Writer Jang Ha-seok recently shared his reflections after visiting the Jilmajae area in Jeollabuk-do, the birthplace of poet Seo Jeong-ju, and the Seo Jeong-ju Literary Museum. This was not merely a literary travelogue. The narrative, which began with the camellias of Seonunsa Temple, the stone Buddha of Dosolam, the winds of Jilmajae, and Seo's birthplace, delved into one of the most complex questions in modern Korean literary history: How should we remember Seo Jeong-ju? As one of the poets who handled the Korean language most beautifully, why was he so vulnerable in the face of history, and how should we reconcile his brilliant literary achievements with his dark history of collaboration and praise for power?
The landscape described by Jang is thus even more significant. While Seo's birthplace is preserved, it remains silent, and the Seo Jeong-ju Literary Museum, converted from a closed school, houses original manuscripts, first editions, and tributes from numerous literary figures and critics who represented the Korean literary scene. Esteemed contemporaries such as Kim Dong-ri, Yoo Jong-ho, Kim Hyun, Kim Woo-chang, Lee O-young, and Cho Ji-hoon acknowledged Seo's linguistic genius, while artists like Kim Whanki, Chun Kyung-ja, Kim Ki-chang, and Park No-soo formed connections with his poetry. At one point, the term 'Seo Jeong-ju Corps' emerged to describe his overwhelming influence in the literary world.
This assessment is entirely understandable. Few poets in modern Korean literature have so adeptly navigated the rhythm, sensuality, local color, myth, life and death, time, and eternity of the Korean language as Seo Jeong-ju.
Born in 1915 in Gochang, he opened the world of primal life and sensuality in his collection Hwasajip, refined the Korean sentiment of han in Gyucheokdo, and expanded his vision to the realms of Silla, Buddhism, reincarnation, and eternity in Silla Cho and Dongcheon. In Jilmajae Myth, he returned to his hometown, elevating the stories of nameless people, folklore, and his grandmother's tales into the realm of modern poetry.
His transformation from sensuality to han, from han to eternity, and back to myth and hometown is remarkable. In this sense, I have long believed that if there were a literary technician in Korean literature akin to Picasso, Seo Jeong-ju would be the first to come to mind.
Just as Picasso traversed from his Blue Period and Rose Period to Cubism, and then moved between classicism and surrealism, Seo also refused to settle into a single literary form. In terms of his mastery of the Korean language, rhythm, vocabulary, and imagery, he was a rare linguistic artisan produced by modern Korean poetry.
However, this raises a more challenging question: Does great literary talent alone complete a great human being and great literature?
A particularly striking point in Jang's account is Seo's experience at the age of fifteen. In 1930, as a student at Jungang High School, Seo participated in a demonstration commemorating the first anniversary of the Gwangju Student Movement, resulting in his arrest and subsequent expulsion from school. A fifteen-year-old boy under colonial rule took to the streets to resist Japanese imperialism.
However, a decade later, his position had changed significantly. During the late Japanese colonial period, he published works glorifying Japan's war efforts and encouraging the mobilization of Korean youth for the war. Even after liberation, he maintained close ties to power, writing a congratulatory poem for then-President Chun Doo-hwan's birthday in 1987.
The issue extends beyond a mere political choice by a writer. It raises profound human and philosophical questions: Why did the boy who resisted colonial power at fifteen later sing the praises of the empire's war and, in his old age, extol the highest military authority?
I do not believe that Seo lacked literary talent. Rather, the problem becomes clearer because his talent was so immense. What he lacked was a higher spiritual standard to control and direct his genius—specifically, an ethical self-awareness and a sense of responsibility toward humanity in the face of history.
Seo sang of Buddhism, Silla, reincarnation, and eternity. His poetic imagination traversed over a millennium and sometimes expanded to a cosmic level. Yet paradoxically, the poet who gazed so far into time and the heavens failed to adequately regard the faces of those suffering in his own era. This duality encapsulates both the greatness and limitations of Seo's literature.
