered.
"Oh! I loved all that!" Everything we love falls into the void and crumbles.
Love, desire, and suffering.
For that lovely, fragile, and fleeting life that is broken, humans will build great temples over the centuries.
As if trying to block the irresistible waves of time that sweep away our love, our pain, and our longing, humans build walls and towers of stone like breakwaters.
People call the massive tower, which is 127 meters long, 40 meters wide at the front, 33 meters high at the vault, and 69 meters high at the bell tower, and the sphinx that casts an enigmatic smile toward the fate of mankind, the 'Notre Dame Cathedral'.
There are 'Notre Dame Cathedrals' in Chartres, Bourges, and Rheims, but only the cathedral in Paris is called 'Notre Dame Cathedral' without the possessive modifier 'of Paris'.
(...)
Milestones along all French highways display the distance from that point to Paris in numbers.
The distance always means the distance to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Anyone who visits Paris must reach the cathedral before they can truly arrive in Paris.
So when you finally get there, like Victor Hugo, feel around somewhere in the dark walls of the tower.
"Greek letters engraved deep into the stone, blackened by the passage of time, letters with a characteristic Gothic expression emanating from their shape and appearance, as if to tell that they were written by the hand of someone in the Middle Ages." Until the words 'AN'AKAH (宿命)' were palpable at the tip of one's fingers.
Until the fateful emotions of those years reach my heart painfully.
The rope went round and round several times.
Quasimodo saw a terrible convulsion run through the gypsy girl's body.
Esmeralda had just died, tied up in ropes.
Quasimodo, enraged, ran behind the archdeacon who was looking down with a devilish laugh and pushed him away fiercely.
Frollo's body "glided swiftly across the roof like a falling tile, and fell upon the pavement." Quasimodo cries out from the dim bell tower, looking down at the two lives that had just fallen and been shattered.
"Oh! I loved all that!" Everything we love falls into the void and crumbles.
Love, desire, and suffering.
For that lovely, fragile, and fleeting life that is broken, humans will build great temples over the centuries.
As if trying to block the irresistible waves of time that sweep away our love, our pain, and our longing, humans build walls and towers of stone like breakwaters.
People call the massive tower, which is 127 meters long, 40 meters wide at the front, 33 meters high at the vault, and 69 meters high at the bell tower, and the sphinx that casts an enigmatic smile toward the fate of mankind, the 'Notre Dame Cathedral'.
There are 'Notre Dame Cathedrals' in Chartres, Bourges, and Rheims, but only the cathedral in Paris is called 'Notre Dame Cathedral' without the possessive modifier 'of Paris'.
(...)
Milestones along all French highways display the distance from that point to Paris in numbers.
The distance always means the distance to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Anyone who visits Paris must reach the cathedral before they can truly arrive in Paris.
So when you finally get there, like Victor Hugo, feel around somewhere in the dark walls of the tower.
"Greek letters engraved deep into the stone, blackened by the passage of time, letters with a characteristic Gothic expression emanating from their shape and appearance, as if to tell that they were written by the hand of someone in the Middle Ages." Until the words 'AN'AKAH (宿命)' were palpable at the tip of one's fingers.
Until the fateful emotions of those years reach my heart painfully.
"And Quasimodo, who had been out of breath for some time, saw the poor girl hanging from the end of a rope two fathoms above the vineyards, swinging.
The rope went round and round several times.
Quasimodo saw a terrible convulsion run through the gypsy girl's body.
Esmeralda had just died, tied up in ropes.
Quasimodo, enraged, ran behind the archdeacon who was looking down with a devilish laugh and pushed him away fiercely.
Frollo's body "glided swiftly across the roof like a falling tile, and fell upon the pavement." Quasimodo cries out from the dim bell tower, looking down at the two lives that had just fallen and been shattered.
"Oh! I loved all that!" Everything we love falls into the void and crumbles.
Love, desire, and suffering.
For that lovely, fragile, and fleeting life that is broken, humans will build great temples over the centuries.
As if trying to block the irresistible waves of time that sweep away our love, our pain, and our longing, humans build walls and towers of stone like breakwaters.
