[Korean Literature Now] Vol.36 Summer 2017

FEATURED WRITER Choi In-hun Into the Dark Unknown

The Square

MUSINGS Why Translate When You Can Write?

VOL. 36

Howard Goldblatt

|

SUMMER 2017

BOOKMARK

When

Twentysomethings Begin

Storytelling

Savage Alice Hwang Jungeun Prayer Kim Ae-ran Mom’s House Jon Kyongnin

REVIEWS Familiar Things Meeting with My Brother The Things You Can See Only When You Slow Down

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FOREWORD

Literature Above and Beyond Ideology

I

t gives me great pleasure to introduce the summer issue

Korea there is nowhere for Myong-jun to stand, and he

of Korean Literature Now. I am particularly excited

chooses to be sent to a third “neutral” country, one to which

about this issue as the featured writer Choi In-hun is, in

he never arrives. This is a keen indictment of the gap between

my opinion, one of the most important writers of the modern

the rhetoric and the reality of a “we” (uri) that is, if anything,

period.

wider now than when this story was written in 1960. Herein

I was fortunate enough to have had the opportunity to

lies the source of Choi’s continuing popularity and relevance,

study the writings of Choi In-hun in graduate school in a

and anyone interested in deepening their understanding of the

course titled “Philosophy and Literature.” Anyone who has

causes of the intransigence of the two Korea’s would benefit

read his fiction will understand why he would be included in

from reading his work.

a course with a philosophical approach to literature. Much

As part of the Featured Writer section, we have an

of his writing, especially his longer works like The Square or

overview of Choi In-hun’s literature by professor Dennis

A Grey Man, are essentially philosophic investigations of the

Wuerthner of Ruhr-University Bochum, an interview with

existential question of identity, or, more precisely, Korean

Choi In-hun by professor Bang Min-Ho of Seoul National

identity.

University, and an excerpt of the novel taken from the

In The Square, the protagonist Lee Myong-jun parses away the façades created by the regimes of both the South

excellent English translation by Kim Seong-Kon, President of the Literature Translation Institute of Korea.

and North in search of something Korean to “lovest well”

The summer issue also includes a Special Section which

that it might “remain,” to borrow the words of Ezra Pound.

gives voice to the young generation of Korea. This generation

He finds that the South is characterized by the “private room”

experienced the IMF bailout early in their lives, and the

where politicians and businessmen meet to be entertained by

resulting economic recession, shift in values, and overly

women while making their crooked deals. Here, he is tarred

competitive environment has left an imprint on how they date,

with the red brush of Communism (by association), so he

dwell, and work. In Bookmark, fiction by Kim Ae-ran, Jon

defects to the North where he hopes to gather in the public

Kyongnin, Hwang Jungeun, and Yoo Jaehyun and the poetry of

square, dyed the brilliant red of revolutionary blood with

Kim Su-Young are introduced in English for the first time.

other patriotically minded Koreans, only to find that the

I feel that the summer issue is one of our strongest issues

square is the grey color of ash, and filled with empty slogans

to date and, with that, let me wish our readers a safe and

and mechanical bureaucracy. Thus, his frustration with the

memorable summer, hopefully made more enjoyable by

self-interestedness of the South (“total absence of faith”) is

Korean Literature Now.

matched by his disillusionment with the bankrupt ideology of the North (“fanaticism”).

He is captured during the war while fighting for the North but he knows that upon being repatriated he will not be thanked but rather perpetually suspected of having been infected by “imperialist germs.” In this brutally bifurcated

Steven D. Capener Associate Professor of Literature and Translation Studies Seoul Women’s University

VOL. 36

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SUMMER 2017

01

Date of Publication July 21, 2017

PUBLISHER

Kim Seong-Kon

EDITORIAL DIRECTOR

Ko Young-il

MANAGING DIRECTOR

Park Chanwoo

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Shin Sookyung

EDITORS

Agnel Joseph

Kim Stoker

DIGITAL MEDIA EDITOR Yoo Young-seon EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Jang Yuyeon

ADVISORY BOARD

Bang Min-Ho, Steven D. Capener

John M. Frankl, Kang Yu-jung

Kim Suyee, Krys Lee

EDITORIAL ADVISORS

Brother Anthony of Taizé

Chan E. Park, Kyeong-Hee Choi

Theodore Hughes, Jean-Noël Juttet

Anders Karlsson, Grace E. Koh

Nayoung Aimee Kwon, Peter H. Lee

Andreas Schirmer

Andrés Felipe Solano, Dafna Zur

COORDINATION BY

ch121

ART DIRECTING BY

Kim Jungwon

DESIGN BY

Kim Soojung

PHOTOGRAPHS BY Hansyart ILLUSTRATION BY

Amy Shin

PRINTED BY Alcoms

koreanlitnow@klti.or.kr +82-2-6919-7714 koreanliteraturenow.com All correspondence should be addressed to: Literature Translation Institute of Korea 32, Yeongdong-daero 112-gil (Samseong-dong), Gangnam-gu, Seoul, 06083, Republic of Korea

FEATURED WRITER

CHOI IN-HUN 04 About the Writer 07 Interview 12 Excerpt from The Square

01 FOREWORD 18 MUSINGS Why Tranlate When You Can Write?

by Howard Goldblatt

Cover Art by SOLCHAE Yellow Wall, 2017 90.9 X 65.1 cm Acrylic on canvas

SPECIAL SECTION

BOOKMARK

When Twentysomethings Begin Storytelling

Fiction

Korean Literature Since the Asian Financial Crisis

46 Prayer by Kim Ae-ran

Curated and introduced by Shin Soojeong

52 Mom’s House by Jon Kyongnin

20 Overview

57 Savage Alice by Hwang Jungeun 62 Somsan and Duyên by Yoo Jaehyun

Fiction 24 Too Bright Outside for Love by Kim Keum Hee 30 Fired by Chang Kang-myoung

Poetry 68 Selected Poems by Kim Su-Young

35 Curry on a Desk by Apple Kim 78 REVIEWS Poetry 38 Address by Park Soran 40 Evening Study Hall by Park Joon 41 Rent by Lim Solah

42 SPECIAL INTERVIEW OH SAE-YOUNG

88 TRANSLATORS

FEATURED WRITER

04

CHOI IN-HUN

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

ABOUT THE WRITER

Into the Dark Unknown Choi In-hun

Choi In-hun is one of Korea’s most renowned writers and dramatists.

His masterpiece The Square has been translated into eight languages, including English, French, Spanish, and German. He attended the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program in 1973, and the play he wrote during this time, Once upon a Long Time Ago, became the first Korean play to be staged at the Playhouse Theatre in New York City.

He has received the Dongin Literary Award, Baeksang Arts Award, Chungang Culture Grand Prize, and Lee San Literature Prize. English editions of his works include A Grey Man, Reflections on a Mask, ©Hansyart

The Daily Life of Ku-Poh the Novelist, and House of Idols.

VOL. 36

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FEATURED WRITER

CHOI IN-HUN

A novelist, poet, playwright, and theorist, Choi

literature such as The Story of Chunhyang. Moreover,

In-hun is one of the most acclaimed, versatile

Choi In-hun’s rich oeuvre includes exceptional

writers and intellectuals of twentieth century

plays, characterized by a balance of poetry and

Korea. Born in 1936, Choi grew up in Hoeryong

prose, including Once upon a Long Time Ago and

(present-day North Korea), migrated to the South

Hans and Gretel. He also wrote about literature and

at the beginning of the Korean War, and studied

philosophy, such as Literature and Ideology.

law at Seoul National University before entering

Many of Choi In-hun’s figures are disillusioned

the literary scene in 1959 with his short story “A

struggling intellectuals and artists with identities

Detailed Record of Grey Club.” The period from the

shaped by their ties to both Koreas, who are caught

mid-1950s to mid-1970s in Korea—shaped by the

in the maelstroms of the post-colonial, Korean War,

clash of Western modernity and Korean tradition,

and postwar eras, striving to cope as individuals in

the heavy burden of the colonial era, the disaster

dislocated environments. Such a figure, for instance,

of war, the division along borders and ideologies,

is A, the protagonist from Choi’s version of New

deformed democracy, revolution, and autocracy—

Tales of the Golden Turtle. After having defected to

is reflected in Choi In-hun’s complex, elusive literary

North Korea during the war, A is trained as a spy

works, and his eclectic approach to writing.

to be sent on a mission to postwar South Korea.

Today Choi may be best known for his novels,

Secretly regretting his prior decision to go north,

which comprise his highly regarded The Square,

he plans to surrender to ROK officials, but as he

an intense story of an intellectual so devastated by

crosses the border and silently crawls southward, he

the realities on both sides of the demarcation line

is shot by thieves, hiding in the night, who take his

that he plunges into death, or A Grey Man, a “novel

belongings and throw his body into the Imjin River.

of ideas” about a northern refugee wrestling with

Amid the dark waves, A’s soul emerges from the

love, time, and democratic revolution. The character

bullet hole in the corpse’s skull and, squatting atop

reappears in the sequel Journey to the West, where he

the lifeless, stripped body, floats downstream. “But

engages in surreal personified discourses with figures

tell me, what did I do wrong?” cries the agonized

from Korean history. However, especially in his early

soul, furiously pondering over a life of senseless

creative phase, Choi In-hun also produced manifold

despair and division as it is carried along by the

novellas and short stories, such as Reflections on a

waters of the river that separates the two Koreas

Mask, a novella interspersed with hypnotic interludes

out into a dark unknown. The literature of Choi In-

about the digestion of wartime experience and

hun—profound, surprising, puzzling, haunting,

an attempted reintegration into society, as well as

and deeply rooted in the formation of modern day

parodies of pre-modern Chinese and Korean fiction:

Korea—mirrors herein.

the unsettling novella The Cloud Dream of the Nine, a fevered dream-like transformation of the seventeenth century masterwork by Kim Man-jung; The Jehol Diary, a parody of Park Jiwon’s famous travelogue;

Dennis Wuerthner

New Tales of the Golden Turtle, a reconfiguration of

Research Associate in Korean Studies

the early Joseon dynasty collection of “strange tales”

Ruhr-University Bochum

by Kim Si-seup; or adaptations of pre-modern folk06

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

INTERVIEW

INTERVIEW

by Bang Min-Ho Literary Critic Professor of Korean Literature Seoul National University

Forever Wandering in Search of Home

Bang Min-Ho: Which of your works do you think most

own path to enlightenment. So I tried asking a question

represents you as a writer? Or, is there a particular work

according to the methods of the instructors of Zen as

you value most?

practiced in the three countries of East Asia. This is not the way of thinking of the intellectual giants of Greek culture,

Choi In-hun: Let me see . . . If I had to pick just one I would

who are said to be the ancestors of Western thought, nor the

have to say it was Hwadu, and if it can be more than one, then

kind of thinking which looks to an all-powerful being who

Hwadu and The Square are the two works I would like to be

governs the universe, as began in the Hebrew tradition. I was

read by as many people as possible.

looking for my own way of questioning and contemplation as a writer from the East. I was thinking about how to title

Bang: The novel Hwadu left a lasting impression on me.

the book on the grounds of this kind of contemplation and

Why did you use the word hwadu for the title?

I suggested hwadu to my editor, who thought it was a great idea.

Choi: In the late 1980s, I wrote a piece titled “Civilized Consciousness for Becoming a Primitive,” which was

Bang: The main protagonist in Hwadu seems to be your

published in a magazine. I was thinking then about everything

own alter ego, and the story follows him as he takes a

I had done up until that time. Following normal common

fundamental question and wanders the world with it,

sense it should have had a title like “Recollections of a

searching for the answer. There seems to be some similarity

Primitive Trying to Become a Civilized Man,” but I turned

here with the story of Ulysses’ wanderings. Considering

this on its head. With “Civilized Consciousness for Becoming

your own life as well, you were born in Hoeryong and

a Primitive,” I was thinking about what my roots are, as one

grew up in Wonsan, both of which are now part of North

example of a modern person. I was searching for myself, and

Korea, and then during the Korean War sought refuge in

it felt as though I had found my very own solution to self-

the South, in the port city of Busan. The story of how you

identity by going back through the ages, past the era of the

spent time living in the US writing plays in the 1970s, and

classics, and finding myself in the primitive. This became the

then following the collapse of the Soviet Union traveled to

starting point for the novel Hwadu. You could say that with

Russia, with the question of what kind of social system is

this questioning I sought to depart from the perspective of a

desirable, is also woven into Hwadu.

civilized man and go back to the world of origins.

Hwadu is a term from Zen Buddhism. I was attracted to

Choi: Yes. Wherever possible I try to stay aware of major

this method of questioning, whereby Zen monks contemplate

writers and works in world literary history and also things

how to bring about public peace and stability as part of their

like intellectual traditions. Included in my work are my VOL. 36 | SUMMER 2017

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FEATURED WRITER

CHOI IN-HUN

thoughts on James Joyce and Franz Kafka. Recently I’ve been

But I strive to create literature that comes from a

reevaluating the novels of André Gide. In particular one

standpoint diametrically opposed to such writers. I try to

novel titled La Porte Étroite (Strait Is the Gate). When I was

separate political nationalism and the independence of the

younger I merely thought of it as a well-written love story. But

individual as an anthropological entity. If someone asks me

now I want to give La Porte Étroite much higher acclaim. At

who the main writers in world literary thought are, the first

the end of wandering as an East Asian with a hwadu, when

authors I think of are Joyce and Kafka. It was these two writers

I read that novel again it took on a whole new significance.

who shook my very soul, and now too, as an inhabitant of this

If someone mentions French literature, it’s easy to imagine

world, I feel close to them, and as someone who works with

things like love stories, sex, and Freud, but looking at this

the art of prose I value their work as the best there is.

book you can see, it is not only about things like that. La Porte

To reiterate, I have more respect for people like Kim Tong-

Étroite is the story of Alissa, a faithful Christian brought up,

ni and Baek Seok than I once did, but even so, even now, I am

not in the aristocracy or the household of an intellectual,

far more interested in the works of Joyce and Kafka. I don’t

but in an ordinary French family. It is told in the form of her

think that me having been so influenced by them in my youth

diary, which she wrote while living out her days in a nunnery,

represents some misdemeanor or going astray in any way. To

having conceded the man she loved with all her heart to her

this day I want to examine their work anew, and looking to the

younger sister. It is well composed, and the main protagonist,

future also, I think they are closely connected to my trajectory.

Alissa’s philosophy for life felt—how can I put it—somehow

Within this current, I think finding myself means thinking

Korean or East Asian. I want to value this kind of longing

about my position in world literary thought.

much more highly than the eros or agape that Western philosophers spoke of.

Bang: I’m curious as to how you understand the historical flow of Korean modern history, in particular Korea’s

Bang: How do you consider your own literature?

experience of colonialism and the Korean War.

Choi: That is a very difficult question. Well . . . as a writer, as

Choi: I think that contemporary historical thinkers in Korea

an intellectual, having now lived through eighty years or so, I

and modern Western intellectuals, for now, have all failed to

think the thing that has had the greatest influence on me is the

form a properly convincing explanatory paradigm for Korean

spirit of nationalism. If you were to ask, “What kind of person

modern history. In order to solve the problems of the Korean

do you want to be?” or “What kind of works do you want to

nation, or else the problems of the world, I think that the

write?” the writers who appeared in the modern era of Korean

issues cannot only be considered from a Western perspective,

literature would mostly have said something like, “I want to

nor merely according to the default thinking patterns of

be of useful service to our people.” You could call it love for

Koreans, who consider themselves victims.

the motherland or the mother tongue. In my youth I couldn’t

To put it another way, there is no paradigm for a singular

understand why Korean writers, Korean poets such as Kim

explanation of history. Be it in the material world or historical

Tong-ni or Baek Seok were placed so highly and enjoyed such

world, civilization or nature, there is no such thing as a fixed

strong aesthetic influence. But when I read their works a little

self or entity. There is no fixed category of East or West. Nor

later on, I came to understand how they had so impressed the

is there a fixed structure that places Korea as a colony, Japan as

young new intellectuals of Korea who had received a modern

an empire. For so long such things have been understood to be

education, and why they garnered such a large following. In a

set in stone and in complete opposition, but this is not the case.

broad sense it was because of nationalism.

