Continuing from my previous column, I will share the story of how I became a shareholder in a newspaper founded in 1988 through a national stock subscription.

 

As the new newspaper began to circulate, the goblin-like phone calls became less frequent. Since I was no longer a target for cultural reporters and had instead become part of the core group behind the newspaper, people stopped asking for my opinions or requesting interviews.

 

Perhaps it was a sense of relative deprivation—or maybe just the fact that as she rose, my own position seemed to diminish in comparison.

 

Instead, I would read his (the human goblin, the female journalist I mentioned in the last column) columns, now written as a celebrated columnist, and reminisce about the old days from afar. Then, as more time passed, I noticed that along with her name, a photograph of her face began accompanying her columns.

 

Even after all those years, her writing had only sharpened. As someone once said, her words were "concise, precise, and unerringly on point." Reading them alongside her photo became my own quiet pleasure—something I looked forward to once a week.

 

Then, one day, after a long silence, I received a phone call.

 

I was told that she had left the newspaper. Some junior colleagues had rented her an officetel somewhere in Mapo, setting up what they called a writing room for her.

 

That very evening, I rushed over.

 

There was something about the news of her leaving the newspaper that felt strangely heavy.

 

Two younger colleagues were there, keeping watch over the space. Their names were something like Myung-ho and Myung-sook. They referred to themselves as the keepers of the writing room.

 

Some time passed, and then the doorbell rang. The two of them immediately sprang to their feet and ran to the door, shouting, "Loyalty!"

 

It was the first time I had ever seen women do such a thing.

 

The four of us then headed out into a hidden alley somewhere in Mapo, where we passed around shots of soju.

 

After a few rounds, their speech began to grow more intense. The tone, the choice of words—everything gradually became more aggressive. And then, suddenly, they slipped into a language of their own.

 

I couldn’t quite grasp every word, but I could tell that they were condemning most of the world’s high-ranking figures, denouncing them as cowards.

 

At that moment, I had a realization:

 

"Ah, goblins breed their own."

 

These were goblin offspring disguised as acupuncturists.

 

It was only then that I finally understood the story I had heard—that in the early days of the Roh Moo-hyun administration, Yoo In-tae had once visited the human goblin at her home.

 

I should apologize for referring to him so casually as "Yoo In-tae," but let me quietly mention that figures like Yoo In-tae, Kim Geun-tae, Park Won-soon, Sohn Hak-kyu, Roh Hoe-chan, Chung Un-chan—and yes, even the death row inmate Lee Cheol—were all my juniors.

 

And among them, Yoo In-tae was the most endearing junior of all.

 

In any case, the fact that this frail human goblin of a journalist had turned Yoo In-tae away empty-handed brought back old memories.

 

It was as if an old wound—one that had barely managed to scab over after years of time—had been scraped open again. The feeling of having been ensnared by a goblin all those years ago came rushing back.

 

Think about it—if some high-ranking official came knocking on the door of any ordinary man to ask for a favor, wouldn’t that man, at the very least, fall to his knees and press his lips to the back of the visitor’s hand?

 

If not that, he’d at least kiss the toe cap of his guest’s shoes as a show of allegiance.

 

But her?

 

Apparently, all she said was, "Someone has to remain a journalist to the very end."

 

Or was it, "A journalist must remain a journalist."?

 

It was truly a beautiful and moving story. Like my late mentor, who was mentioned in the Black Bean Noodles and Three Rounds of Liquor column written by the human goblin journalist, there were few elders in our society who believed that retirement should truly be retirement. He never accepted positions on advisory committees or review boards for the Ministry of Construction and Transportation or the Seoul Metropolitan Government.

 

In contrast, we now live in a time where some young professors, as soon as they reach the rank of associate professor, abandon their offices in an attempt to secure a spot on various committees, networking and handing out business cards wherever possible.

 

During the Third and Fifth Republics, even up until about twenty years ago, the phrase “the ruin of the nation by journalists” was commonly heard, as former reporters wielded significant influence over the country.

 

Then, three years later, I heard that some of those younger colleagues had, in an almost messianic sense of duty, founded a strange new school.

 

When I went searching for it, I found that the three goblins I had once seen in Mapo had multiplied into dozens.

 

They seemed to be equipping themselves with sharper logic, disguising themselves with more refined skills, and expanding their ranks with an almost terrifying reproductive capability.

 

No—these were the kind of people who carried not just one, but dozens of pens in their coats, embodying the saying that “the pen is mightier than the sword.” With so many of them gathered in one place, what could they possibly fail to accomplish?

 

To me, this was an unusual and beautiful goblin nation.

 

More than anything, I hoped that this peculiar school would wield its (goblin’s) magic club and transform the country, achieving great things.

 

"I make this humble wish: First, please ensure that the Grand Canal project never comes to fruition. And beyond that, may the construction cartel that is swallowing up our land be vanquished and driven away!"

 

Like Sun Wukong plucking a strand of his hair, blowing on it, and creating three thousand identical monkeys, I wished for the students of this school to multiply in numbers.

 

"May their graduates spread across this nation like an unstoppable force—more numerous than the invading Japanese of old, more overwhelming than the communist barbarians—so that they may reclaim the names of Dokdo and the East Sea, and restore Goguryeo’s rightful place in history. May they unify Korea, China, and Japan (culturally, of course), drive out imperialists, and elevate Korea from the world’s 11th-largest economy to the 4th, or better yet, to the very top."

 

I heard that, with the rise of the internet and social media, there are now countless ways to expand their ranks.

 

And so, I also dared to hope that Korea’s architectural culture could one day lead the world.

 

"Please, also help me with the redevelopment project I am overseeing in Ogin-dong. I’m struggling alone to create a new housing model for Korea—it’s far too difficult on my own. And, if I may ask one more thing: May we create numerous charming clones of Chunhyang, Jang-geum, Nongae, Saimdang, Nanseolheon, Hwang Jini, Maechang, and Hongrang, so that they may overflow across the land?

 

"And no, I am not simply singing along with everyone else who praises the establishment. If I were to sing at all, I would rather sing Jeongeupsa."

 

And just like that, Jeongeupsa came to my lips:

 

"Oh, bright moon, rise high in the sky… Oh, let your light shine down upon me…"

 

The human goblin journalist is none other than Kim Sun-joo, editorial director of The Hankyoreh.

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