He wrote a poem called “The World That Passed” and lives with his friend Hyeongsu at a bar by the same name.
In college he was active in the student movement. A professor the activists disliked announced that on the history exam, writing your name on the paper would be enough to pass. While everyone else took him at his word, shame kept this one student from doing it. He could not accept the idea of getting something for nothing, so instead of simply writing his name, he wrote his name and a poem on the answer sheet.
Later, at work, someone wondered whether he might be secretly eating lunch while still claiming meal deductions from his pay. To keep himself above suspicion, he had someone sign a confirmation every day that he had not eaten lunch. When work fell behind schedule, his boss suspected him of slacking off, so again, to clear himself of doubt, he went every hour to a colleague young enough to be his niece or nephew and collected signatures proving he had not been idle.
His left ring finger was missing two joints. It was easier for him to list what he lacked than what he had. That was the price of not being ashamed.
The word conviction sounds stale the moment you say it aloud. This is an age when money has become conviction. For our own advantage we have shut our eyes to countless shameful moments. Words like conviction survived only in the dictionary. The only real difference among us was how far each of us could go in the name of profit before shame caught up. And when shame finally did appear, all of us were helpless before it, as if stripped bare.