His poetry, which reached for the heavens, overlooked the humanity at his feet.
I had the opportunity to interview Seo in the spring of 1983 at his home in Bangbae-dong. He recalled that at the age of nineteen, when he was on the brink of death from typhoid fever, he saw the white light of Joseon porcelain and realized a new world beyond the 'wall' of life and death, achieving a state of saengsa ilyeo (the oneness of life and death). At that time, he appeared to me as a simple old man, but looking back now, I regret that he did not voice a single word of criticism against the Chun Doo-hwan regime.
This brings to mind Picasso.
In 1937, during the Spanish Civil War, the small Basque town of Guernica was bombed. Picasso captured the horror in a massive canvas over seven meters wide. The painting Guernica, depicting a mother wailing over her dead child, a wounded horse, fallen soldiers, and broken swords, became a symbol of resistance against 20th-century war and state violence.
Picasso was not a perfect human either. His personal life had serious issues, and his political choices have been criticized. However, in Guernica, he clearly defined where an artist should stand in the face of immense violence in his time. Picasso wished for the painting to remain in exile until democratic freedom was restored in Spain, and it eventually returned in 1981 after democratization.
It is not a matter of simply dividing Seo and Picasso into good and evil. Humanity is not that simple. Both had their shadows; Seo had the sense of justice of the boy who participated in the Gwangju Student Movement and the monumental literary achievement that elevated the Korean language. Yet, when we place their lives side by side, an important proposition about art emerges.
The technical mastery of art and the spiritual completion of the artist are not the same. Seo was a giant in the former but left an unfilled space in the latter.
There have long been discussions in Korean literary circles about Seo being a candidate for the Nobel Prize in Literature, but the Nobel Committee's nomination materials remain confidential for 50 years, making it impossible to ascertain how he was evaluated or why he did not win. Therefore, concluding that he failed to receive the Nobel Prize due to his collaboration or praise for power goes beyond the realm of historical fact.
However, when evaluating his literature on a global scale, this issue inevitably follows. Great literature is not completed solely by linguistic skill.
In this regard, Han Kang, who received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2024, presents an interesting contrast. Her work The Boy Who Came directly confronted the wounds of Gwangju in 1980, while There’s No Goodbye embraced the memories of Jeju 4·3 and the suffering of humanity. The Swedish Academy recognized the literary power in Han's work that confronts historical trauma and reveals the fragility of human life.
The Nobel Prize's criteria do not simply equate to political correctness. Literature is not propaganda, and great works are not moral textbooks. However, it is also difficult to discuss universal humanity while turning a blind eye to the times and human suffering.
Goeun, who has long been considered a strong candidate for the Nobel Prize following Seo, also leaves behind a different set of questions. In 2018, poet Choi Young-mi's revelations brought sexual harassment issues to light, and the court ruled in favor of Choi in a subsequent defamation lawsuit, confirming the harassment allegations. The issues surrounding Seo and Goeun differ in nature and era, and should not be conflated. However, both cases pose questions for us today.
To what extent can we separate literary achievement from a person's life?
In the past, many things could be obscured. The wrongdoings of those in power, the personal lives of artists, and the hypocrisy of intellectuals could be forgotten or buried in the memories of a few over time. However, the era of AI is different. Records produced by humanity are accumulating as digital data, searchable and interconnected. Writings, photographs, videos, testimonies, judgments, and records from decades ago can now appear on a single screen in an instant. AI grants humans new abilities while also holding up a terrifying mirror. An era is beginning where nothing can be hidden.
So, where should humanity return?
I paradoxically believe that the more we enter the AI era, the more we must return to spirituality. Here, spirituality does not refer solely to the doctrines of specific religions. It encompasses the awareness that a greater order exists beyond humanity, humility that does not absolutize one's desires and talents, and the ability to accept the suffering of other lives as one's own.