Organized in such a way, it may seem as though things have

08

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

INTERVIEW

It is nearer to the diasporic condition of constant wandering, unable to find utopia, but also unable to give up on it.

There is some similarity here with the way in which, in the Old Testament era, the Israelites held captive in Babylon as prisoners of war could not forget their homeland and sought to return, but could not.

Even as they failed to escape they could not give up hope. been neatly grasped, but this simplification cannot remedy anything. Anyway, I have always thought of the history of Korea, if it can be considered some kind of entity, was outside of the dominion of such concepts.

The reason, then, that I am so fond of Joyce and Kafka is because they never said anything to the tune of having conquered some resolved, established theory. Kafka did not speak like Aristotle, nor did he speak like a Hebrew prophet. Nor did he try to encompass the entire universe like the great sages of the East who said “everything is created by the mind.”

Bang: In that case, it seems as though the novel Hwadu is a story where a protagonist, like Sudhana from the Buddhist Sutras, roams the world asking what this world really is. Could we say then that the plot of Hwadu is the spiritual pursuit of such an adventurer?

One who does not think that the answer is preexisting, and does not think that it is enough to create an answer according to some formula.

Choi: That’s exactly it. In the end there is no way to come to any conclusion. People who climb up into the Himalayas say

©Hansyart

VOL. 36

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SUMMER 2017

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FEATURED WRITER

CHOI IN-HUN

©Minyoung Jeong

they climb simply because the mountains are there. I still

it is already not an “I.” In that case what is an “I”? Here the

never think that I will feel some great sense of conquest by

answer is the universe, the universe is “I.” In some ways this is

climbing.

the most . . . humble kind of science. Bone is made of things like phosphorus and iron, and on this chemical level “I” was

Bang: The protagonist of The Square, Lee Myong-jun,

never born and so “I” does not disappear either because “I”

experiences life in both the South and North and then

is one with the whole universe. In that case, if I ask what it

during the Korean War boards a ship to go to a third,

is that I’ve achieved, what I’ve arrived at, the answer is the

neutral country, but commits suicide during the sea

ocean.

voyage. And you said that at the end of travel, such as

Since going from Hoeryong to Wonsan and then

the voyage in Hwadu, one has to return to oneself. More

arriving in Busan as a refugee, I have now lived through

recently you published a collection including your short

eighty years, and I haven’t become anything at all. I tried to

story “Letter from the Ocean.”

become something, but in the end I have become nothing.

So if you ask whether it’s sad—yes, it is, it’s extremely sad.

10

Choi: If you read “Letter from the Ocean,” there is a

But that’s how things turned out, so there isn’t much use

skeleton lying in scattered fragments on the seabed. But

in feeling sad about it. I don’t think this is the kind of

that skeleton is already not an “I.” It once was, and perhaps

thing about which one can say, “I am satisfied” or “I am

you could say it is the tomb of that “I,” but, anyway, I think

unsatisfied.”

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

INTERVIEW

What I’m talking about now, I think of as hwadu

I was mindful of this aspect when writing, and when I didn’t

also. Hwadu is something which has not been solved, and

see the need, I didn’t pay it any regard. To take regional

something which has not evaded being solved. It simply

dialects as an example, my regional dialect will sound warm

is as it is, hwadu. The process of me writing a novel and it

and familiar to me, but to others it is no more than someone

conveying something to a reader is the same. You could

else’s accent. In such cases, I didn’t strive to explain things

say it’s like the story of the Flower Sermon. When Buddha

or receive understanding from others. However, on the

was giving a sermon on the sacred mountain, he lifted a

occasions when I thought that my stories could really reach

flower up to the audience and smiled, and from among the

international readers, I tried to use that potential to the full.

audience Mahākāśyapa lifted up a flower that was beside him and smiled too. The Buddha addressed him, “I have

Bang: Reading your works, there are many references to

given you what cannot be said,” and smiled, two, three times

folktales or fairytales such as the Korean story “Kongji

more.

and Patzzi” and the Western story “The Frog Prince.”

I think this is an important part of your literature,

Bang: I think it must have been your fate to be a traveler.

something underlying all of your work. Is there a

When you spoke just now about “Letter from the

particular reason why you bring these stories, folktales,

Ocean,” I could really feel the way that, as a writer, you

and fables from East and West, into your literary work?

consider the whole world a place to travel through, and at the same time, as your home. When you write, do you

Choi: I can explain that simply and precisely. When I was

write with readers from all over the world in mind?

in America, I came across a book of folktales and legends from the northern regions of Korea. It took hold of me

Choi: The word travel can feel like a kind of movement

completely. It was as though I’d taken a blow to the head.

which has a sense of purpose or destination, but in fact,

That’s why I worked stories from Korean legend like that of

for me, it is nearer to the diasporic condition of constant

the “baby general” into the book Once upon a Long Time

wandering, unable to find utopia, but also unable to give up

Ago. It felt as though I’d struck gold in the ground I’d been

on it. There is some similarity here with the way in which, in

standing on all along.

the Old Testament era, the Israelites held captive in Babylon

Things like mytholog y, legends, and folktales are

as prisoners of war could not forget their homeland and

a goldmine for people who work with the mind, like

sought to return, but could not. Even as they failed to escape

writers. Consider all the artistic works inspired by Greek

they could not give up hope.

mythology. And it’s not only that, art itself was born in

To the question of whether I write with global readers

every human society out of the sum of myth and legend.

in mind, I could answer both ways. When I needed to be,

Ancient arts and religious consciousness are intertwined.

That’s why the further back you go the more arts and religion are in communion. If you go back to the myths,

Things like mythology, legends, and

legends of origins, and folktales, that’s where you’ll find

folktales are a goldmine for people

people’s most universal thinking, and these things all

who work with the mind, like writers.

Consider all the artistic works inspired

speak to each other. I was able to discover what East and West looked like together as one. Such things are precisely what I want to find through my literature.

by Greek mythology.

VOL. 36

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FEATURED WRITER

CHOI IN-HUN

The Square

by Choi In-hun

“Mankind cannot live in a closed room. Mankind belongs to the Square. Politics is the most unredeemed place in the Square of mankind. In Western countries, Christian churches assume a role like holy water purifying politics, absolving it of its sins. No matter how much political filth and scum pours out, Christianity swallows it up and carries it off. Metaphorically speaking, the political arena of Western countries has an excellent sewage system. In human society, man cannot live without processing daily excrement. That is why we build purifying tanks. The same thing goes for politics. However, there are neither purifying tanks nor sewage systems to lap the garbage up. Especially in Korea’s political Square, excrement and garbage have just piled up. Things that should be everyone’s are selfishly taken for personal Dalkey Archive Press, 2014, 158 pp.

benefit. Roadside flowers are picked from the ground and put in flowerpots at home, public faucets are extracted only to be put in the bathroom of a private home, or a pavement is dug up to be used as a kitchen floor. When Korean politicians come into the political Square, they bring a sack, a hatchet, a shovel, and a mask to hide their faces. Without a doubt, their intent is sinister. If a good person tries to dissuade them from doing this, wicked gangs who were watching from afar will emerge from their sunken alleys and finish him off with one stab. In return, they receive their share from the thief. With these wages, they buy the company of women until their money runs out. Once that happens, they’ll again come to the Square, wielding daggers. They do this because it is their job, and work always awaits them there. This is how the dark sun rises and sets in the deprived and bloodstained desolate Square.

It’s the Square of foul nights—the Square of greed, betrayal, and murder. Is this not the predicament of the Korean political Square?

“A virtuous citizen will lock his door and close his windows. With no other way to escape starvation, he then must open his door and go to the market. He goes to buy a handful of rice and bunch of dried radish leaves. This market is the Square of economics. But this place is overflowing with stolen goods. There is a bag of potatoes, which was taken from a farmer who had his thin wrist cut off with a hatchet when he refused to give the bag up. There is a head of cabbage stained with blood on the bottom. There hangs a dress, torn and stained with semen, which was stripped from the body of a raped woman. No one believes in the myth that if you work hard and save pennies, you will be rich some day. Even capitalists’ cunning ethics, which

12

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

EXCERPT

When Korean politicians come into

that he is superior to writers. The only feeling people have

the political Square, they bring a sack,

toward these kinds of Squares is distrust.

a hatchet, a shovel, and a mask to hide their faces. Without a doubt, their intent is sinister.

“Therefore, the most valued thing to them is their own private chamber. They want to at least have this personal space, their last shelter, in which they can take refuge. While people take sanctuary here, there is still the matter of the public Square. There is a riddle that is told: There was the daughter of a corrupt politician who appropriated national

claim to control greed on the basis of conscience, do not

funds. However, she has always said how kind he has been

exist there. The sellers intimidate the buyers. In the Korean

to her. Is the man a good father or a bad representative of the

economic Square, one can see fireworks of threats and

people? There is only the selfish individual, no public figure.

intimidation amidst the thick fog of fraud. On the horizon,

Only private chambers abound and the Square has died.

one can also spy the advertising balloon of vanity floating in

Each room is set up according to its owner’s social status

the sky.

because, like ants, the owners carry materials in their mouth

“And the cultural Square? There, the deadly poisonous

to furnish them.

flowers are in full blossom and people are intoxicated by

“The good father who sent you to France to study!

their opium-like effect. Men secretly and brashly indulge in

The evil school superintendent who fired a hard-working

their sexual fantasies with their female dancing partners at

teacher! The answer to the riddle is a paradox. It is that

the cabarets. There are two ways of learning the technique

the good father and the bad public figure are the same

of seducing through dance: private lessons and popular

person. No one remains in the Square. When the necessary

training courses. Those who growl at one another in the

plundering and fraud end, the Square is empty. The Square

political Square offer each other drinks, like accomplices

is dead. Is this not South Korea?”

in bars and cabarets located in seedy alleys. Dishonestly

Chung was listening quietly. He did not agree or retort

obtained money is scattered indiscreetly, and bundles of

the entire time Myong-jun had worked himself to a steady

paper money are thrown in the face of a servile artist playing

fervor. He understood.

his violin in the doorway. Female dancers grab the money

He took a cigarette from his silver case, placed it in his

thrown at them each time they lift their skirts and carefully

mouth, and then offered one to Myong-jun. As he leaned

put the money away in their handbags. The weight of the

forward to light his cigarette, Myong-jun couldn’t help but

handbag is the barometer of the dancer’s popularity. They

notice Chung’s hand holding the lighter. It was trembling

have forgotten their shame long ago because they know they

slightly.

have no other choice.

“Poets abuse their words to the extreme, almost

✽

sadistically, to feel catharsis. They do that because they are

Geoje Island, which was located in the south of the

so poor that they cannot buy women, the real object of this

peninsula, was also like a coffin. It was the coffin where

catharsis. The critics ask writers, ‘Do you really claim to have

dead soldiers labeled as prisoners of war lay down and fell

gone through the same experience as Kafka? You’re telling

asleep every night, like sardines in a can. In the prison camp

lies, so you are a fake.’ With this, they harass and condemn

on Geoje Island, Myong-jun was simply one of the helpless

the Korean Kafka until he is completely ruined. A critic is

fish tied up in a pack. Inside his body, lay coffins within

merely a nickname for a madman obsessed with the delusion

coffins. Nestled in the infinite depths was the mummy’s VOL. 36

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FEATURED WRITER

CHOI IN-HUN

coffin he saw at Chung’s house. Beyond the emptiness of

of his memories. In the POW camp located by the southern

the mummy’s coffin was yet another coffin—the one in the

sea, he suddenly felt dizzy. He dreamed a dream from which

deepest place in his mind. Suddenly, he realized the empty

he could not wake.

casing was his. Was this bleak coffin the final destination of my life? He wondered.

This was not a nightmare. This was not a dream, either.

14

On the captain’s desk was a rolled-up chart and the compass.

The captain himself was not there.

Rather, this was a dream from which one could not awake.

As the ship drew closer to Macau each day, the released

But was there any difference between a man who was

POWs once again urged Myong-jun to persuade the captain

dreaming and a man who was recollecting his dream? Wasn’t

to let them go ashore. This time, he completely ignored

it true that when you recollected your dream, you were

them. He was not shaken at all, even by the discontent and

already floating into the dream itself ? In a coffin tied up

hostility appearing on their faces. He was so fed up from the

with barbed wire that floated in the southern sea, Myong-

accumulated stress that he did not want to talk to anyone.

jun tried to piece his life together through a desperate search

It was at that moment that he remembered the day when

for his friends in empty houses in desolate Seoul. In his

the release of the POWs abruptly began. When he heard he

memory, he met his friends and conversed with them. Was

could choose a third country, he thought it surely was the

the dialogue real or was it the invention of his imagination?

right path for him. He didn’t realize at the time how the

He was not so sure. Clinging to his dreams and his

road would be littered with so many potholes and rocks.

memories of dreams, Myong-jun gazed at the southern sea as

When he heard of the armistice, he felt like falling into

it bobbed his coffin in the steady current. Every day, he saw a

a deep quagmire. He did not want to go back to the North.

cargo ship gliding on the sea, which resembled blue oil, and

He did not know of his father’s whereabouts during the

embarked at the pier where supply warehouses were located.

war. Even when he discovered that his father was alive and

Lying flat on his back at the POW camp, Myong-jun was

well in the North, it was not enough reason for him to go.

thinking again. He was trying to reach out for his memories

His father would have had his own way to survive, and the

of his dreams in his mind’s eye. He remembered flinging one

reality was too gloomy and bleak to think of filial piety. It

door open after another, from one empty house to the next.

was of no consequence, for the term “family” did not mean

The sense of abandonment was rife in communist-occupied

much in North Korea. For Myong-jun, there was nobody in

Seoul, he recalled. Even as dreams and reality blurred

North Korea. Even Eun-hye was no longer there. When one

together in his mind, at least his feelings remained steadfastly

belonged to a society, one had a relationship with someone

the same. Yet when he tried to assume responsibility for

in that society. If there was no one to relate to, that person

what happened in his dreams, it was like trying to catch sand

did not belong in the society anymore. Even worse, Myong-

in his fingers. It was like the moment when he encountered

jun had lost faith in North Korean society and thus was

Eun-hye at the Nakdong River War Front Headquarters.

afraid of standing in that political Square. The communists

It was like the moment of waking up from his dream—the

he met in the North were not the idealists he had imagined

moment of confusion, disillusionment, and nihilism. He

them to be before leaving South Korea. He once thought

knew what happened at the S police station with Tae-sik

that communists were miraculous beings and the last

and Yun-ae was nothing but his dream. Remembering how

guardians of idealism at a time when nothing was left to

vivid the experience was, he was not proud of what he had

believe. In his standard-issue notebook, he scribbled down

done. Knowing that he cheated responsibility because it was

the juxtaposition of Stalinism and Christianity, particularly

a dream, he felt relieved and a little guilty. He was a prisoner

Catholicism.