People call the massive tower, which is 127 meters long, 40 meters wide at the front, 33 meters high at the vault, and 69 meters high at the bell tower, and the sphinx that casts an enigmatic smile toward the fate of mankind, the 'Notre Dame Cathedral'.
There are 'Notre Dame Cathedrals' in Chartres, Bourges, and Rheims, but only the cathedral in Paris is called 'Notre Dame Cathedral' without the possessive modifier 'of Paris'.
(...)
Milestones along all French highways display the distance from that point to Paris in numbers.
The distance always means the distance to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Anyone who visits Paris must reach the cathedral before they can truly arrive in Paris.
So when you finally get there, like Victor Hugo, feel around somewhere in the dark walls of the tower.
"Greek letters engraved deep into the stone, blackened by the passage of time, letters with a characteristic Gothic expression emanating from their shape and appearance, as if to tell that they were written by the hand of someone in the Middle Ages." Until the words 'AN'AKAH (宿命)' were palpable at the tip of one's fingers.
Until the fateful emotions of those years reach my heart painfully.
--- pp.
255~257
255~257
Publisher's Review
The fourth volume of Munhakdongne's 'Kim Hwa-young Literary Collection', which began with the prose collection 'The House That Holds the Wind', has been published with 'The Castle Built with the Waves of Time', which contains an art travelogue.
In this work, which offers a glimpse into the depths of Kim Hwa-young's literature, the author travels from the ancient castles of Europe to the vast grasslands of Africa, wonderfully revealing the secrets between human time, life on earth, and the people and literature within it.
Borrowing the format of an art travelogue, 『The Castle Built by the Waves of Time』 encompasses everything from the passion of youth to the present-day world of thought, and will serve as a dazzling secret key to following the literary path of Kim Hwa-young.
Among the writings grouped here, the oldest are some from over 30 years ago, like some from a small book that was once published but has since disappeared, such as The Castle of Art, while others are from recent books.
Some were slightly touched up, but most were left as is.
Most of the places in the article are places I have visited twice or more.
I wrote about the place and my impressions of it, but more than anything, it is filled with moments of my life at that time.
For example, places like Chateaubriand's Château de Combourg in Brittany, northern France, or Balzac's Château de Saché.
Whenever I passed by there, I would always go back even if it meant taking a detour.
And I liked to just wander around the town or forest, even extending or changing my itinerary.
I didn't force myself to feel anything special, I just wanted to laze around aimlessly.
So, suddenly, everything becomes as important as the massive castles, the relics, the giant trees, the tiny flowers, the cow dung, the withered leaves, the suspicious light of the evening, and the neighborhood child who passes quietly under the wall, trying to whistle a silent tune.
Because my present and my gaze are there.
- In the text
Travel, the flowing life
0.
Stones and Flowers: The author's artistic journey begins one day in late April 1974, at Camus's grave, which he visited after receiving his doctorate from the University of Provence with a thesis titled "Images of Water and Light in the Works of Albert Camus."
A young artist offers a bouquet of daffodils given to him by a foreign boy on a grave, saying, "Flowers and stones are at the beginning of everything."
He already knows that at the end of the gaze cast far into the horizon by the pilgrim standing alone on the road at dusk when the earth spiders descend, there always stands a castle, a 'castle of art' that disappears without a trace in the light of too bright a day, in the light of too rational reason.
So, his journey now begins in search of a 'castle built with the waves of each person's time.'
Ⅰ.
The Castle of Art: Bastille-Durfe, the cradle of Astrés, which led Honoré Durfei to say, "Do you know what love is? It is to die in oneself and live in another"; Saint-Pointe by Lamartine, the great poet of Romanticism who introduced lakes, foggy valleys, and a subjectless voice of hazy emotions into the strict climate of French classicism; Combray by Proust, which opens the curtain on "Swann's Way", the first volume of In Search of Lost Time; Chateaubriand with its roof "like a bonnet on a Gothic crown" which led Chateaubriand to write novels that would later represent Romanticism, Atalat and René; Balzac's Château de Saché, which gave birth to Les Lilies of the Valley... ... and finally, a bouquet of flowers offered at the Père Lachaise cemetery, the last fortress of his life.
