Asking ‘why’ from the alley

Noh Myung-woo

The author is a professor of the Division of Economics, Politics and Society at Ajou University.

A dessert called “Dujjonku” recently rose to the top of Korea’s trend cycle before fading almost as quickly as it appeared. The name is short for “Dubai chewy cookie,” and the snack features Dubai chocolate wrapped in a soft, chewy Korean rice cake. Dubai chocolate itself is a viral confection filled with pistachio cream and kataifi, a Middle Eastern shredded pastry stir-fried in butter. The hybrid dessert became so popular that long lines were common and items sold out quickly, and customers were even said to thank sellers if they managed to buy one.

As curiosity about the trend competed with a vague resistance to following the crowd without understanding why, another short-lived craze came to mind: tanghulu, the glossy candied fruit that once dominated Korea’s street snack scene.

“You have to understand current trends to study society.” The statement is hard to dispute. “How can you talk about Korean society without knowing why Seongsu has become a hot neighborhood?” A friend’s offer to guide me around was difficult to refuse, and I set out to see the neighborhood for myself.

On a warm winter weekend that already hinted at spring, Seongsu-dong in eastern Seoul was packed. Stylish pop-up stores lined the streets, and passersby, dressed with careful attention to aesthetic detail, seemed to embody the area’s reputation for being “hip.” My own unprepared appearance made me feel out of place, and the sense that I did not belong kept my visit brief.

Leaving the crowded energy behind, I took the subway back to a familiar neighborhood bookstore in a quiet alley. The slower rhythm of the side streets, so different from the up-tempo atmosphere of a hot spot, suddenly brought to mind Yi Eon-jin (1740–1766), a late Joseon-era (1392-1910) poet often described as a voice of the alley.

Confined by his status as a government interpreter, Yi lived not on the grand avenues of elite culture but in the narrow lanes of Pil-dong in Jung District, central Seoul. Listening to the sounds of everyday life, he became a pioneer of what later came to be called “alley literature,” writing about ordinary spaces rather than the world of the aristocracy.

His life was marked by constraint and tragedy. As his mentor Yi Yong-hyu observed, the gap between his talent and the opportunities available to him was wide, and he died young. Yet that limitation also became a source of creative strength. In the margins of the alley, he found the possibility of developing a language of his own.

While the literati of the time focused on imitating classical Chinese models and seeking recognition within the mainstream, Yi turned his attention to lived reality. His poetry captured the texture of everyday life and sometimes expressed anger toward the dominance of established conventions.

He believed that only by overturning rigid forms and distancing himself from convention could one escape “false writing” and “empty learning.” In the alley, his intellectual challenge was not to ask the immediate cause that makes something a standard, but to ask the deeper reason it became one in the first place.

There are reasons why Seongsu is considered fashionable. When people say it is a destination for trendsetters, it becomes one. Dujjonku becomes popular because people say it is popular. A book becomes a bestseller for similar reasons. If the author has a large following or frequent media exposure, strong sales are almost guaranteed.

Recognition on the main road requires writing that follows the main road’s rules. If recognition is the goal, there is logic in adopting established styles and familiar formulas.

Yi’s insistence on asking deeper reasons reveals the fragility behind such explanations. The alley is not simply a refuge for those left behind by the mainstream. It is a space where the grammar of the main road loses its authority, making it possible to keep asking why tanghulu gave way to Dubai chocolate and why Dubai chocolate yielded to Dujjonku.

On the main road, people tend to ask only what delivers efficiency, speed and immediate returns. In the alley, a different question survives: not the external cause that justifies action, but the internal motivation that explains it.

When we follow causes, we adjust our pace to others. When we ask reasons, attention turns to our own stride.

What Yi protected in the alley was not a formula for success but a reason to write his own words. Taking him as a guide, this column will continue to ask why. Our intellectual walk begins at the end of the alley, following what he once described as “the moonlight pushed upward through the night.”

This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.