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

EXCERPT

Christian Church:

the early glory days of communism in modern communism.

The Garden of Eden

To the European mind, the Hegelian philosophy was a

Transgression

sweet morphine and poison without an antidote. Likewise,

Humans in Original Sin

to Myong-jun, his experience in the Stalinist society left him

History of Humans in the Old Testament

with an indelible scar. He witnessed the hollow mockery

Jesus Christ

of communism. He clearly saw how they worshiped a

The Cross

specter while practicing the rituals of shamanic exorcism. It

Confession

was a land of shackles and chains, not of brotherhood and

The Pope

community spirit. It was a land of hate and revenge, not of

The Vatican

love and forgiveness. It was nothing but a country of the czar

The Millennium

that chose Marxism instead of the Bible.

Unfortunately, there had been no Martin Luther in

Stalinism:

Stalinism. There had been no man rallying the people to

Primitive Commune

reform by defiantly driving the nail into the wooden door

Private Property System

of dogma. Those who stood against the Kremlin were all

Humans in Class Society

executed, just like those who opposed the Vatican had been

History of Slavery, Feudal, and Capitalist Society

burned at the stake by the Inquisition. Their static regimes

Karl Marx

were still strong. In the Christian church, the second coming

Sickle and Hammer

of Jesus Christ had been postponed for 2,000 years. In

Self-Denunciation

communist countries, the advent of socialist paradise has

Stalin

been postponed for more than 100 years. This was the

The Kremlin

end of the cliff he could discern. He could not jump over

Communist Paradise

the cliff, nor could he do something about it to solve the problems. In North Korea, it was impossible to discuss this

From the memo, Myong-jun found striking similarities

matter with anyone. He knew this even before the war. Thus,

between the two. It was undeniable to him that they were

he was ready to endure it. He could not give up his life,

twins, in essence.

simply because he could not find the magic spell to unravel

As a student of philosophy, he could trace it back to Hegel, the mentor of Karl Marx. From the Bible, for

the mystery of history. He was going to grit his teeth and find a path, one step at a time.

example, Hegel undressed the historical clothes, erased the

Then the war broke out and he was taken prisoner.

Jewish ethnic color, and extracted a universal formula from

Thinking about the future of ex-POWs in North Korea,

it. That is to say, Hegel’s philosophy was like the translation

Myong-jun lamented his ill fate. In a communist society,

of the Bible into Esperanto. A universal formula, when it

he knew it would be impossible for someone who was

is superior, is easy to imitate. Marx re-dressed the naked

released from a South Korean POW camp to live the rest of

body Hegel formulated with the clothes of economics and

his life peacefully as an ordinary citizen. As someone who

idealism.

came back with imperialist germs, he would be frequently

As it was difficult to find the pure passion and flawless faith of the early days of Christianity in the modern church, it was equally difficult to find the same passion and faith of

summoned for self-denunciation, whenever necessary. If he would be treated as a leper in the village, what could he do?

This was why he could not go back to the North. Yet, VOL. 36

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FEATURED WRITER

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on the other hand, could he bring himself to choose South

He still remembered that joyous moment at Panmunjom,

Korea? In the eyes of Myong-jun, South Korea was nothing

when he proudly declared, “A neutral country!” in front of

but a Square for the people who did not exist, borrowing

the persuaders.

from Kierkegaard. The fanatical belief in the North was

The persuaders were sitting on the slightly higher

terrifying. But the total absence of faith in the South was

platform. The prisoners entered from the left side and exited

equally hollow. Compared to North Korea, one merit of

to the right. Myong-jun entered the room and stood in front

the Square of the South was that it allowed one the freedom

of four North Korean army officers and a Chinese official in

to be corrupt and the freedom to be lazy. Indeed, it was

the people’s uniform. One of the officers gestured to Myong-

the village of freedom. Communism, of late, declined in

jun, offering a reassuring smile.

popularity because it could not define and point to the

“Sit down, Comrade Lee.”

enemy clearly. Unlike the age of Marx, nowadays it was quite

Myong-jun stiffened and did not move. The officer

uncertain who the enemy of the people was. Wandering in the labyrinth of the complex social structure, searching

“Which country would you choose, sir?”

for those who were responsible for social evil and poverty,

“A neutral country.”

one could not help but give up and go to a fortune-teller

The officers’ eyes met in the air. The officer advanced his

instead. In a modern complex society, corrupt people and

torso toward Myong-jun and said in a low voice, “Comrade

corporations were so inconspicuous that even experts could

Lee, neutral countries are the same as capitalist countries.

not identify them. Yet in North Korea, ordinary people

Why would you choose a place of hunger and crimes?”

blamed and criticized each other daily. In North Korea,

“I want a neutral country.”

there was no freedom at all. Even the freedom to be idle was

“Think again. This is an extremely crucial decision you

not allowed.

Meanwhile in South Korea, politicians were geniuses at

cannot remake. Why would you give up that important right?”

making money by giving out numerous permits to breweries,

“A neutral country,” he repeated staunchly.

so people could be drunk and intoxicated by alcohol. They

Another officer tried to persuade him.

turned a deaf ear to the demand from feminist institutions

“Comrade Lee. The People’s Republic has just passed the

to pass the bill to prohibit prostitution. Their political

bill for veterans’ pension and welfare. You will be given a job

philosophy was quite sly. They knew what people would

above others and be respected as a war hero. The people are

do if they were not allowed to release their stress through

waiting for your return. Your hometown will welcome your

lecherous ways. Paradoxically, they wanted their children

return as well.”

to go to church and study abroad, to become the upright citizens that they were groomed to be. He did not want to go to such a country, either.

Yet he had to make a choice. He heard that Comrade

16

sighed and began the assessment.

“A neutral country!” He felt like he could burst into hysterics, delirious from freedom.

The officers gathered and whispered in lukewarm tones.

They tried again.

Park Hon-young was arrested. This bad news struck him

“Look, we fully understand you. We know you’ve been

in the chest. Myong-jun felt like an animal that had been

brainwashed by the imperialists in the POW camp. No need

hopelessly cornered. It was precisely at that moment when

to feel guilt, we’re all comrades here. We would not blame

another option appeared, almost magically, in front of him.

you for minor mistakes. Instead, we value your loyalty to

A neutral country. It appeared before his eyes like a life-

your country and people. There will be no retribution at all.”

saving rope descending from the sky, ready to be pulled.

“A neutral country!” Myong-jun nearly shouted this in

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

EXCERPT

It was precisely at that moment

Korea and in the POW camp, so you must have realized

when another option appeared,

this, doubly. Human beings were not meant to——”

almost magically, in front of him.

“A neutral country.”

“We are not forcing you,” the officer would calmly

A neutral country. It appeared

continue. “We just want to give you a piece of advice. I don’t

before his eyes like a life-saving

think you realize the consequences of going to a strange new

rope descending from the sky, ready to be pulled.

place. On behalf of the 20 million people in South Korea, we urge you to come back home.”

“A neutral country.”

“You’re an intellectual with a higher education. Your

his final act of defiance.

The Chinese delegate twisted his face and shouted something that Myong-jun couldn’t understand. The persuading officer stared at Myong-jun in hatred and utter disgust.

country needs you now. Would you forsake your country in times of crisis and leave for another land?”

“A neutral country,” Myong-jun would repeat as a dull echo, his head bent down.

“We understand that intellectuals have more complaints

“Very well.”

than common folk. But you cannot abandon your body

By this time, he was not looking at Myong-jun anymore.

just because there is a tumor. Losing an intellectual like

His eyes had already landed upon the other prisoner coming

you is worse than losing ten ordinary citizens. There’s so

in, eager to forget the unpleasantness of what just happened.

much to be done with our society. And you’re still young!

Myong-jun walked away feeling slightly lightheaded. He

As someone who is older than you, I advise you to return

realized the more he said those words to himself, the more

to your homeland and be a cornerstone for your country. I

free and elated he felt. It was a dizzying high. As he passed

am sure you will be much happier here than going through

a nearby tent for the South Koreans, Myong-jun imagined

hardship in a foreign country. Look, I’ll be frank with you.

the shoe on the other foot. He imagined himself standing in

I liked you at first sight. I feel like you’re my brother. If you

front of a different group of men, in a similar situation . . .

come to the South, I will personally assist you, how about

“Where are you from, sir?”

Myong-jun would stand in silence.

that?”

At this moment, Myong-jun would lift his chin and look

“Well . . . it says here that you’re from Seoul,” the South

at the ceiling of the tent in silent thought. Finally, he would

Korean officer might say . . . Then, perhaps sensing Myong-

speak in a low voice as if he were delivering a dramatic

jun’s hesitation, he would look up and start his persuasive

monologue.

speech.

“A neutral country.”

“If you want to seek refuge in a neutral country, I

The persuader would then finally give up and glance at

wouldn’t advise it. It’s too much of a baseless idea. There is

the American GI sitting next to him. The GI would shrug

no place like home, you know. All the people who have been

and wink at him, smiling a half-smile.

abroad say that the best place on earth is your home country.

pp. 42-44, 136-144

I understand your anger and frustration. Nobody can deny that we are going through difficult times now. But we have freedom in South Korea. Freedom is the most important

Translated by Kim Seong-Kon Reprinted with permission from Dalkey Archive Press

thing we have now in the South. You’ve been in North VOL. 36

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MUSINGS

Why Translate When You Can Write?

W

hen I first examined the issue of translating fiction,

translators, despite the fact that Auster is often cited for his

the literary genre that most interests me, as opposed

translations of French writers, or that Nabokov’s view of a

to creating fiction, I conceptualized it as: “Why literary

translator’s obligation to the original is well known and quite

translators don’t write their own novels.” In other words, I

controversial (I, for one, reject it).

thought of it not as an interrogation, but as an exposition, for

At this point, we need to ask the question: Who writes,

I could think of a number of reasons why translators don’t

and who translates? Let’s start with the latter. Mostly, I

write novels, and I’ll list those shortly. But first I needed

think, it is people who love “language” more than they love

to ensure that my assumption was correct, that translators,

“literature” (strictly a matter of degree!). Academics in the

almost by definition, do not write novels. Proving that, of

many national literatures, who seem to fit that definition,

course, leads us to the black swan theory. So I’ll hedge my bet

are among the most prevalent translators of literary texts,

by stating that I do not know any translators of fiction—and

sometimes in support of scholarly work, sometimes to make

I know quite a few of them—who write their own novels and

foreign literatures available to students who do not know the

stories. Does that mean that the two categories of artists are

foreign language well, and sometimes to add to the corpus of

always and can only be mutually exclusive, that one is either

world literature in translation. Then why don’t they also write,

a writer or a translator, never both? Of course not. There are,

since they must, in addition to being proficient in at least two

in fact, any number of writers who also translate. The names

languages, love literature and take great joy in reading and

Umberto Eco, Haruki Murakami, Paul Auster, and Vladimir

working on it? There are a number of possible reasons.

Nabokov spring to mind. But, let’s face it, no matter how

I suspect that most translators, academic or not, love what

involved they are/were, they are known to all as writers, not

they do. The satisfaction garnered in working closely with a

18

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

foreign text and, through the judicious and often inspired

Translating a good novel lets you zip along with the author

search for the mot juste, rendering it into a new work as fine as

with little fear of falling off as long as you keep your hands

the original, is palpable. Most translators would not find this

on the handlebars. Take off those authorial wheels, and you

fulfillment less valuable than writing creative works of their

are out there on your own, everything from idea to choice to

own. In fact, they take pride in precisely what it is they do.

execution. Knowing how something works can surely make

Why, they might ask, write a bad novel when I can translate

you more competent in putting it to use. When for instance,

a good one? To them it is a high calling. Many writers, I’m

you see flaws in someone else’s work, you try to avoid them in

afraid, would not subscribe to this claim, wanting their work

your own. But it can also make you wary of even trying it, for

to reach the widest possible audience, yet seldom approving

fear of messing it up.

of translated versions of their work. But there are exceptions:

One key difference between writing and translating has

Goethe is on record as defining literary translation “one of

to do with schedule. A translator’s task is circumscribed by

the most important and dignified enterprises in the general

the text he/she is working on. One can begin each workday

commerce of the world.” Pushkin has called the translator “a

by laying out the text to be translated and start working at a

courier of the human spirit,” and Borges has written: “Perhaps

pace dictated by the difficulty of and familiarity with the text.

. . . the translator’s work is more subtle, more civilized than

One can stop and start at will, based often upon what other

that of the writer: the translator clearly comes after the writer.

activities place a demand on one’s time. Even a publisher’s

Translation is a more advanced stage of civilization.” (Thanks

deadline presents no problem. Writers, on the other hand,

to Robert Wechsler for these.)

seldom enjoy that consistency of pace, for they must follow the

Then who writes? For the most part, putting aside the

logic of the plot as it is formed in their heads and on the page,

issues of livelihood and ego, I think it is people who have a

and each writer is different. Wang Wen-hsing, a Taiwanese

desire for self-expression, who have stories to tell, and who

novelist, has stated that when he wrote sixty characters a day

want to be beholden only to themselves. Theirs is a search

on one of his novels in progress, it was a productive day. John

for ways to describe the human condition, using a variety of

Updike, it is said, had a precise daily schedule based on the

narrative techniques and images.

clock, working (writing) so many hours a day, no more and no

One might say that the translator deals with sheets of

less. Then there is Oscar Wilde, who is said to have responded

paper (or, these days, a computer screen) with writing on

to a question about revising his work before publication: “I

them, where the novelist stares at blank pages; or we could say

was working on the proof of one of my poems all morning,

that translators have texts, and writers have ideas. A translator

and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back.”

selects a text to work on, a sample of writing that permits

In the end, naturally, personal preference, circumstances,

internal creative impulses, but has clearly defined boundaries.

skill sets, and the like dictate the choice of endeavor. I once

Those particular boundaries (length, style, images) do not

asked an accomplished fellow translator why she didn’t try

exist for writers. Both are creative artists, and their work

writing her own stories.

overlaps. But they are different.

Since uninformed outsiders often ask if translators harbor

“Because I’ve got better things to do,” she said. And so she had.

a desire to write their own novels, I’m going to hazard a guess that many do, but not most (thankfully, I suppose).

Howard Goldblatt

Then why don’t they/we? In other words, are translators also

Translator of Chinese fiction,

frustrated writers? For those (theoretical) translators who

including Nobel laureate Mo Yan

also write, translation may be like training wheels on a bicycle.

VOL. 36

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SPECIAL SECTION

Art by SOLCHAE The pictures on the cover and in the Special Section are representations of the conflicts facing Korean youth.

Illustrator SOLCHAE has expressed their imperfect selves and their expectations and fear toward society through compositions that make real objects, such as doors, walls, and ladders, feel unreal.

20

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

OVERVIEW

When Twentysomethings Begin Storytelling Korean Literature Since the Asian Financial Crisis

W

alter Benjamin begins his famous essay “The

Korea was not exempt from the kind of transformative

Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai

forces that assaulted Germany. Our changes began with

Leskov” with the fact that soldiers returning from the

the Korean War in the 1950s, with the government-led

First World War were reluctant to talk about their

economic development policies adding fuel to the fire

experiences. According to him, they were a generation

in the 1960s and 1970s. The voices of the 1980s that

that went to school in horse-drawn streetcars, and now

demanded democratization and the equal distribution of

faced a country where everything had utterly changed,

wealth managed to slow these forces of change for a while,

1

save the passing of clouds in the sky. The eternal and

but the tides of modernization could not be kept at bay.

unchanging European pastoral landscape was no more;

The Asian Financial Crisis that sparked in 1997 proved

the violent waves of modernity transformed all that they

to be the culmination of such forces, but also provided us

touched, too quickly and too easily. The ability to listen

with the opportunity to think about where we were going

to someone else’s story and empathize with it also became

as a nation.

a casualty of the times.

