Poet Shin Yong-mok's 'This Sentence, Now'

Poet Shin Yong-mok, in his reflection titled 'This Sentence, Now,' delves into the complex relationship between past and present, challenging the notion that our current selves are merely accumulated remnants of past experiences. He posits that the past, rather than being an active force shaping the present, exists only in memory as a testament to past failures. The present, in contrast, is depicted as a continuous, fresh address to us, liberating us from the persistent grip of what has been.

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The present constantly speaks to us anew. Therefore, we feel like beings rescued from the past. As if we have fortunately escaped from the things that persistently surrounded us and arrived here.

Shin draws a parallel between the dawn sun meticulously separating objects from the encompassing darkness and the individual's act of self-salvation from despair, which is often a fusion of bitter longing and cold loss. This process of arriving 'here and now' is framed as an escape from the persistent anxieties that once surrounded us, much like emerging from a consolidated darkness into distinct forms.

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In other words, the present has failed, not the past. The present constantly speaks to us anew.

The poet further explores the nature of reality and language, suggesting that the world is structured in such a way that naming an object, like calling something 'grape,' isolates it from the vastness of its existence, the sunlight, rain, and soil that contributed to its being. Similarly, when we call out someone's name, it acts as a net, drawing their attention from the surrounding crowd. Names, therefore, precisely extract individuals from the 'not-them.'

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In other words, a name is a net thrown at him, drawing him out from the crowd. In other words, saying 'that is a grape' cuts off the sunlight, rain, and soil before it became a grape, and the time of stems and leaves it went through to become a grape.

Shin concludes by reflecting on the power of self-naming during moments of profound sadness. He finds solace in uttering his own name, an act that, for him, signifies being 'cut out' and thus becoming himself. This act of self-definition, of being precisely 'himself' and not the surrounding 'not-him,' serves as a form of salvation from overwhelming sorrow, allowing him to arrive at his own distinct existence.

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Whenever a certain sadness brings an endless night, I quietly whisper my name. Then, I am cut out and become myself.