The pilgrimage to the castle that began with ‘Stones and Flowers’ ends again with ‘Stones and Flowers’.
Ⅱ.
In Search of Bobary: A Path Between Reality and Fiction.
Beginning his artistic journey again, the author thinks of Flaubert, who created Madame Bovary.
We reflect on the real people and times that gave birth to the characters in the novel, and visit the village of Ry, which served as the setting for the novel, the restaurant Le Bovary that stands there, Croisette and Rouen, the birthplace of Flaubert's creations, and the Monumentiale Cemetery where Flaubert lies buried along with Bouillé and Duchamp.
Ⅲ.
The Arc de Triomphe welcomes the author back to Paris.
Looking at the Arc de Triomphe, which was the title of Remarque's novel, the place where Victor Hugo's remains rested, and the gate that welcomed the Allied forces entering Paris after World War I, he suddenly thinks about "eternity engraved in vanity."
Notre Dame Cathedral invariably recalls the spirits of the wandering poet Gringoire, the fifteen-year-old gypsy girl Esmeralda, the hunchback Quasimodo, and the archdeacon Claude Frollo, torn between the fires of lust and the duties of faith.
The moonlight illuminating the Conciergerie, once the "palace of the king, the prison of the queen and the poet," and the Louvre is desolate.
What was the author's final impression of his artistic journey, which took him through India (IV), "a country where incompetence is not a crime," and Africa (V), a place that offered a "brilliant morning" amidst vast silence? Let's hear his words as he finally reaches the end of his journey.
"Life is a practice of parting.
The last face I will see in this world, a single ray of light I will never see again.
Travel teaches us that life is a longing.
The traveler teaches us to love what passes rather than what remains forever.
Because life is not something to stay, but something to pass.
And because everything is parting… …that is life.”
To find true nature, you must always go with your eyes closed.
The castle is the home of the wanderer, the seeker, the departer, and the beloved.
The castle stands with one foot in space and the other in time.
This side of the broken wall is the past, and that side is the future.
The dust of memories so long ago, so completely consumed, that when it finally floats into the bright void, isn't that what we call the future? What I wanted to record here is the story of another castle I visited but never saw with my own eyes.
It is a story of a tightly locked room, a story of a collapsed castle wall, a story of a castle built in the heart and in dreams.
No, not yet.
I just told a little story about the castle that each person visits, the castle that each person builds in their own time, and the village outside the castle that they stopped by for a while before reaching there.
From now on, the one who has to leave is you.
- In the text
In this work, which offers a glimpse into the depths of Kim Hwa-young's literature, the author travels from the ancient castles of Europe to the vast grasslands of Africa, wonderfully revealing the secrets between human time, life on earth, and the people and literature within it.
Borrowing the format of an art travelogue, 『The Castle Built by the Waves of Time』 encompasses everything from the passion of youth to the present-day world of thought, and will serve as a dazzling secret key to following the literary path of Kim Hwa-young.
Among the writings grouped here, the oldest are some from over 30 years ago, like some from a small book that was once published but has since disappeared, such as The Castle of Art, while others are from recent books.
Some were slightly touched up, but most were left as is.
Most of the places in the article are places I have visited twice or more.
I wrote about the place and my impressions of it, but more than anything, it is filled with moments of my life at that time.
For example, places like Chateaubriand's Château de Combourg in Brittany, northern France, or Balzac's Château de Saché.
Whenever I passed by there, I would always go back even if it meant taking a detour.
And I liked to just wander around the town or forest, even extending or changing my itinerary.
I didn't force myself to feel anything special, I just wanted to laze around aimlessly.
So, suddenly, everything becomes as important as the massive castles, the relics, the giant trees, the tiny flowers, the cow dung, the withered leaves, the suspicious light of the evening, and the neighborhood child who passes quietly under the wall, trying to whistle a silent tune.
Because my present and my gaze are there.
- In the text
Travel, the flowing life
0.