1. Walter Benjamin, Iluminations (New York: Vintage Digital, 2011), Kindle edition.

VOL. 36

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21

SPECIAL SECTION

Kim Keum Hee’s short story, “Too Bright Outside for Love,” can be taken as an early damage report on the “IMF generation.”2 Pilyong, who is demoted from his sales

The gosiwon setting is the residential zone of an economic

manager position at a conglomerate to the maintenance

strata that is stripped of even the

section and then asked to hand in his resignation, avoids

aspirational vanities of the likes

his coworkers by going to lunch alone. One day, nearby

of Pilyong in “Too Bright Outside

a McDonald’s in the Jongno district, he stumbles upon an advertisement for a play starring Yanghee, a girl he (thought he) loved sixteen years ago. While Pilyong had

for Love” or the middle manager in “Fired.”

been preparing to study in the US by attending English conversation classes at a cram school in Jongno before

This hostile relationship between generations augurs

getting hired by a conglomerate and becoming a “middle-

the breakdown of society itself. Apple Kim’s “Curry on a

aged geezer” salesman who goes about handing out his

Desk” portrays such a reality. The unnamed first-person

name card at his son’s school and doing slimy sales deals,

narrator lives in a poorly insulated gosiwon (a tiny studio

Yanghee apparently stuck to being a penniless stage actor.

apartment barely large enough for a table and a bed, with

Upon learning this, he goes to see her play every time he

no private bathroom or kitchen). This “I” does not bother

feels his aching wounds, and at one point realizes that “there

with the effort to impress others or the effort to improve

were things that did not become completely absent but were

one’s life, instead does piecemeal work at construction

instead simply submerged in a state of indeterminate lack.”

sites whenever he runs out of money. The gosiwon setting is

In the end, he is able to look about him with the “far-off

the residential zone of an economic strata that is stripped

expression of someone who has just emerged after crying for

of even the aspirational vanities of the likes of Pilyong in

a long time.”

“Too Bright Outside for Love” or the middle manager in

Can the hard-earned epiphanies of that generation

“Fired.” The people who dwell here have no pretentions

who were college students in the late nineties still ring true

of joining the middle class. The only thing that is allotted

for young people in 2017? Chang Kang-myoung’s “Fired”

to them is instant curry and a narrow room. These rooms

casts doubt on such assumptions. Chang—known for his

fester neighborly hate instead of love. The gosiwon neighbors

novel Because I Hate Korea, featuring a character in her late

abhor each other, gang up on each other, and sometimes

twenties dreaming of escaping her “second-class citizenship”

lynch one another, in the end driving one of their victims

in Korea—clearly illustrates through the fierce conflict

into a hate-filled life of crime that surprises even themselves.

between a thirtysomething manager and a twentysomething

This “I” in the end is no more than a monster created by our

part-timer that such epiphanies are rarer than ever. The

own society.

middle-aged are more prone to expose their paranoia instead

Poet Park Soran’s home is at the “end of the line” on a

of doling out cheap sympathy toward the “girls,” which is

bus. The “peak” that the bus can reach only when pulling in

how the twentysomething part-timer is referred to in the

“with all their might” can be read as a symbol of where the

story. And twentysomethings are pushed into a situation

twentysomethings of today are pushed out to. The young

where they have to fight a lonely fight just to support

people trapped in that isolating place ask themselves, “Is this

themselves.

why everyone / Makes haste to disembark from me.” Lim

2. Koreans refer to the youth who grew up during the Asian Financial Crisis of the late 1990s as the IMF generation.

22

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

OVERVIEW

Solah calls her own life “Rent” as she is unable to settle down

of “cackling” boys and empty jokes that proliferate as if “spat

with a job, instead being forced to make a living stringing

from my yawning craw.”

together part-time work. She cannot participate in the real

Are the stories of these twentysomethings in 2017

business of life, and is relegated to watching “the people go

really that unfamiliar or chilling? Perhaps they are filled

by,” standing in the store all day as the rest of the world “passes

with experiences we cannot possibly emphasize with, like

by.” Her eyes happen to meet those of a man who then enters

the stories of the German soldiers who came back from the

the store, but nothing happens. He buys a loaf of bread and all

Great War. But these stories, totally devoid of any surface

that remains is the umbrella he forgot, which at the end of the

hope or passion or effort, can be read like the rantings

poem is standing with the speaker. This lonely scene is clearly

of neurotic patients, as efforts to cover up wounds and

foreshadowed by the poem’s first line.

desperation and defeat. These rantings at least show us how

“Evening Study Hall” by poet Park Joon also illustrates

far we have come as a society. If so, shouldn’t we pause to

such loneliness. Evening study hall is a practice unique to

look back on the crazy path that we’ve taken with such

Korean high schools, where unlike its literal translation

blinding speed? Perhaps what we need to do as a society is

“free study,” there is nothing free about being incarcerated

to listen to these stories and try to take in these narratives as

in a classroom until 10 p.m. or midnight. At least the kids

our own. Our young writers today are trying hard to start

in evening study halls have that very middle-class goal of

this conversation.

getting into college; those without such privilege must change out of their uniforms and become delivery boys.

Girls run away to Seoul and are never heard from again, graduations are deferred indefinitely, and the alleys are full

Shin Soojeong Literary Critic Professor of Creative Writing Myongji University

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Too Bright Outside for Love

by Kim Keum Hee

Yanghee didn’t show up at the language academy.

only turned up at nine at night, well past the time

For a day or two Pilyong thought she must be ill, she

they had agreed on. The rain that had been falling all

must be busy, and then he turned pale. She’s gone.

day had thankfully stopped, but the whole city was

She’s disappeared. Pilyong was in a bad way. He came

dripping wet. That wet city landscape had a lot in

down with a summer cold, the kind of cold they say

common with Pilyong’s state of mind.

even dogs don’t catch, and couldn’t leave the house.

To go or not to go, Pilyong thought it over once

He spent feverish days listening to songs like Queen’s

more, seriously. What he’d heard from one of the

“Too Much Love Will Kill You.” His mother went

other juniors in his university department was that

out to open up her snack stall but didn’t get far before

Yanghee had gone to her parents’ house in Munsan.

coming back to ask, “Can’t I at least get you some

They said Yanghee’s family farmed ducks, or maybe

medicine?” But Pilyong said he didn’t want any. He

it was geese, and she’d gone up there because they’d

wouldn’t take anything. That night his temperature

suffered damage from the flood caused by the summer

rocketed to 38 degrees. Though he was shuddering

rains. Whatever the details, it seemed that Pilyong

with the chill, Pilyong vowed he wouldn’t go to the

had been pushed aside by poultry. But still, he had

doctor. His mother came back from her snack stall

to go. He couldn’t not go. In that case, what would it

and, with the smell of tart pickled radish and wheat

mean to go all the way to Munsan to meet Yanghee?

flour still lingering on her hands, she felt Pilyong’s

It meant a beginning. The start of dating, the start

forehead and worried for him, “What can I do to

of love, compassion, restraint, promises, obligation,

help? You really should go to the doctor.”

sex. It wasn’t that something which had once been

“Mum,” Pilyong managed to call out, feeling

there was disappearing, but that something which

his consciousness coming and going like someone

wasn’t would appear. Thinking for the first time in his

pumping bellows.

life about recklessness, Pilyong started the ignition.

“Yes, my boy, what is it?”

While he was driving, of course, Queen played on the

“How did you get better Mum? When you were

stereo. Love of my life, you’ve hurt me, you’ve broken

suffering even more than this, how were you saved?”

24

my heart and now you leave me, as he listened intently

“You mean me?” Plumping up Pilyong’s pillow,

to the lyrics, he put his foot down on the accelerator.

his mother said proudly, “God saved me, of course.

You’ve taken my love, bring it back, don’t take it away

And I lived to have a son as fine as you.”

from me, as he sang along to the song, Pilyong

A few days later, when his fever had subsided,

thought. Thought he would try his luck. When I

Pilyong borrowed an old Daewoo Lemans from a

get to Munsan I’ll tell her. Yanghee-ya, I love your

friend. The friend said he would be right over but

husky voice, I love your skinny body, I love your light

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

pockets and lack of appetite, I love your lethargy, I love

family, while getting a good look at the young man who had

your futility, I love your no tomorrow.

shown up late at night, looking for their neighbor’s daughter.

“Yanghee was good at school, so good that a scholarship

The rain had stopped up in Munsan too. Frogs croaked in a

came down from the provincial authorities. As for Yanghee’s

pealing chorus, and the smells of greenery, water, and mud

father, although he may be living like this, he’s a real

tangled to create a kind of primeval feeling. Pilyong thought

gentleman. One of the noble poor. When he does have

that everything in Munsan bore a likeness to Yanghee.

money he pays it all to campaigns for helping the needy and

Perhaps the smell that came from Yanghee’s camouflage

gives donations to collections for repairing flood damage.

jacket wasn’t actually the musty smell of basement student

He was even generous with Yanghee’s scholarship money,

digs or dark theatres, but Yanghee’s own natural body odor,

giving some to help those more in need, such a gentleman.

imbibed from Munsan. With that, it struck him that perhaps

Although he might not be in great shape now, he’s been a real

he’d been misreading Yanghee’s lethargic, passive demeanor.

patriot since the day he was born.”

He could hardly believe that such futility, such lethargy

On the wall hung colorful thank you certificates, with

could come from a place like this, a place where everything

words of admiration and gratitude across them. But, people

was growing so vigorously.

more hard up than Yanghee? It looked as though theirs was

Af ter wandering for a while, when he found

the most squalid and ramshackle house, actually it looked

Yanghee’s house with the help of a neighbor, Pilyong was

nothing like a house, in the village. A bowl filled with tinned

dumbfounded, as though he’d taken a blow to the head.

syrupy peaches was brought in, with ice bobbing among the

Yanghee’s house—if you could call something like that a

slices. Why did you come here? Where are you from? Who

house—looked more like a cave. It was put together out of

are you? What’s your relationship to Yanghee? Yanghee’s

plywood and all that distinguished the boundary between

parents didn’t ask Pilyong any such thing. Although it was

the kitchen and the inner room was that the room was raised

Pilyong who had come all this way, he didn’t say a word.

about four bricks worth higher, with a heated lino floor. The

They all sat there and watched a comedy program together.

kitchen was covered in mud, without a single tile in sight. By

She’d never laughed even once when she was with Pilyong

the looks of it, the drain in the floor was blocked, and bits

but Yanghee laughed along with all of it. Somehow the two

of cooked rice, swollen noddle strands, and other muck was

comedians who had come on stage in tracksuits and started

trickling down a slope from the plughole into a small stream.

slapping each other’s foreheads must have been pretty funny.

They had ducks. It wasn’t a farm but a wire enclosure set up on one side of the small stream, with a few ducks being raised inside. The ducks were quacking away. They might have all just been ducklings, the noise was so feeble.

Yanghee, who had been watching TV with her family,

Turning towards Yanghee her father asked, “Yanghee-ya, how much have you got in your bank account?”

“About 380,000 won,” Yanghee responded without taking her eyes off the TV. “How on earth have you got that much?”

came out to meet Pilyong. Both of Yanghee’s parents were

“I just do I guess.”

inside the room, and although her father was very tall, he

“How much d’ya think it’d cost to fix the duck cage?”

looked infirm and judging by his appearance he must have

“Wouldn’t 100,000 do it?” Yanghee’s mother responded.

been around seventy. Yanghee᾽s mother had a dumpy body

“In that case, Yanghee-ya, there’s something for you to

and round face. Her black hair was tied up on top of her

spend your leftovers on.”

head in a bun. The neighbors who had led Pilyong to the

“Alright, sure, Dad.”

house didn’t leave and instead rolled out compliments for the

“Get it all out . . .”

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“Okay, whatever you say Dad.”

didn’t. Because the only thing he couldn’t see was himself;

Every time her father spoke Yanghee nodded away in

his face contorted with earnest desperation, with a tangle

agreement. It was a tranquil expression, without even a trace

of emotions, compassion, and the desire to be loved.

of emotion. 380,000 won! What a huge sum of money

Eventually Pilyong got into the Lemans without a word.

380,000 won is. Pilyong grimaced. No way, how could he tell

The love that had made him tremble all the way to Munsan

her to hand it all over. Not knowing how his daughter lives,

had disappeared. As though broken wide open, it was just

at that age, now twenty-one years old, wearing only scruffy,

gone. Pilyong cried. As he cried he understood utterly, how,

worn out clothes on the streets of Seoul, along Jongno. Not

without being replaced or transformed into something

knowing how feebly she walks those decorated streets that

different, something can completely disappear. At least, he

glow like flowers. Not knowing that expression, the face of

thought, such was the case in that moment.

snatched away, lethargic and bashful, having gotten used to

✽

that repetitive misfortune, just putting up with it all. 380,000

Summoned to see the HR director, Pilyong was given a

won! Pilyong wanted to shout, but he couldn’t do it for real.

document printed with his office entry time log. With twelve

He merely kept his gaze fixed to one side.

and one as the standard, recorded on the sheet was how

one with no time to accumulate as everything keeps being

On the way back, Yanghee accompanied him to the

many minutes early or late he had clocked out and back in

entrance of the village. He’d come to Munsan to be together,

each lunch time. They were all the times when Pilyong had

just the two of them, like this, but Pilyong had nothing to

run to see Yanghee. 11:56, four minutes early on the twelve

say. As though the thought had just occurred to her, Yanghee

o’clock standard. One-o-four, five past one, a few minutes

asked, “Pilyong, why did you come by?” and he evaded the

each past the one o’clock standard. Pilyong added up all those

question with something vague about having been passing

minutes in his head. However he estimated, it didn’t look like

through the area.

it would make up a whole work day. Half a day at most? But

“You’re embarrassed?” Yanghee asked.

it weighed down on him. The weight of those minutes the

Until now Yanghee had never posed him a question, but

HR director took issue with was so heavy it sunk Pilyong’s

here it was. Pilyong and Yanghee faced each other. The night

head into a bow. Clocking in late was one of the key areas in

had scrubbed out her face, but here they were, Yanghee’s eyes.

the employee evaluation system and Pilyong had received the

“I’m sorry. I spoke rashly,” Pilyong brought up his earlier outburst.

“Pilyong, don’t apologize or anything, just look at something like this tree.”

“You’d better watch yourself. Make sure you don’t get even another speck on this time sheet. Don’t let a single feather fall on your shoulder. I understand. It’s not easy to

Yanghee turned away and pointed to a tree at the entrance

keep yourself together and I understand your intent on

to the village. A huge zelkova. The kind of zelkova that made

hanging on here, but anyhow, don’t forget that the company

one marvel at how its bark could be peeled off, and peel off

has you under close watch.”

some more, and still have more underneath to peel.

“When faced with a tree, no one can ever be embarrassed, never sneer at others, so just look at the tree or something.”

26

worst possible score.

