A few hosta blossoms have opened in the back garden of Ibuljae, where I write. They are also known as ‘flowers of liberation,’ for they bloom around the time Buddhist monks conclude their summer retreat. Liberation, the release from affliction, may be another word for freedom.

The blossoms are all the more graceful for their resemblance to the jade hairpins worn by elegant women. Their fragrance fills the back garden, and I cannot help stopping in my tracks. I feel I am beginning to understand what it means to ‘listen to fragrance’ (munhyang).

I hope that my novel Montafon Moonlight will become a fragrance that people everywhere can hear. Perhaps the Austrian composer Mr. Herbert Willi can even see fragrance. He told me, after all, that he sees the sounds of nature rather than hears them. Montafon Moonlight is an autobiographical novel drawn from my recollections of our conversations over three visits arranged by Chairwoman Kwon of IMK, the classical music management company based in Vienna.

Chairwoman Kwon deeply admires Mr. Willi’s music and continues to do all she can to make it known throughout the world. Having read my books, she spoke to him about me one day, and he asked her to arrange a meeting. Such was the inyeon that brought us together: a writer devoted to Buddhist subjects, living in the mountains of southern Korea, and a composer living in Montafon, Austria, near the Alps. Our fields and our faiths were totally different. Mr. Willi was a composer and a Catholic; I was a novelist and a Buddhist. If we had anything in common, it was simply that we both lived deep in the mountains, cradled in absolute silence.

In 2015, my wife and I traveled to Montafon with Chairwoman Kwon as our guide, and in 2018 we met Mr. Willi in an office at the Vienna City Hall concert hall. In 2025, Chairwoman Kwon paid for our airfare and all the expenses of our stay. Her one wish seemed to be to make Mr. Willi known to the world so that he would no longer be lonely.

I decided to write Montafon Moonlight because I felt I could offer my own account of Mr. Willi’s philosophy of music and of the man himself. To my eyes, he seemed like a Seon master whose way of thinking was fundamentally Eastern. Whenever he spoke of his philosophy of music, I understood it through Buddhism and found myself agreeing with much of what he said. He, too, was deeply moved by my Buddhist interpretations and agreed with them wholeheartedly. Once, during a conversation, he wept, saying that in me he had found someone who deeply understood his philosophy of music.

Yet I could not grasp the full depth of Mr. Willi’s musical world. I could not even read a score, nor was I a classical music enthusiast. My understanding could extend only to exploring the man himself and the convictions that guided his music. I therefore felt that the distinctive musical world of his compositions was not mine to explore. That belonged to his students and to scholars of music.

Even if Mr. Willi wished me to consult books about his music written by his acquaintances or students, I knew I could only hesitate. So I sent him a message through Chairwoman Kwon. It read as follows:

“Dear Mr. Willi, My name is Jeong Chanju, the Korean novelist who prays for your health and happiness and hopes that the world will come to know your music for what it truly is. As I wrote Montafon Moonlight, hoping that your philosophy of music and your convictions would shine throughout the world like the moonlight of the Alps, I set myself a few guiding principles.

“I would be grateful if you would read and understand the principles that guided my writing.

“First, I sought to convey your philosophy of music rather than the profound substance of the music itself. To be honest, I know little about music. My conscience would not allow me to pretend otherwise, for that would mean deceiving both my readers and myself. Instead, I tried to write about what I had come to understand through our conversations: what led you to become a composer, and the thoughts and feelings you confided in me. Even so, my account is bound to have its limits and shortcomings. Of course, books by your acquaintances or students might have helped me to some extent. But their knowledge would still have reflected their own understanding of you, and I would have hesitated to rely on it.

“Second, even if I could not explore your musical world in depth, I felt that the Buddhist thought I knew would allow me to understand your musical convictions and philosophy. Your philosophy of ‘absolute silence,’ for example, could be understood through the Buddhist notion of ‘the fullness of emptiness,’ the teaching of emptiness itself.

“Third, I wanted to portray you as a human being. I had seen your life in Montafon firsthand and walked with you through the Alps, where music lives. Through our meetings and long conversations with my wife and Chairwoman Kwon, I had come to understand, in my own way, your solitude and anguish.

“Fourth, I must confess that I wrote Montafon Moonlight in the fervent hope that your music would be performed in Hiroshima, Japan, and in cities in Iran, Ukraine, and elsewhere scarred by the tragedy of war, just as the tenth movement of Jeong takes absolute freedom and absolute peace as its theme. If there is a spirit our twenty-first century calls for, it is the absolute freedom and absolute peace you sought in Jeong. If I had a single purpose as a writer in composing Montafon Moonlight, that was it.

“I, Korean novelist Jeong Chanju, miss you there in Montafon and hope you will come to visit us in Korea.”

Finally, as Montafon Moonlight approaches publication, I would like to use these pages to thank several people. Once again, I offer my deep gratitude to Chairwoman Kwon of IMK, who covered the full cost of publication; Professor Matty Wegehaupt of Lawrence University in the United States, who generously donated his work on the English translation; my wife, a ceramic artist, who proofread the manuscript; An Seungcheol, who undertook the editing and design; and Kim Taeyun, head of Yeobaek Publishing. Everyone took part with a willing heart, and I believe that in time our efforts are sure to bear good fruit. Good causes bear good fruit (Seonin seongwa, 善因善果)!

Autumn 2026, Ibuljae, Korea

Jeong Chanju, Novelist