The Bible views humanity as created in the image of God. Jesus stated that the Sabbath exists for humanity. This is a declaration that people come before institutions. Buddhism speaks of compassion, teaching that all beings dislike suffering and love life, urging us to treat others as we would ourselves. The Tao Te Ching speaks of the highest good being like water, benefiting all things without contention and flowing humbly to lower places. The I Ching states that the essence of change is the continuous cycle of birth and rebirth, finding the fundamental movement of the universe in creation and life rather than destruction.
At the beginning of the I Ching, there are four characters: Yuan Heng Li Zhen. In traditional interpretations of Eastern philosophy, these have been understood as the four virtues of the heavenly way. Yuan signifies beginnings and origins, Heng represents smoothness and growth, Li denotes benefit and harmony, and Zhen indicates a righteous and firm completion of order. While interpretations vary, the history of East Asian thought has understood these four characters as a great order through which heaven and earth give birth to, nurture, benefit, and complete all things.
I would like to reinterpret this in light of 21st-century AI civilization. Yuan represents religion, Heng signifies culture and art, Li stands for philosophy, and Zhen denotes science. This is not a traditional commentary on the original text of the I Ching, but a modern interpretation for viewing today's civilization.
Yuan asks about origins. Where do I come from, and what is the purpose of my life? Is there an absolute value beyond humanity? This is the realm of religion. Heng unfolds that life. It expresses what humans feel, love, grieve, and dream through music, art, literature, dance, and architecture. This is culture and art. Li questions the standards of right and wrong and benefit. What is truth, what is justice, and how should humans live? This is philosophy. Zhen verifies and completes all of this into the order of reality. It discovers the laws of nature and creates technology that actually changes human life. This is science.
Culture and art without religion can easily lose direction, while philosophy without culture and art can become arid. Science without philosophy can become dangerous, and religion without science and philosophy can lose its power to improve human life in reality. The four are not enemies; they are one. Yuan Heng Li Zhen.
Viewing Seo's tragedy through this framework is intriguing. He overflowed with Heng, or culture and art. His ability to handle language, aesthetic sense, and power to transform the emotions and myths of Koreans into poetry were unparalleled. However, we must question whether he had sufficient Yuan and Li—the spiritual humility to lower himself before values greater than humanity and the philosophical ethics to regard history and humanity. He had the technique, but the compass to guide it was weak. Thus, his language sometimes soared to the heavens but failed to descend to the bleeding people at the lowest points of his era.
Returning to Jilmajae, Jang's account reveals an interesting landscape at the Seo Jeong-ju Literary Museum. The lower floor is filled with tributes from numerous literary figures, while the upper floor displays works related to Seo's collaboration and praise for power. This structure itself may reflect how we read Seo today. We cannot read only the praises, nor can we read only the works of collaboration. We must read Next to the Chrysanthemum and Dongcheon, as well as Ojang Matsui Song, to see the human Seo Jeong-ju. Only then can we see ourselves, for every human embodies both beauty and cowardice, courage and weakness.
I believe we must not erase Seo from Korean literary history. Rather, we should teach him more deeply. While teaching children how beautiful the Korean language is in Next to the Chrysanthemum, we must also ask why someone who wielded such beautiful language made wrong choices in the face of history. That is education. If we only praise, we create idols; if we only teach mistakes, we erase history. Showing both the light and shadow of a great human being and allowing the next generation to judge is the essence of historical and humanistic education.
We can also consider why Yun Dong-ju is still beloved today. It is not merely because his language was more splendid than Seo's. He felt ashamed that poetry was so easily written under the colonial night sky. Kim Soo-young also did not survive because he was a perfect human. He constantly reflected on his own cowardice while discussing freedom.
The ability to feel shame may be one of the most important aspects of humanity. Both repentance in the Bible, atonement in Buddhism, and reflection in Confucianism ultimately begin with self-examination. Humanity is not great because it is perfect; it is great because it can recognize its mistakes and turn back.