Pilyong came to his senses right away. Who else could he blame? It was he who had spent all that time wallowing in the past. He’d sold out every bit of himself and left with nothing

Pilyong stood behind Yanghee and held his arms out

more to sell, he’d been selling out his sweetest memories. And

towards her. They didn’t reach. If he took just one step

for what? It was embarrassing. Wasn’t it time to get back up,

forward his hands might have touched her, but Pilyong

back to his rightful place? To do that he would have to forget

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

©Amy Shin

the small, dark theatre, the chairs and office workers, the faces

electronic approval system, and left the office before the start

facing each other and that boring time, the clap, clap clapping

of his lunch hour. The sun was beaming down warm rays, but

sound of applause, and he would have to forget Yanghee.

he was cold, it was cold weather. Pilyong walked thinking

Pilyong wasn’t pleased with his situation, but after that

that he had a fever and he walked thinking of his mother.

he tried to do his part for the well-being of the company

With that he felt a chill in shoulders. He remembered

which hadn’t thrown him out completely. Spending summer

how, while boiling plain wheat noodles, his mother would

and autumn this way, all of the bubbling energy and urge

suddenly grab her wrist, saying, “I’ve got a chill. Dear me,

for resistance of the times when he had rushed to Jongno

what a chill,” and with that his chill grew worse and worse.

escaped his body. The tension had disappeared from all his

That mother of his passed away before Pilyong turned forty.

muscles and Pilyong became pliable, like cheese. Lightly, as

Perhaps it was already so from that point onwards, he had

though barely there, in some ways as though he had a screw

become unable to ask anyone at all about being saved. Before

loose, but, anyway, he went to work each day stable.

he knew it Pilyong was headed not toward the doctor᾽s but

Then, as the season turned to winter, Pilyong came down

to Jongno.

with a cold. Having carried on, hoping to get through it,

Pilyong thought that his walking this way was not

Pilyong realized he was now of an age where he couldn’t get

something done of his own will. He wasn’t going because

over a cold without using medicine, and so he decided to go

he wanted to, it just so happened that he ended up going.

to the doctor’s. Intending to be back at his desk by 1 p.m.,

Drawing a circle around Seoul, round and round, having

this time of course he indicated where he would be using the

passed three seasons, his feet returned there of their own VOL. 36

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Pilyong stood behind Yanghee and held his arms out towards her.

They didn’t reach. If he took just one step forward his hands might have touched her, but Pilyong didn’t.

28

accord. At last, Pilyong stood in front of the theatre. Being

the urge to untie his scarf and show his face, but he couldn’t

well past twelve, he was too late to be able to buy a ticket. But

find the courage.

wasn’t that actually better? Didn’t that make it alright to try

Just as she had with other people, Yanghee sat Pilyong

opening the door to the theatre? Without any anticipation

in the chair. And with that it was time to look at each other.

or hope, Pilyong merely opened the door like a person who

A long time ago in that Jongno McDonalds, Yanghee had

needed some kind of rejection or pushback. The young

always endured the time she spent with Pilyong avoiding

woman at the box office stood wearing a blue scarf, rolling up

his gaze, but now, as there was no talking, as there was

posters. Pilyong looked at the closed door to the auditorium

absolutely nothing between them, there was no need for

and wondered who might be up on stage enduring that time.

them to endure each other. She had endured him, the fact of

That time of at first enduring, then accepting, then gazing.

it made Pilyong sad and embarrassed, so much so that after

He turned around and was about to leave when the woman

making eye contact for a short while he dropped his head. A

said, “You can go in.”

moment later the man in the audience stood up and made

“But it’s past twelve thirty.”

a resounding clap clap clap. Returning to his seat Pilyong

“There isn’t a single person in the audience, so go on in.

collected his bag and Yanghee and the young woman from

The run is only until the end of the year. This is your last

the box office bowed. And that was it. Pilyong felt a sting,

chance to see it.”

but as he did with almost everything these days, he accepted

Pilyong considered what to do. If there wasn’t a single

it with resignation. He thought it inevitable. There was

person in the audience that meant it would be Pilyong who

nothing to distinguish him from the office workers who used

would be taken to sit on stage. Pilyong scrubbed the cold

their lunch hour to sit in the theatre in the hope of gaining

sweat from his forehead. If he just left like this he wouldn’t

solace and healing while munching on sandwiches. Yanghee

have to sit on the chair opposite Yanghee, but if he didn’t sit

didn’t treat him any differently, and he had become someone

there like that, well what would happen then?

no different.

Contrary to what the young woman in the box office

About to leave, Pilyong saw Yanghee lingering on the

had said, among the rows of chairs sat the man who was

stage, even though the bows were over. He stopped in his

always in the audience, and clapped loudly at the end of each

tracks, thinking something was odd. Yanghee was just

performance. Wondering whether the man wasn’t a real

standing there looking down at Pilyong from up on the stage.

audience member, Pilyong hid his face in his thick scarf. The

The only other man in the audience stood up again and

chimes which marked the start of the performance rang out

shouted Bravo! and whistled, but Yanghee didn’t return to

and Yanghee, in spite of the cold, took to the stage still only

the dressing room. Then she lifted her arms and spread them

wearing a spandex bodysuit. Pilyong felt even colder just

wide at the height of her shoulders. Like that zelkova tree

looking at her. Yanghee came down to the seats and held out

one night long ago. And as though trembling in a breeze, she

a hand. Pilyong looked down at it. That hand which, with

shook her arms ever so slightly.

the words “Whatever you can manage with this,” had moved

As he walked back to work Pilyong cried. Out on the

from her pocket through the air to him, made Pilyong feel

street of Jongno with no MP3 player and no Queen, Pilyong

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

thought this was the end of everything. Whatever he may

nose. If he’d made a different choice would anything have

do, with no way to try making a change in his life, he would

changed? If it did change, how much could it really have

no longer be able to see Yanghee anywhere, no matter where

changed? Having shed all its leaves the tree stood enduring

he might go. But though what tomorrow might bring

the winter. With the far-off expression of someone who has

was left unseen, for now, for today, this was an unbearable

just emerged after crying for a long time, Pilyong looked

suffering, and so Pilyong turned back on himself and ran

about at his surroundings. Thinking, these aren’t the kind

towards the theatre. When he thundered down the stairs the

of questions to be asking here, out in broad daylight. The

young woman from the box office stopped her sweeping and

afternoon was so light, so dazzling, it was utterly unbearably

asked, “Did you forget something?” Still catching his breath,

bright.

Pilyong caught sight of the clapping man from the audience

pp. 33-43

coming out of the restroom with a metal bucket. As their eyes met a smile spread across the man’s face.

“Bring that over here, Assistant PD,” the young woman

Translated by Sophie Bowman Munhakdongne Publishing Group, 2016, 288 pp.

addressed the man pointing to a mop, “Right, let’s get started,

The format of the play in this story was based on Marina

shall we?”

Abramović’s work The Artist Is Present, performed at MoMA,

The man wet the mop in the bucket and Pilyong wiped

New York, in 2010.

his tear-covered face with a handkerchief. Pilyong stepped out into the street again. Before getting very far he turned back toward the theatre, then turned himself around again, and got further and further from Jongno. He got further and further away, just managing to suppress his desire to go back.

Yanghee-ya, Yanghee-ya, McDonald’s doesn’t sell fish burgers ©Munhakdongne

anymore. Yanghee-ya, Yanghee-ya, you’ve become really impressive. Yanghee-ya, Yanghee-ya, you, you achieved your dream. Such lines came to him and then he scrubbed them out. The words “Goodbye” and “Did you ever love me?” and “Save me” were all scrubbed out as well. And having been erased like that, just like the script of the play Yanghee had always been writing, there was nothing left. But it wasn’t a complete absence. He had the thought that even with

Kim Keum Hee has published two short story collections and is currently serializing her first novel. Her first short story collection, Sentimentality Works Only for

a Day or Two , won the Sin Dong-yup Prize for Literature. She won the Munhakdongne

the passing of time there were things that did not become

Young Writers’ Award from 2015 to 2017.

completely absent but were instead simply submerged in

Her short story “Everything about Chess”

a state of indeterminate lack. But was that real? Standing beneath one of the trees lining the road, Pilyong blew his

won the Hyundae Literary Award in 2017, and was published in English by Asia Publishers.

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Fired

by Chang Kang-myoung

Afternoon the next day, Eun-young called the girl

a saucer, so that’s why I didn’t do anything. I didn’t

into the conference room. She advised her that to

know what to do. When I worked at the school, it

work in corporate culture, you needed to be a “people”

was disrespectful to offer something in a paper cup.”

person.

The girl’s eyes welled up. “What does being a

don’t know, you could ask the president or the visitor.

people person mean? People keep saying that I’m too

‘What would you like to drink? Coffee or juice?

curt, but I don’t understand. When a visitor comes, I

Which would you prefer?’ Like that. Then it’s obvious

know I should offer them refreshments but we don’t

what they’ll reply: ‘Anything is fine.’ Got it?”

even have proper cups or saucers. It’s embarrassing to just offer something in a paper cup, without even 30

“You can just take in whatever. Or if you really

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

“Last time, I brought a canned coffee to a visitor and they asked me if I was being rude.”

FICTION

“In the conference room, I remember you telling me that I had to quit working here. And I remember going to Outback. But you didn’t tell me exactly when I should stop coming to work. I was waiting, wondering when you’d give me my notice of dismissal.”

the impression that all those tears had just been an act.

“Did the president say that ? Is that what he’s suggesting?”

“Frankly speaking, the work you do doesn’t require you to sit at your desk all day. And I think it’d be easier for you to go for your treatments at the clinic. If you worked only four hours each morning and got paid 900,000 won, then your hourly pay would actually be higher.”

“It takes me an hour and a half to get to work. That’s

“It was probably a close friend of the president just joking with you. Wasn’t he laughing when he said it?”

three hours round-trip. If my monthly salary is cut then there’s no reason for me to continue working here. I still

“And it’s hard to ask the president anything. He’s so

have outstanding student loans from my night classes. And,

stoic, I feel intimidated talking to him. And a lot of the time,

as for going to the clinic, I’m not going because I want to,

I can’t understand what he’s saying because his dialect is so

but because I’m in pain. You can’t hold that against me.”

strong and he talks too fast. And I’m too scared to ask him again.”

Eun-young said she understood and sent the girl back to her desk. The girl, who’d turned ice cold at the mention of a

“Our president isn’t that stoic.”

pay cut, once again put on a sad face, returned to her desk,

“If I was able to at least buy a set of cups and saucers, then

and the large tears welled up again. The male employees

this wouldn’t even be a problem. But I’m not authorized to

noticed the girl crying, but no one dared to talk to her.

purchase anything. It feels unfair.” A tear ran down the girl’s

Eun-young couldn’t send a crying girl on an errand so

cheek. “I didn’t know that the president was keeping such a

she went to the bank herself. (People only care about a girl

close eye on me.”

crying if she’s young and pretty. If you hadn’t made so many

“I’ll give you my purchasing card so you can go buy a set later. In any case, the president has talked to me on numerous occasions regarding your people skills.” (You

excuses, then I would’ve . . .) ✽

should’ve gotten in trouble a lot more is what I’m saying.)

It was the end of the month. Eun-young took a designer

“I guess you got in a lot of trouble because of me.”

scarf she’d received as a gift but never used, put it in a paper

“Would you possibly consider working only in the

bag, and went to work. The morning was busy again because

mornings and getting paid 800,000 or 900,000 won a

it was the end of the month. The girl was staring at her

month? If you were preparing for an exam or something,

computer screen with a blank expression. (Does she have to

this would work out better for you.”

be like that until her very last day?)

The girl’s expression suddenly changed. Eun-young got

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They hired him after double-checking that he was on a leave of absence from a reputable university in Seoul, didn’t live too far away, and came from a stable home.

that it was a gift. With a look of surprise, the girl took it.

“I thought it’d be nice if you had at least one item like this.”

even temporary workers were entitled to receive severance pay. When firing an employee, a notice of dismissal had to be given in writing to employees who’d worked over fifteen

“But why are you giving this to me?” The girl’s expression

hours a week for more than one year. It had to be given

was like a child’s who’d just been caught lying by her mother.

thirty days in advance, stating a clear reason. In the event

“Because it’s your last day. I brought it as a farewell gift.

that a company was in violation of this, a civil complaint

I hope you like it.”

“My last day?”

Her act of feigning ignorance was so fake that Eunyoung let out a laugh.

could be filed at the local labor relations commission. Then a summons would be sent to the president.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve looked into it more carefully,” Eun-young said. (She completely stabbed me in the back.)

“I told you we only needed you until the end of the

“Just think of it as a good lesson learned. Hey, I just

month. Are you going to say you don’t remember? That’s

found out from you about the regulation. Things have

why we went to Outback for dinner together.”

gotten a lot better in Korea, I see.” The president laughed.

“You told me you didn’t need my services anymore, but didn’t tell me an exact date.”

“You really don’t remember? I told you about three weeks ago in the conference room.”

“In the conference room, I remember you telling me that I had to quit working here. And I remember going to

“I don’t think we can give a notice of dismissal now.

Later on, she might turn it around and argue that it was a wrongful dismissal. We’re a company that has more than five employees, and the girl was a paid employee of ours for more than six months. To be safe, I recommend we pursue this as a suggested resignation.”

Outback. But you didn’t tell me exactly when I should stop

“So how much is the girl asking for?”

coming to work. I was waiting, wondering when you’d give

“If it’s a suggested resignation, we will have to

me my notice of dismissal.”

“Notice of dismissal?”

“When you fire someone, you have to give notice in

compensate her for at least three months’ salary.”

“Give it to her. It’s fine. I have no regrets about the money. Do you know why?”

writing. Even small neighborhood convenience stores do

“No.”

that. And we didn’t even talk about my severance pay or

“Because I’m not giving the money to the girl, I’m giving

anything, so of course I didn’t think I was being fired right

it to you. And I regard you as someone who does the work

away.”

she’s paid for.”

“Severance pay?” Eun-young asked, flustered. The girl kept an awkward smile throughout the whole conversation.

The girl received three months’ salary in cash and submitted her letter of resignation. On paper, it stated she’d work until the last day of the newly started month, but she

32

It was a good thing Eun-young didn’t ask why a temporary

stopped working the next day. As the president signed the

worker would get severance pay. According to regulations,

approval papers, he said to tell the girl to take the money and

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

stop coming starting tomorrow. Eun-young had planned on

The Germans are really sensitive about this type of stuff.

doing the same. If she saw the girl, it would only make her

Basically, they don’t trust the Korean employees. They think

blood boil.

that we secretly break the law and embezzle funds. And

They hired a new temporary worker from an online job

since working conditions are really important to them, they

site: a fresh-faced young man. They hired him after double-

have separate supervisors for this type of stuff. That’s why

checking that he was on a leave of absence from a reputable

to them, this is huge. In order to save money, the Korean

university in Seoul, didn’t live too far away, and came from a

office hired a temporary worker but didn’t register them for

stable home. They gave him 750,000 won a month and had

the official insurance policies. And they didn’t even sign an

him work only in the mornings. They made it clear from

official work contract. The girl knows all this. That’s why she

the beginning that the employment period was only five

sent the e-mail only to me.”

months.

“What did the lawyer say?” Eun-young’s husband asked.

About two months later, an e-mail came from the girl: “I

“That the best thing is to reach a settlement and pay her.

noticed that while I was employed at the company, I wasn’t

But in return, to include in the settlement agreement that

registered for the four social insurance policies. I received

she is to take no further legal action or bring forth any issues

a consultation from the online job site Albamon, and they

regarding this in the future. But the money can’t come from

said this was illegal and that in such cases, I could sue the

the company because we can’t leave any proof. How much

company for failing to report my insurance deductions. But

do you think she’ll ask for? 5 million? 10 million won?”

I don’t want to do that. Could the company just pay me the amount for the four insurances that they didn’t report?”

“And they said not to trust the two-legged beast . . .”

Eun-young’s face was burning.

