The film "The Man Who Killed Don Quixote" (2019) is a work by the renowned American director Terry Gilliam, based on the masterpiece "Don Quixote" by the Spanish literary giant Miguel de Cervantes. [Film Still]

Literature has long demonstrated one repeating truth: humans do not act because of their thoughts, but because of thoughts that have become their identity. 

Once an ideology deeply permeates a person's inner self, it ceases to be just an opinion. It becomes a secondary self, fused with their name, beliefs, and pride. From that moment on, a person no longer chooses an ideology; they come to believe that the ideology has chosen them.

Miguel de Cervantes’ "Don Quixote" is one of the first works to illustrate this. Don Quixote reads so many chivalric romances that he can no longer see reality as it is. He mistakes windmills for giants, believes an ordinary woman is a noble lady, and views a dilapidated inn as a castle. 

He is not a liar; rather, he is convinced that the world he believes in is the truth. The spirit of chivalry has become his identity, not just a reading preference. Therefore, reality is merely interpreted to fit his ideology, rather than his ideology being corrected by reality.

Russian literature delves even deeper into this issue. In Fyodor Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment," Raskolnikov believes he is an "extraordinary man." He embraces the idea that a great human can transcend existing morality and law. Initially, it is just a philosophical hypothesis. 

However, at a certain point, that thought becomes his reason for existence. To prove that belief, he eventually commits the extreme act of murder. Murder ceases to be the goal and instead becomes a ritual to confirm his identity.

What Dostoevsky reveals is not criminal psychology, but the question of how far a human will go to protect an ideology that has been fused with their own existence. This is why, in his novels, debates never end as mere arguments. An ideology always becomes a human fate.

George Orwell's "1984" shows another aspect of this. In this work, power does not merely control people's actions; it seeks to dominate their memories, language, and emotions. The slogan, "Who controls the past controls the future," is not merely political propaganda. It is the process by which the state manufactures an individual's identity.

The protagonist resists to the end, but eventually, he comes to love the system more than the person he once loved. In the final moment, he does not abandon his thoughts; he abandons himself. It is the image of ideology completely absorbing a human being.

A similar scene appears in William Golding's "Lord of the Flies." The boys stranded on a deserted island initially try to create cooperation and rules. However, as time passes, a new group belief forms. Fear and violence become the values of the community, and those who oppose these values are defined as enemies. The reason ordinary children participate in cruel violence is not because of innate evil, but because the group's ideology has absorbed their individual identities.

Literature asks the same questions across different eras and nations. Why are people unable to doubt their own beliefs? Why do they perceive opposing opinions as insults rather than subjects for debate? Why do they prioritize defending their convictions over facts? Novels find the answer within the human interior. When an idea is "my thought," it can be modified. But the moment it becomes "me," modification feels like self-negation.

This phenomenon is not unfamiliar in reality. Politics, religion, ethnicity, ideology, region, and generation can all become identities. As the consciousness of belonging to a specific group strengthens, people prioritize protecting their sense of belonging over facts. This is why even when evidence appears to show that one's side is wrong, it is not easily accepted. It is not a matter of defending knowledge, but of defending one's own existence.

What is interesting is that the stronger one's identity, the more one believes oneself to be objective. One views one's own judgment as common sense and the opponent's as propaganda. However, the opponent thinks exactly the same. The moment both sides believe they hold the monopoly on truth, dialogue stops, and all that remains is a competition of loyalty.

Great literature does not condemn these human weaknesses; instead, it reveals them. Readers laugh at Don Quixote only to discover themselves, and they are shocked by Raskolnikov only to reflect on their own convictions.

As we read of Orwell's bleak world and criticize totalitarianism, we are simultaneously asked if there is a small "Big Brother" within our own lives. This is the power of literature. Literature does not preach to the reader. It becomes a mirror that reflects the reader's inner self through its characters.

This is why literature is one of the most excellent forms of conveying ideas. Philosophy explains what is right, but literature shows why humans cannot abandon their thoughts. Philosophy offers logic, while literature offers life.

Readers often understand humanity more deeply through novels than through academic papers. By following the fate of a person, we vividly experience how an idea becomes a person's character, habit, and ultimately, their destiny.

A person with ideas is free. But the moment an idea possesses the human, freedom vanishes. Great literature constantly asks where that boundary begins. And it leaves the final question for the reader: Is what I am defending right now a thought, or is it myself?

◆ Songsan Jeong Gwang-je 

A poet and researcher of history and philosophy. Former board member of the Rhee Syngman Academy. Currently serves as a research advisor for the Korea Modern and Contemporary History Research Association and representative of the philosophy forum Lyceum. He has published four volumes of poetry, co-translated "Heroes of Hook Hill," and authored humanities books including "Joseon Turned into Myth," "Humanities on the Tatami," and "A Liberal Reading Gramsci." "Songsan" is his pen name.