Stones and Flowers: The author's artistic journey begins one day in late April 1974, at Camus's grave, which he visited after receiving his doctorate from the University of Provence with a thesis titled "Images of Water and Light in the Works of Albert Camus."
A young artist offers a bouquet of daffodils given to him by a foreign boy on a grave, saying, "Flowers and stones are at the beginning of everything."
He already knows that at the end of the gaze cast far into the horizon by the pilgrim standing alone on the road at dusk when the earth spiders descend, there always stands a castle, a 'castle of art' that disappears without a trace in the light of too bright a day, in the light of too rational reason.
So, his journey now begins in search of a 'castle built with the waves of each person's time.'
Ⅰ.
The Castle of Art: Bastille-Durfe, the cradle of Astrés, which led Honoré Durfei to say, "Do you know what love is? It is to die in oneself and live in another"; Saint-Pointe by Lamartine, the great poet of Romanticism who introduced lakes, foggy valleys, and a subjectless voice of hazy emotions into the strict climate of French classicism; Combray by Proust, which opens the curtain on "Swann's Way", the first volume of In Search of Lost Time; Chateaubriand with its roof "like a bonnet on a Gothic crown" which led Chateaubriand to write novels that would later represent Romanticism, Atalat and René; Balzac's Château de Saché, which gave birth to Les Lilies of the Valley... ... and finally, a bouquet of flowers offered at the Père Lachaise cemetery, the last fortress of his life.
The pilgrimage to the castle that began with ‘Stones and Flowers’ ends again with ‘Stones and Flowers’.
Ⅱ.
In Search of Bobary: A Path Between Reality and Fiction.
Beginning his artistic journey again, the author thinks of Flaubert, who created Madame Bovary.
We reflect on the real people and times that gave birth to the characters in the novel, and visit the village of Ry, which served as the setting for the novel, the restaurant Le Bovary that stands there, Croisette and Rouen, the birthplace of Flaubert's creations, and the Monumentiale Cemetery where Flaubert lies buried along with Bouillé and Duchamp.
Ⅲ.
The Arc de Triomphe welcomes the author back to Paris.
Looking at the Arc de Triomphe, which was the title of Remarque's novel, the place where Victor Hugo's remains rested, and the gate that welcomed the Allied forces entering Paris after World War I, he suddenly thinks about "eternity engraved in vanity."
Notre Dame Cathedral invariably recalls the spirits of the wandering poet Gringoire, the fifteen-year-old gypsy girl Esmeralda, the hunchback Quasimodo, and the archdeacon Claude Frollo, torn between the fires of lust and the duties of faith.
The moonlight illuminating the Conciergerie, once the "palace of the king, the prison of the queen and the poet," and the Louvre is desolate.
What was the author's final impression of his artistic journey, which took him through India (IV), "a country where incompetence is not a crime," and Africa (V), a place that offered a "brilliant morning" amidst vast silence? Let's hear his words as he finally reaches the end of his journey.
"Life is a practice of parting.
The last face I will see in this world, a single ray of light I will never see again.
Travel teaches us that life is a longing.
The traveler teaches us to love what passes rather than what remains forever.
Because life is not something to stay, but something to pass.
And because everything is parting… …that is life.”
To find true nature, you must always go with your eyes closed.
The castle is the home of the wanderer, the seeker, the departer, and the beloved.
The castle stands with one foot in space and the other in time.
This side of the broken wall is the past, and that side is the future.
The dust of memories so long ago, so completely consumed, that when it finally floats into the bright void, isn't that what we call the future? What I wanted to record here is the story of another castle I visited but never saw with my own eyes.
It is a story of a tightly locked room, a story of a collapsed castle wall, a story of a castle built in the heart and in dreams.
No, not yet.
I just told a little story about the castle that each person visits, the castle that each person builds in their own time, and the village outside the castle that they stopped by for a while before reaching there.
From now on, the one who has to leave is you.
- In the text
GOODS SPECIFICS
- Date of issue: April 25, 2002
- Page count, weight, size: 397 pages | 752g | 158*223*30mm
- ISBN13: 9788982815058
- ISBN10: 8982815058
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