“What did the lawyer say?” her husband asked.

“No way. You think she’d ask for 10 million won? For this?”

“Our president’s yearly salary is 300 million won. If I ask him for 10 million in exchange for not reporting it to Germany, then he’ll probably pay.”

“That there’s no need for her to even file a suit. She just

“Let’s do this: First, give the girl a call. Then ask her how

has to make an appeal to the labor administration or labor

much she wants. If she asks for less than 5 million then we

relations or whatever. The penalties are different depending

can pay her ourselves. With a signed agreement. If she asks

on the insurance, but there’s a fine for the health insurance,

for more than 5 million then we’ll tell your president.”

and as for the worker’s compensation or employment

“Are you okay with that?”

insurance, there’s only a penalty, but no fine.”

“I’ll just think of it as a loss in my stocks.”

“Then everything the girl said is right?”

“If you think about it, this is all because of that stupid

“Yup. Crazy, huh?”

Assistant Director Park.” Eun-young said through gritted

“What are you going to do? Are you going to tell the

teeth as she suddenly stopped while picking up her cell

president?”

“I don’t know. What should I do? Should I tell him?

phone.

“This was a girl who, apart from being able to speak a VOL. 36

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bit of English, couldn’t do anything right. There are a lot

Eun-young made the changes as the girl requested. As

of these types of girls in foreign companies. How could

the girl was leaving the office, Eun-young finally opened her

Park hire someone like this without even doing a proper

mouth: “Was this the plan all along?”

background check? And a backstabber to boot.”

“You didn’t know that about her either.”

“Know what?”

“You took pity on her and went easy on her. You underestimated her because she was poor and looked

The girl stopped. It seemed like she was at a loss for words. She just stood there, unable to move.

“Goodbye,” the girl said. Instead of giving a direct answer, the girl stood in front of the elevator after bowing good-bye.

stupid and so you thought she was merely a naïve and weak

While waiting for the elevator, the girl put her hand in

victim. But that wasn’t the case. You said she’d had a string

her purse to check and make sure the envelope was there.

of temporary jobs. She’s learned from experience and knows

She was scared that she might drop the envelope and lose

the tricks of how to fight and survive in that world. If you

it. (It would’ve been better if they’d wired the money to my

think about it the other way around, in that world, we

account instead of giving it to me like this.) She planned

are the weaker ones. You and me both, we’ve never had to

on going to the bank as soon as she left the building. She

scuffle with the owner of a gas station over unpaid wages.”

was under pressure because she was late on her student

Eun-young’s anger started to flare, but her husband was right. She bit down on her lip and called the girl.

loan payments. Her leg was still sore. She’d used all of her severance pay to get surgery for her ligament injury, but it

“What did she say?”

didn’t seem like it’d gotten any better. The elevator door

Eun-young smirked. “She wants 1.5 million won.”

closed and she was all alone.

The two of them went for a drink that night.

pp. 41-47, 59-77

“Seriously. People are scary.”

Eun-young put down her beer glass and sighed.

The next day, the girl came to the office, got the money, but didn’t leave even though she’d signed the agreement.

Translated by Teresa Kim Edited and reprinted with permission from Asia Publishers, 2015, 128 pp.

“Do you think I could get five copies of a certificate of employment?” The girl asked.

“Certificate of employment?”

“Yes. I forgot to ask last time.”

(If the company you’re applying to looks at the certificate I’ll . . . No, forget it. There’s no need for me to tell you this.

There’s also a world that only I know and you don’t.)

Eun-young clamped her mouth shut and printed out five English copies of the certificate of employment. The girl carefully examined the certificate.

“It says that I worked here as a ‘staff assistant.’ Could you possibly change that to ‘administrator’? When I worked here, I was the sole person in charge of general affairs, not an assistant to anyone.”

34

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

©chyes

of employment and contacts me for a reference check, then

Chang Kang-myoung has published eight novels, one short story collection, and one essay collection. He has received the Surim Literary Award, Jeju 4•3 Peace Prize, and Munhakdongne Writer Award.

Before turning to writing, he worked as a journalist for over a decade and received the Journalist of the Month Award from the Journalists Association of Korea, Kwanhun Club Press Award, and Dong-A Ilbo Press Award.

FICTION

Curry on a Desk

by Apple Kim

©Amy Shin

The other single men who have long lived on the same

girls, of being nothing but an opportunist. But, again,

floor as me eat a lot of hamburgers. And they think

I’m sorry, I have no interest in trying to impress the

I am ridiculous, they think they’re a hundred times

girls (which is not to say I’m gay). I hate girls. Even

better than me, because they think hamburgers are

more than hate, I despise them. Let me add that I

better than curry. I don’t understand it at all. If I’m a

despise men as well. I despise all humans, so really

man, why don’t I eat hamburgers, they say to me, even

whether they are men or women is a secondary issue.

the smell of kimchi is better than the smell of curry,

When I told this to the guys on my floor, they said,

they assert. But, I’m sorry, I hate hamburgers. Of

Don’t bullshit us, you’re only trying to impress the

course I hate salads even more. I don’t eat cocksucking

girls. Motherfuckers.

salads like the women who live on the floor above.

I was lynched in the hallway last week as I walked

I just eat curry. If I didn’t eat curry, I would eat beef

back to my room from the showers. By which I mean

bone soup or cold noodles. Again, I hate hamburgers

the guys poured cold curry on my face and beat me up.

and I hate cocksucking salads. If I say this to the guys

I was so surprised I didn’t feel any pain as they hit me.

on my floor, they accuse me of trying to impress the

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I hate girls. Even more than hate, I despise them. Let me add that I despise men as well.

I despise all humans, so really whether they are men or women is a secondary issue.

very strange. And after that things became very awkward between us. If our eyes ever met, even from a distance, we would avoid each other, both creeped out by the other.

because they had run to the showers. The curry they poured

After that there was a rumor that I was a pervert. It

onto me got all over them as well. Mixed with the sound of

started on the floor above us and one day a girl who always

the running showers, I could hear them cursing one person

parked her bike on our floor mentioned it to me. Did you

specifically, probably the one who suggested pouring curry

hear? Everyone on our floor says you’re a pervert. I stared at

on me. Before they disappeared, they yelled out to me, If you

her, confused. She stood there shamelessly. She laughed and

use the shower, we’ll kill you!

kept asking questions. You’re not? You weren’t caught taking

Once they were gone, I heard a coughing from one of the

pictures on the subway? I was silent. You’re really not? Her

rooms. And then a cough from the room across from that

unwavering eyes staring at me, she felt like a judge, or God.

one, and then more coughs from several different rooms.

Or like the God of Judgment, or something. She gave her

Whether that was a sign of pity for me; a tacit signal to

final sentence. I guess you’re not, she said as she bounced up

ignore me; a curse against the guys who did it; a cool way to

the stairs. Sorry.

say I’m glad you were hit, it felt good, and was fun to watch;

This rumor was clearly started by the group that lynched

a mix of all of these, or even just that all the guys in the rooms

me. But I didn’t care. I was just curious, why did they say

got itchy throats at the same time—I don’t know. After a few

I was a pervert and not that I despised all women or all

minutes I got up and went to the showers. No one came to

humanity? Is there something about me that makes them

kill me.

think I’m a pervert? I don’t watch that much porn and I like

No one came to kill me, but no one ever tried to get close to me, either. There were a lot of people who thought I was crazy because I only ate curry. But that’s unfair. I don’t eat

36

the same female stars that everyone else likes. Is that what makes me a pervert? They’re the perverts.

curry for all three meals in a day, there are times when even I

✽

hate to eat curry, and so I get take-out from the noodle place

After I saw the bubble tea girl, I thought only of her. The

nearby or make kimchi fried rice. Or I buy a lunch box from

women from the floor above must have felt something,

the convenience store. It’s just that I do eat curry a lot. And

because they started to make a lot of noise. I could never

that’s not the only weird rumor about me. One day I ran into

tell if they were laughing or crying. It was a terrible sound.

the cleaning lady in the bathroom. She looked at me with a

That’s why I hate women. They’re so perceptive. And they

smile and said, I heard you are a feminist? I was so confused.

let you know when they have perceived something, with

A feminist? Doesn’t that mean you really like women? I was

their whole body, as if they’re walking around bleeding.

so confused I said, No I don’t like women, I actually despise

Does the bubble tea girl make those kinds of sounds when

women, I’ve never dated a woman and I don’t plan to ever

she goes home? Without a doubt. But she’s young, so there’s

date one. The expression on the cleaning lady’s face became

still a chance. If I get that chance, I intend to fix her. She’s

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

clearly already ruined. Not ruined on the outside, but she’s

wake up the next morning I eat her arm. While I eat it, her

ruined mentally, and that mental depravity is making itself

arm asks me, Aren’t you sad? What?

known on the outside. Does her boyfriend know this and

The dream felt incredibly real. I decide to go cut off the

just ignore it? Does he savor the fact of it? I would love to be

arm of the one I love. The desire is so strong, no one will be

able to talk with him about it. And then smash his head with

able to hold me back.

a brick, that would be perfect. Actually, that man looked just

pp. 93-96, 100-101, 105-106

as depraved as she did. Didn’t he? If he didn’t, why do I keep thinking he did? Why do I keep having that thought? It’s

Translated by Jason Woodruff

confusing.

From the quarterly journal Jaeum & Moeum ,

If I’m honest, I don’t want to hate women. In a better

2015 Winter Issue.

world, I would give the best to a woman. What is the best?

It is, of course, my cock. I want to cut off my cock and place it before women. I want to hand over the most wonderful part of me to women. I’m not saying I would be a eunuch. It would actually be more like a coronation. We, the king, pass our kingdom over to you.

We, on this day, abdicate the throne of our (cocksucking) kingdom.

Lawfully and whole-heartedly.

Accept my warm cock.

Lawfully and whole-heartedly.

Of course I don’t mean to become like King Lear.

From the beginning, there exists an important distinction between us. I have no women. But my kingdom belongs to women. To speak to this fatal contradiction within my grand delusion . . .

I don’t feel like explaining. ✽

Apple Kim has published five novels, one short story collection, and two essay collections. She received a grant from the Arts Council Korea in 2007 to travel to the US and Europe, during

In a dream, I order the bubble tea girl’s arm. I do so because

which time she wrote her first novel

she refused to cut off her own arm. When it arrives, her arm

Mina . The French edition of Mina

is soft and fresh. I put it in a glass bottle and place it on my desk because I don’t know what else to do with it. When I

was later published by Decrescenzo éditeurs. Her works have appeared in the Asia Literary Review .

VOL. 36

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Address

by Park Soran

Why is my home at the end of the line Always, With all their might The wheels must turn, to reach that peak Is this why everyone Makes haste to disembark from me

Park Soran studied creative writing at Dongguk University.

She won the Sin Dong-yup Prize for Literature in 2015 for her first poetry collection Words Close to the Heart . The following year, she was awarded the Tomorrow’s Korean Writer Award by the Writers Association of Korea.

38

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

POETRY

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Evening Study Hall

by Park Joon

In the evening my friends changed out of their uniforms in the bathroom and worked as delivery boys around the Jugong apartment complex and the girls from Sungdong Vocational High didn’t let their hiked-up hemlines get in the way of hoisting themselves atop the back seat of a raised motorcycle saddle Yeonhwa as she left home stole her impoverished mother’s thick hair and the lower half of her late father’s face, leaving to roam from station to station My jaundice was an excuse to play truant for a long time and underneath my desk my pincushion heart would surely be rolling around and graduation was so far away and the words carelessly spat from my yawning craw sat in gangs in every dark alley, cackling

Park Joon is a poet and editor at Changbi Publishers. His poetry collection I Took Your Name as Medicine was a bestseller, ranking ninth among bestselling poetry collections in the last five years by Interpark Books. He has received the Sin Dong-yup Prize for Literature.

40

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

POETRY

Rent

by Lim Solah I am standing in the empty store. Looking out the window.

I watch the people go by. Their profiles sliding past.

In the afternoon, small children pass by.

On the second afternoon, students in uniform pass by.

An auntie, wearing her backpack in the front, approaches the door and sticks on a flier for Chinese delivery before passing by.

On the third afternoon, my reflection begins to appear on the window. Headlights of cars pass by.

I slip bread dough in a plastic bag. The dough slowly rises. The bag slowly rises with it. I put my nose close to the bag and slowly take in the scent. When I open the door, the scent explodes outward.

A man walking forward looks sideways.

For a moment our eyes meet and he walks in, groping about his bag.

I’ll take one of those.

I grip the loaf with tongs.

I made the bread with my own hands, but I’m not allowed to handle it.

My pay, 5,000 won an hour.

One loaf, 5,500 won.

I want to eat the bread, the bread that I made.

The man takes the bread and leans his long black umbrella against the counter.

While his bread-carrying back disappears into the dark.

His black umbrella is at the store.

The umbrella and I are standing in the empty store.

Translations by Anton Hur Lim Solah has published the poetry collection Strange Weather and Good People and the novel The Best Life . She was chosen as the Best Writer for the Arts Council Korea’s Young Art Frontier Program in 2014.

VOL. 36

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SPECIAL INTERVIEW

P

An Interview with Poet Oh Sae-young

by David Shook

Poet, Translator, and Filmmaker Founding Editor, Phoneme Media

arting Ways with Modernism

David Shook: Your work as a younger poet seems to

During this time, I also gained a great deal of poetic

engage in a very conscious dialogue with Modernism. Do

inspiration from surrealist paintings, especially those by artists

you recall the first Modernist texts you encountered and

such as Salvador Dalí and Paul Klee, and that’s also why my

how you responded to them?

first book of poetry has a work by Klee on the cover.

Oh Sae-young: The meaning of the term “Modernism” as used

Shook: Do you feel, as your work evolved toward what

by English speakers is somewhat ambiguous. Under the banner

Brother Anthony has called “ontological authenticity,”

of Modernism they group together the European avant-

that you moved beyond the concerns of Modernism—

garde and the Modernism of the English speaking world—

that it was no longer relevant—or just that your own

things like the Imagism of Ezra Pound and others based on the

interests as a poet were outside its primary concerns?

philosophy of T. E. Hulme, or the Neoclassicism pursued by T. S. Eliot—but I think that this is misleading. The worlds that

Oh: As I mentioned earlier, I parted company with

these two literary tendencies look towards are in fact opposites.

Modernism in my late thirties to early forties, or you could

Most fundamentally, the former is romantic while the latter

say that to a certain degree I overcame it. This was because I

is classicist. Therefore so-called Postmodernism, which has

thought there was no way to express a healthy introspection

been discussed mainly in North America in recent years, has its

and foresight about life through Modernist poetry. Rather

roots in the European avant-garde, not the Modernism of the

than delving into the subconscious, I wanted to reach

English-speaking countries.

existential enlightenment through meditation. More than

In this same vein, during my twenties and early thirties my

anything else, in Modernist poetry there was no depth of

poetry was somewhat chaotic because I was flailing around

feeling or meeting of minds. This kind of change also had

in the tight spot between these two. In the beginning I was

something to do with the fact that it was around this time

completely taken by the European avant-garde, in particular the

when I started to open my eyes to a Buddhist worldview.

surrealism of people like André Breton and Philippe Soupault.