The most regrettable aspect of Seo is precisely this point. What if he had left behind just one poem in his later years that directly confronted his collaboration and praise for power? What if the boy Seo Jeong-ju, who took to the streets during the Gwangju Student Movement at fifteen, had written a poem asking, “How did I become this way?” With his linguistic genius, he could have transformed his own shame into a monumental work of modern Korean literature. Thus, his silence remains a source of regret.
Now, we stand on the threshold of a completely new civilization called AI. AI can remember more information than humans, calculate faster, and soon may make more sophisticated judgments in many areas than humans. As robots and physical AI extend human physical capabilities, humanity will gain powers never before experienced. However, no matter how advanced technology becomes, there are questions that AI cannot answer for us.
What will we use that power for? To save lives or to dominate? To liberate humanity or to control it? To wage war or to preserve life? The answers to these questions do not lie in GPUs or algorithms; they lie in humanity. Therefore, in the age of AI, as science advances, philosophy becomes more necessary, and as philosophy deepens, culture and art become essential. At the root of all this lies the spirituality that respects values and life beyond humanity.
Once again, Yuan Heng Li Zhen. Yuan reminds us not to forget our origins. Heng encourages us to bloom as human beings. Li urges us to constantly question what is beneficial to humanity. Zhen calls for the firm and righteous completion of all these elements.
Religion, culture and art, philosophy, and science must reunite. I believe this is the new humanism of the AI era. The Bible, Buddhist scriptures, the Tao Te Ching, and the ancient East Asian cosmology ultimately point to similar truths, albeit in different languages.
Humanity does not exist in isolation. Heaven, earth, and humanity, humans and nature, and the universe are all interconnected within a single life order. Therefore, truth must be directed toward humanity. Justice must protect humanity. Freedom must preserve humanity. Culture and art must elevate the human spirit, and science must benefit human life. Religion must pose the most fundamental questions to ensure that all this power does not turn into human arrogance.
Seo Jeong-ju was a giant of the Korean language. His literary achievements cannot be erased or overlooked. However, the lesson the winds of Jilmajae convey to us today is not solely about how beautiful his poetry is. Beauty alone does not complete humanity. Genius alone is not enough. Knowledge, honor, and power are the same. Above all these, there must be a spirit that makes us human.
Picasso's Guernica remains alive today, and Han Kang's literature resonates with global readers by evoking historical wounds and human fragility. Ultimately, Seo's life leaves us with a precious question.
Can any great talent be completed without self-reflection in the face of history and humanity? This question is no longer directed solely at Seo; it is a question that returns to all of us living in the age of AI. An era is approaching where all records remain, all information is interconnected, and human words and actions are not easily forgotten as they once were.
Thus, the future paradoxically returns us to the oldest place: spirituality. Yuan Heng Li Zhen represents a civilization that reunites around humanity and life, rather than one where religion, culture and art, philosophy, and science compete against each other. Technology must advance, but the spirit must return to its origins. Science should reach for the universe, but humanity must delve deeper into its own inner self.
Even as we enter an era where AI surpasses human intelligence, what must remain with humanity is something higher than intelligence: the spirituality that knows conscience, love, and shame. Without it, the language of genius can become mere adornments of power, and even the world's best AI can become a tool for oppression. However, with it, literature, art, philosophy, and science can become forces that preserve humanity.
Starting from Yuan, blooming into Heng, benefiting humanity and the world through Li, and being completed rightly through Zhen. This should be the order of the universe and the path of human civilization. Reading Jang Ha-seok's account of Jilmajae led me to think of Seo, and thinking of Seo brought to mind Picasso, Goeun, and Han Kang, and ultimately led me to reflect on humanity in the age of AI.
In the end, the question is singular: For what purpose will we use our talents? And the answers offered by thousands of years of religion and philosophy converge into one: humanity. The universe and history ultimately question the value of human life. True greatness in humanity lies not in how high we rise, but in how much we can descend to the lowly among us from those heights. That is truth, justice, and freedom. And it is the path of spirituality we must rediscover in the age of AI, the path of Yuan Heng Li Zhen.
* This article has been translated by AI.
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