From then on Modernism was still one of the methods by

From there I moved on to Ezra Pound’s Imagism and the poetic

which I wrote poetry, but it was not the aim in and of itself.

tendency of Eliot to be critical of civilization. Then, finally,

42

going into my forties I was able to overcome these two literary

Shook: Several American reviews of your work mention

tendencies in my own way. I was inspired by a number of poetry

the disarming manner in which you achieve such

collections such as André Breton and Philippe Soupault’s

powerful epiphanies in your poems by priming the reader

collaboration in Les Champs Magnétiques, Ezra Pound’s “In a

with straightforward imagery from the natural world. Is

Station of the Metro,” and also Eliot’s “The Waste Land.”

that a technique that you developed consciously, or is it

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

To me poetry is truth itself.

Therefore, writing poetry is a means of acquiring truth and also an ascetic process.

earning its sharpness in the process, or is it something purer, some higher form of language?

Oh: To me poetry is truth itself. Therefore, something that emerged naturally over the course of your

writing poetry is a means of acquiring truth and also an ascetic

aesthetic development?

process. Needless to say, however, it is not only poetry that is truth. In fact, the proper place of the pursuit of truth is in

Oh: That is the fruit of conscious effort and constant searching

science more than poetry. Isn’t that reflected in the etymology

in my process of writing poetry. It is true, however, that the

of the word “science”? Whether it’s human science, social

asceticism of Zen has also had a huge influence on this. It is

science, or natural science, at the heart of all scholarship is the

no different now either. I think that writing poetry has a lot

pursuit of truth.

in common with the act of gaining some insight through the

To my mind, however, the truth that scholarship seeks

Zen asceticism of the most reverend practitioner. From this

is fundamentally different from the truth sought by poetry.

perspective you could say that the reverent practitioner of Zen

Because the truth sought by poetry is “whole truth,” while

is the poet, the hwadu (topic of contemplation) becomes the

the truth sought in the sciences is “partial truth.” Scientific

poetic subject, enlightenment becomes the poetic idea, and

truth is supposed to be rational, logical, and objective.

meditation becomes the expression of imagination. Above all,

Whereas, compared to this, poetic truth is emotional,

both of these things are about reaching, for a moment, some

paradoxical (or contradictory), and subjective. For example,

world of truth through intuition rather than intellect.

seen as scientific truth, the statement “I’m thirty years old” means that person has lived for thirty years. But in fact hasn’t

Shook: One of your earlier poems included in Night-Sky

that person been dying for thirty-odd years? Therefore,

Checkerboard, “A Bowl,” is one of my favorites. When

you could say that the precise meaning of this is that they

rereading it for this interview, and considering your

have lived the process of dying for thirty years. In this way,

skillful use of language, it occurred to me that if “Any

poetic fact is the truth that death is life and life is death.

broken thing / becomes a blade,” a poem’s sharpness

Considered like this, in essence, poetic truth and religious

might come from its brokenness—or to make that sound

truth are the same, only that in religion, the solution to this

less pejorative, and in the language of that same poem—

contradiction relies on a mysterious absolute being, while

its having gone astray. I’m interested to hear your opinion

with poetry there is no resolver or resolution. In this way,

about what a poem is: Is it language broken and repaired,

for me, poetry is fundamentally grounded in nihilism and VOL. 36

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SPECIAL INTERVIEW

pessimism. This is precisely why, though often unwittingly,

Shook: What other poets, writers, artists, and thinkers

there is a strong feeling of melancholy and futility spread

do you feel you are most in conversation with your work?

beneath my poems.

Are there any Korean voices that you feel really deserve to appear in English if they haven’t already?

Shook: How has your work as an educator impacted your work as a poet? It occurs to me that the life of a professor

Oh: I’ve never really thought about that. Among literary

is one that is dominated by seasons, a recurring theme in

scholars I very much admire the exceptional wisdom and

your work, most often reflected in your depictions of the

imagination of Lee O Young.

natural world.

Shook: As a poet myself, I’m always interested in how it Oh: To be honest, aside from having plenty of opportunities

feels to see—and hear—your work inhabiting another

to discover different books, and having relatively more

language. What was that like for you in this particular

freedom in terms of how I use my time than with other

instance, with Brother Anthony’s translations? How

professions, I don’t think my job as a professor has been

much do you feel you are able to engage with English-

a particularly big help to my writing. Back when I was a

language literature?

professor there, the atmosphere in the department of Korean literature at Seoul National University was very closed to the

Oh: To tell you the truth, my English is not fluent. It’s

act of writing poetry, as it was considered that the university

difficult for me to understand the subtle melody of

was a place for scholarship. In our department I was

English, or things like nuances and connotation. With

written off as a writer of scraps of poetry. So people weren’t

poetry in translation, however, you have to consider all

particularly willing to accept me as a scholar. On the other

of these things, and even more, you must bear in mind

hand, within the literary community I get lots of cynical

the cultural context as well, so it is really very challenging

remarks to the tune of, “You’re a scholar, don’t go around

work. This is why people say that translating poetry is not

calling yourself a poet.” This is another of the reasons why I

merely simple translation, but rather “a process of second

have been an outsider in the Korean literary community.

creation.” So to be perfectly honest, it is difficult for me to judge for myself whether Brother Anthony’s translations of my work are well done or not.

However, there are three things of which I can be sure.

First of all, as far as I can tell in my readings, there are no errors in the translation. Second, what I have heard from the opinions of scholars of English literature is that the translations have been done very well. Third is that, NightSky Checkerboard, my latest collection to be translated, was chosen by the Chicago Review of Books as one of the “Best Poetry Books” from those published in America in 2016 and I am sure that the strength of the translation had an even bigger part to play with this than that of the original work.

44

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

BOOKMARK

Prayer by Kim Ae-ran _46 Mom’s House by Jon Kyongnin _52 Savage Alice by Hwang Jungeun _57 Somsan and Duyên by Yoo Jaehyun _62

Illustration © Amy Shin

Selected Poems by Kim Su-Young _68

BOOKMARK

Prayer

by Kim Ae-ran

“Sillim” conjures up a green forest. A forest full of trees, a young forest. The trees in the forest are green, like the light green of Seoul Metro Line Two. Most leaves are of a darker hue, but light green seems more right for Sillim trees. When I say “Sillim,” I can almost hear leaves from a distant forest rustling and whispering, supullim, supullim. Green seeps into my tongue when I say, “Sillim,” the same way a red banner somewhere in the corner of my heart flaps wildly when I say “Gupabal” out loud.

Such associations have nothing whatsoever to do with the real Gupabal or the real Sillim.

I cross the Han River hugging a pillow. I have to transfer twice to get to Seoul From the short story collection

National University Station. I sit in the middle of the bench, heels up. The pillow is

The Mouth Waters

in a large plastic bag that crumples irritably and noisily at the slightest movement.

Moonji Publications, 2007, 309 pp.

For publication inquiries,

The sound is so frail that I hold it closer. A forest of buildings stands across the

contact us at

river. The translucent skin of the buildings reflects sunlight with their entire bodies.

koreanlitnow@klti.or.kr

Through the billows of clouds, I see the expression on the face of Seoul at one in the afternoon. The spark of Seoul at one. There are too many windows in the world— people grow dark in all that light.

Where are you?

The phone vibrates. It’s my sister. Her question blinks with the small numbers that indicate when the message arrived.

Eungbong, I answer. Sorry. Running late.

I take a deep breath. It always feels weird waiting for the message to be transmitted. I can’t fathom how words can find their way to the right destination.

Tens of millions of people send text messages to each other every day. How is it that one person’s I’m sorry finds its way to the right cell phone without colliding into another’s That’s okay? There are perhaps as many text messages floating around as there are molecules of carbon monoxide, nitrogen, and other chemicals from exhaust fumes. We live, surrounded by messages, inhaling them. She hasn’t replied yet.

I bought the pillow at a bedding store in front of the station. I thought about buying it at Sillim, but I gave up the thought, seeing as that this was my first trip to the area. I figured it’d be best to buy it at the discount store near my place rather than wandering

46

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

the streets of an unfamiliar neighborhood in frigid weather.

shoved 100,000 won into her hand. They exchanged

The pillow will soon be handed over to my sister.

awkward goodbyes. Perhaps they both ended up looking

She actually had her own pillow. In the several times she

angry for lack of a better expression under the circumstances.

packed and unpacked since she moved out of our parent’s

The more they felt sorry, the more they felt this wasn’t a

house, she never forgot to take that pillow with her. It was

good way to part, the more rigid their faces grew. The car, its

just an ordinary pillow with cotton stuffing, but according

backseat full of civil service exam practice test books, pulled

to her it was the most comfortable pillow in the world.

out of town, and Mom discovered the pillow after several

She sincerely loved the pillow the way people love music or

minutes of sitting on the sleeping mat. The pillow had an

art. She apparently left it behind this time. Mom sounded

indent the size and shape of my sister’s head, and it seemed

disturbed as she explained over the phone. Mom seemed to

it might still be warm from cradling her head. Mom called

believe that she left without the pillow because Mom all but

in the morning and spent the entire conversation grumbling

kicked her out of the house. She was taking her time, and

about her until she finally muttered, “She left her pillow. Buy

Mom got impatient. It was partly Uncle’s fault for arriving

her a new one.”

too soon, but Mom evidently started to follow her already panicked daughter around the house, pestering her about this and that until Mom finally lost it and yelled at her. My sister stood sulking in front of the car and Mom clumsily

The phone vibrates. I open it up to see if it’s her. It’s someone else.

Miss Suh In-yeong, this is a confirmation for the meeting this evening. I’ll see you at Hoegidong at seven.

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Yes, I reply. I’m still reluctant, but I’ve already put it off three

the phone vibrates. It feels as though she has shrunk to the size

times. I only agreed to take the annoying survey because of

of a cell phone and is crying away in my pocket. I worry that

the Cultural Gift Certificates they promised. A few days ago,

she’s struggling alone with all her stuff. When I first heard that

I got a call from a woman who said the Ministry of Labor was

she found a room near the mountain I said, “Well, you like

doing research on “college graduate employment.” I treated

mountains!” like it was no big deal.

her with the same weariness and indifference I showed all

She was dumbstruck for a second before she hit me

telemarketers. She kindly detailed the purpose of the survey

upside the head with a roar of laughter. When Dad was at the

and mentioned that their researcher could visit me at my

detention center, where beans are mixed into the rice they

residence, and I would be compensated with three Cultural

serve, I had said, “Well, Daddy likes beans!” Mom had hit me

Gift Certificates. I thought that three gift certificates for a

on the head just like that.

survey was a pretty good deal, but I didn’t want her to think I was desperate and unemployed by sounding too eager.

“Yeah, they say you have to snowboard down the hill when it snows.”

Trying to sound as cultured and indifferent toward money as possible I asked, “When would be a good time?”

The question was tossed back, “When would be a good time for you?”

My sister did like mountains. It was also true that Mom cooked rice with all kinds of beans for Dad, and the cop who recognized my Dad often let him off the hook when Dad

I knew that the “culture” I would enjoy with three gift

was caught drunk driving. Dad did his time at the detention

certificates would be silly and trifling, but they would be

center in town, curled up in a corner like a model prisoner.

enough to numb the guilt of an unemployed girl for a day.

During the time he was detained for his petty offense, he did not repent or worry about his family but rather spent his time

The train stops at Ichon Station. People follow the color-

seething with anger as he wrote up a list of “people from the

coded bands that lead to different subway lines. They look like

village who never came to visit him.” Since then, every time

blind people from the Middle Ages, the way they used ropes

he gets plastered, he cries, “I know who you are!” Of course,

to get around. The Sadang train pulls into the platform. Warm

he never confronts anyone about it. The day Dad was released

air rushes out as the doors open. I dash for an empty seat

we sat around the table for a painfully awkward meal of tofu

and settle in. My body makes a crumpling sound. I am very

soup. Since the detainment, every time a prison scene comes

conscious of the volume and sound of this pillow despite the

on TV we laugh in unison and change the channel.

fact it will soon be passed on to my sister. I draw myself in so as to not touch the person sitting next to me.

She says she’s already started unpacking. I jump every time

That was a few years back. Even then, my sister was making her daily pilgrimage, backpack and all, to the local library up in the mountain. That was when libraries suddenly

Tens of millions of people send text messages to each other every day.

How is it that one person’s I’m sorry finds its way to the right cell phone without colliding into another’s That’s okay?

48

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

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became fashionable all over the country, and a brand new library was built in our village. This being the boondocks, the patrons of the library were mostly adolescents who used too much hair gel. Giggling and shuffling hung over the “Quiet Room” where notes and soda were passed over the partitions. The only ones who studied were my sister and a young man who was preparing for civil service exams. The young man sat in the quiet room and suffered the din. Every once in a while he would break down and cry, “Be quiet, people!” The room would fall silent for a second before the junior high kids changed their topic of conversation to what a loser he was. Every day, the only thing he said was, “Be quiet.” One day, he stopped her on her way down the mountain, backpack and all. He rolled down the window and poked his head out the red Tico.

“May I offer you a ride?”

She said that was the first time she saw him smile. She did not get in the car. She moved to a study room in town.

Rain or shine, cramps or colds, she took the first bus into town and the last one back. Once, when she was suffering from coughing fits, an anonymous note made its way to her desk. It read: Why do you bother coming to the study room when you’re so sick? Stay home or go see a doctor.

Wondering who it was from, she’d looked around to find nothing but dozens of heads lodged in their respective cubicles. She kept moving in search of a better studying environment. She was at that study room in town the year before last until she moved to Sangdo near Noryangjin last year. This year, for the last time, she moved to Sillim. No one had said it in so many words, but everyone assumed this would be her final year of trying for the exam. We hoped she would believe so, anyway.

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Unlike my sister, who studied math at a

to visit, we slept sideways on the sleeping

local college, I’d been living in Seoul for a

mat, our ankles and heads sticking out from

few years. Despite the distance between my

underneath the covers.

place and her new place, my presence in Seoul

A few years ago, I worked for a cosmetics

was a deciding factor in her move up to Seoul.

c o m p a ny m a ki n g p a m p h l e t s a n d

She wanted to escape from the constant quarrels

company bulletins and sending samples

with Mom and the stares of the villagers. When

and invitations to the press. When I got the

she ran into friends at the library, their shared dejection

job, Mom was more excited than I was. The second she

had made her feel awkward and uneasy. She ran into a few

found out I got in, she dragged me out to the town center to

more friends from school even after moving all the way up to

buy me a 400,000 won suit. We went through every single

Noryangjin. For her, the unuttered small-town judgment she

boutique in the area where Mom proudly told and retold

had to face every day was more unbearable than spending

the story that started with, “See, my daughter just got a job

her twenties in a library cubbyhole or running into bubbly

. . .” She paraded around as if anyone unwilling to listen to

acquaintances around town. The unwelcome curiosity was

her story didn’t deserve her money. This was when we left

at once persistent and indifferent. There was one man who

Dad in the detention center because we couldn’t come up

would make a point of stopping by our house, without fail,

with a few million won for a lawyer. I went up to Seoul with

every time the civil service exam results were posted to ask

a large shopping bag and wore the suit to work the next

how she had done. Knowing she’d failed, he would ask,

morning. The day after that, I hesitated before wearing the

“So, how’d it go?” He would then go on and on about his

same suit to work again, but I couldn’t bring myself to wear

successful children before leaving. Her face convulsed like

the same thing three days in a row. I liked wearing Mom’s

unsettled dough with politeness, humiliation, despair, and

self-esteem on my shoulders but the possibility of the suit

something like a smile. I’ve seen her make a similar face at

appearing tawdry made me cringe. A few days after that, I

family gatherings and weddings.

sent Mom a box of Green Tea Facial Cleansers. They were individually wrapped like shampoo samples. Mom toured

I was living in a small studio with our youngest sibling. Sister

the village brandishing the sample at her friends. To her, the

couldn’t ask if she could move in with us because we were

Green Tea Facial Cleanser was a symbol of status and even

already cramped for space. She came to visit us once or twice

power in a time when our family was in desperate need of

a month. She would travel over from Noryangjin, show up

tangible evidence and affirmation of success, even in the

unannounced at our door in the middle of the night, face

form of free samples. I quit a year later. My drawn-out job

ashen, to collapse on the floor and into copious sleep. It was

search and the need to “show ’em” had forced me to take

as though she came to our place expressly for the purpose of

that job anyway. Rumors of everyone else’s success made me

deep sleep. As if this was just what she craved, she slept for a

self-conscious. The possibility that they really were doing

long time without moving a single muscle. When she came

well was unsettling and I was anxious at the thought of

50

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

their healthy faces searching mine for signs of despair. My

I did odd jobs here and there, mostly translating and

harmless bellyaching at a magazine reporter made its way

tutoring, so I had a little money to help me get by even after

into an article, and I was half forced to quit. I was terrified

I quit. I hung out with some friends who were living like I

when the word “lawsuit” came up. It’s been three years since

did and joked about how we’d all be screwed if the private

I quit, and Mom still hangs onto that Green Tea Facial

education sector in Korea collapsed.

Cleanser. She says her heart breaks every night as she opens the packet with a pair of scissors.

I hear the subway announcement. I transfer to line number two at Sadang Station. It is two stops to Seoul

“You shouldn’t be using old cosmetics. You should throw them out,” I say.

National University Station—a five-minute ride.

“Sillim,” I say to myself. I can almost see the landscape

“But you were the smartest among your siblings,” she trails off.

through the bobbing green leaves. pp. 183-193

The conversations are redundant, and so are the hopes.

Every year, we say, “We’ll have better luck next year” as if

Translated by Jamie Chang

we haven’t been saying so for years. When I didn’t get that job at the public corporation, when my sister failed the civil service exam, we dug up all sorts of evidence to support our optimism. Wouldn’t they create more jobs since it’s election year? They’re lowering the additional points awarded to the children of patriots and veterans, so that would definitely help. You started going to preparatory programs this year, so you’ll improve. You’ve put in this much effort, so isn’t it bound to happen any year now?

Kim Ae-ran majored in playwriting at the Korean National University of Arts. Her novel My Palpitating Life sold 140,000 copies in three months and was made into the movie My Brilliant Life in 2014. The novel has been translated into French, German, Chinese, and Japanese. Her works have appeared in

Azalea, Asia Literary Review , and Inostrannaya Literatura . Kim has received the Lee Hyo-seok Literary Award, Kim Yujung Literary Award, and Yi Sang Literary Award. ▶

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VOL. 36

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Mom’s House

by Jon Kyongnin

“My mom is a very typical Korean woman.”

“Your mom ran out on your family too?”

The eyes of the four college girls all met at once. The other girl was taken aback, the stain of her embarrassment spreading beneath her expression like spilled ink. She was older than me. Oh, I said something stupid again.

“Umm, I mean, maybe I got caught up in a stereotypical concept of the typical Korean woman. What I’m trying to say is——” The way she blushed, like the twilight sun that was already eight degrees below the horizon . . . The two girls who were my age weren’t smiling, and they had question marks in their eyes as if to ask what had just happened.

Yolimwon Publishing Group

What on earth is a typical Korean woman these days?

2007, 301 pp.

“Actually, I think it would’ve been better if my family had been hurt badly at least

For publication inquiries, contact us at

koreanlitnow@klti.or.kr

once. My parents live like they think life is the edge of a bottomless cliff. A family sustained by my dad’s timid authority and my mom’s open disappointment is like a sheet of thin ice. If the ice broke just once, they might realize the bottom isn’t that far down. Maybe if that happened, they might even be able to understand me a little better.”

Having just managed to recover from her dismay, she started to speak as if she were doing a self-critique.

“Whenever I think of family, the first word that occurs to me is detainment.

They dispute every single thing I do. I sometimes think they’re trying to sabotage me deliberately. Like, you’re not allowed to do anything because I can’t do anything either. It’s a common misunderstanding to think that people who live with their family don’t feel lonely. We might eat our meals together and sit across from each other at the table, but for some reason it feels like our relationship is already past its expiration date.”

She was an English lit major and a member of the feminist coalition and the LGBT society at our school. Her parents didn’t know what activities she was engaged in.

As for a family like thin ice, I knew something about that. But from my experience, when the ice actually breaks it’s not so simple. The whole family gets scattered in different directions, each of them a wreck, their hearts soaked and

52

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

aching cold. And myself, my own sole family member, just me, Kim Ho-eun . . . That’s how it turns out.

My mom is probably not a typical Korean woman. She is independent. She has a job, pays her taxes diligently, makes a point of reading the newspaper and clipping out articles, is divorced, has a boyfriend, and is very self-aware. Her name is Noh Yun-jin. If you spell it in English it has an N in every syllable.

Sometimes I call her Ms. N. The four of us were on our way back from the zoo after

Unfortunately there were no kangaroos at the zoo. On

having set aside the time to go together. We had planned it

our way back we felt disheartened to have left without seeing

as a bonding trip because we were roommates, but we never

one, but it would have been just as disappointing if we had.

would have gone to a place like the zoo if we hadn’t watched a video of a kangaroo online the day before.

Most of the animals confined in the zoo were in a listless state. They were overweight and looked like they

The video was shot near an endless emerald sea. A

were suffering from depression or hysteria, and some were

kangaroo stood facing the empty sea at one end of the beach.

scratching their bodies as if they had a skin disease. All of

Its gaze was desolate. Helpless moments, as if the earth were

them had lost their individual spark, like taxidermy animals

sinking, passed as the kangaroo approached the sea, one

with beads for eyes. The animals that were more worthy of

hop at a time. It kept moving further out until at last it was

attention were the dads.

swept down into the waves. The emerald sea looked calm as

Every dad in the zoo was pushing a stroller or carrying a

it engulfed the kangaroo, as if nothing had happened. The

baby in his arms. Some were running around after children

commenters on the video had different opinions about the

who were crying or throwing tantrums, and others were

kangaroo’s suicide. Apparently the kangaroo’s baby had been

pulling desperately on the hands of kids trying to dart off in

swept away by a sudden rough wave right before the video

the other direction. There was a dad holding a kid in either

was taken.

arm, one about three years old and the other seven, and

I would not be able to forget the sea the lone mother

breaking out in a sweat as he searched for his wife on the still

kangaroo had entered on her own feet. It felt like whenever

cold spring day. He had on a look that said, Honey? Honey,

I was at a loss from then on, I would be reminded of that

where are you? and his face revealed a mixture of despair and

mother kangaroo.

anger.

Kangaroos carry their baby in a pouch. What would it

The wife of the balding man magically emerged from

be like bouncing above the ground inside a mother’s pouch?

a café as if to say ta-da and gave the people around her

It seems like it would be heavy and tiring for the mother

husband a slight surprise by her appearance. She was holding

kangaroo, but it turns out that it’s easier to hop with the

a paper cup with a sleeve around it in her manicured hand,

baby in the pouch because the baby provides some sort of

and the way she was dressed made her look like a fashionable

elastic energy. When the mother needs to clean out the

young woman, minus the slight swelling that comes with

pouch, she opens it, sticks her face in, and licks it clean with

age. The man seemed to take great pride in his wife looking

her tongue. Opinions about how high a kangaroo can jump

young for her age and took the whole thing in stride with an

vary from three to thirteen meters.

awkward smile. And then my dad in his younger days came VOL. 36

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to mind, though he had little in common with this man.

At the zoo he would always be a lot more relaxed, tolerant, and cheerful than at the department store or on the

with clear, unwavering eyes, as if asserting that he was still alive.

congested roads. I was also gradually drawn in to the zoo’s

I stepped back to part with my roommates.

cozy atmosphere, although I scrunched my face up at the

“I forgot something. I have to go pick it up. Go ahead . . .”

smell of dirt mixed with dry grass and manure. I still have

I hesitated there, waiting for them to disappear into

vivid memories of spending quite some time walking around

the gate completely before I grudgingly approached him. It

the zoo, holding Dad’s hand, watching bright yellow African

was only then that the skinny kid with a cap pulled over her

parrots, a dark blue peacock spreading out its tail like a

eyes caught my sight. Seung-ji had gotten so tall. At first I

huge fan, zebras whose bodies were taut as if they had been

was not sure if this kid wearing a half-length black and grey

pumped with air, a camel that seemed like it was crying with

plaid coat was a boy or a girl. She had a black canvas bag

its long, moist eyelashes, an elephant that looked like it had

that looked heavy slung across her chest and a suitcase at

a dirt-covered tent draped over its body.

her feet. She looked like someone who had set out on a long

At such times Mom always walked one or two steps

trip and just arrived on the street of a foreign country with

away from us, carrying a takeaway coffee cup in one hand,

no destination in mind. I pretended not to see her as I drew

like a woman who had come alone. She would occasionally

close to them.

detach herself from me and Dad and then reappear later. She turned her back to us with an expression that made her look

“How could you just come stand in front of the gate without giving me any notice?”

as if she were being lured by an obscure signal that came

I spoke bluntly. Family is a strange thing. We hadn’t

from somewhere far away. When I saw her do that it was as

seen each other in a couple years, but it was as if we had just

if I were catching a glimpse of the nature of a woman—not

talked yesterday.

a mother or wife—who was completely herself, like a clam

“I called you, but you didn’t answer.”

that had kept its shell closed forever. At amusement parks or

As it happened, my cell phone battery had in fact died.

zoos or places like that I sometimes burst into tears for no

Still, I found the situation hard to understand. I wonder if

reason.

he could ever have imagined. In my dreams, Dad was always ✽

Did my recollection of Dad at the zoo foretell what would

already dead. Even after waking up, I didn’t usually think it was strange that he was dead until just before I washed my face. Dad’s death had no impact on me at all.

come next? The moment I got off the bus, I immediately

But what about Seung-ji? Where is she and who does she

recognized him standing a hundred meters or so ahead. We

live with? While I washed my face, my thoughts would find

used to talk on the phone now and then, but I hadn’t seen

their way to Seung-ji and it was only then that I awoke from

his face in two years and three months. It was five o’clock on

the dream with a jolt, as if I were watching a swaddled baby

a Saturday afternoon. A few young students in the prime of

fall from a high cliff. The thought of Seung-ji that always

their lives were coming out of the school gate behind him.

broke me out of the dream like some sort of key, and the

Middle-aged men get shabby as they grow older, like the

sense of relief that Dad was still alive that always followed,

scruffy, worn-out fur of an animal. Especially poor middle-

made the dream seem like a set of flashcards that someone

aged men. Dad, though he was only forty-seven, looked

was drilling me with.

like a scruffy old bear living on a single suit. All the more so because it was still late winter and he had to make it through 54

with his dingy winter clothes. But he fixed his gaze on me

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

I questioned Dad with my eyes. Okay, Mr. Kim Hyeonyoung, what has brought you here?

FICTION

“Take Seung-ji and tell Mom to look after her.”

My eyes literally bulged from my head.

“Have you talked to Mom?” He studied my appearance closely without answering.

I was wearing a black zip-up hoodie and black jeans with flat sneakers and had my big canvas bag. And I had let my hair down loose. In any case, my appearance must have been a lot more polished than during my high school days. I was a sophomore in college then.

The further I get in school, the more suitable my outfits will be for job interviews. In other words, I’ll eventually have the basic, elegant professional woman’s business suit that the girls senior to me have. It’s not my kind of

My mom is

thing, and I’m not confident I can make myself wear

probably not a

clothes like that, but what else can I do about it? I guess I could be self-employed so that I’m able to make a living without conforming to social expectations, but for now

typical Korean woman.

everything is still up in the air.

“Did you read the Communist Manifesto?”

Dad brought up the Communist Manifesto out of nowhere again. On the day of my college entrance

hurt? And on top of that the emotional labor at an ice cream

ceremony last year I got a call from him. He said without

shop will knock you out. I stood there, fighting my urge to

further explanation that I should read the Communist

snap at him.

Manifesto now that I had become a college student.

He tossed his right hand up and walked away swiftly.

Communism? It was almost like the name of one of the

Then he climbed into the driver’s seat of the blue pickup

rubber toy dinosaurs he bought me when I was a child.

truck he had parked in front of the snack bar. It was a

Tyrannosaurus, brachiosaurus, triceratops, stegosaurus.

delivery truck with the name of some distant relative’s rural

They were painted in somewhat strange shades of orange,

tofu factory on it in big green letters. The business was

green, sienna, and brown, and they were small, but they

probably not much bigger than a home-based workshop,

never once actually looked small to me. They possessed

but they called it a factory. The truck started off with a

that surrealistic imagery and symbolism unique to things in

splutter and slid away. It kept going and disappeared into an

which a formidable size and time and strength and existence

intersection. I could not believe what was happening, but

are condensed.

Dad’s car disappeared just like that. Oh, god . . .

Maybe when you were in college most people were in the

“What just happened?”

democratization movement, Dad, but now most of us are

Seung-ji responded by pursing her lips and looking back

actually engaged in labor. I work in an ice cream shop six hours

at me as if to ask why I was asking her. Her eyes felt pretty

a day on the weekdays. Not a front, a real job. When it gets to

unyielding. I had not seen her in years, yet her face still

be eleven o’clock and I’ve scooped about 200 scoops of ice cream,

held something that made me uneasy. Seung-ji’s expression

do you have any idea how much my right arm and shoulder

plainly showed that she, too, felt uncomfortable with me.

VOL. 36

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I stood waiting in front of the school gate in disbelief. Forty minutes passed but he didn’t return.

It was a white rabbit.

“It’s Violet.”

“I’m hungry,” Seung-ji said, letting out a sigh. Her cheeks

The look on her face told me that she felt sorry about it.

looked pale, probably because she was hungry. Did he really

Apparently Mom would have to take care of more than just

drop a kid off in the middle of the street without even

Seung-ji. A middle school girl and a pet. And she called the

having fed her first . . .?

rabbit Violet. Dad’s showing up unannounced had turned

“Come with me.”

everything upside down in my head.

She followed after me, more or less dragging the bag she had put down on the ground. The Chinese restaurant was

It got dark while we rode to Mom’s house on the bus. I did

empty. I was going to buy her just a bowl of jajangmyeon at

not even consider calling her first. There was nothing to

first, but then I thought of the ordeal she was about to go

do but force our way through, the same strategy Dad had

through, and I thought, Well, I don’t know. I ordered a plate

used. I put in the earbuds of my MP3 player so I could stop

of tangsuyuk.

worrying about Seung-ji. She found her earbuds to listen

“Where is he going to go?”

to her MP3 player too. We closed off our ears, putting up a

“I don’t know.”

fence of songs that the other could not hear. The bus passed

“When did he say he would come back?”

by Namdaemun Gate and came to a halt in Seoul City Hall

“I don’t know.”

Square between the Plaza Hotel and Deoksugung Palace.

It looked like I would have to pour pepper water down

Some people call this street the heart of Seoul. Fixing her

her nose if I wanted to get her to open her mouth. As slowly

eyes on the square, Seung-ji reached into her bag to pet the

as possible, I blended red pepper powder with soy sauce

rabbit.

and vinegar to make the sauce for the tangsuyuk. No matter

Seung-ji was Dad’s stepdaughter from his second

how slowly I did it, the sauce was soon ready. Seung-ji was

marriage. If Mom saw Seung-ji, would she immediately feel

looking fixedly toward the kitchen, so I shifted my gaze to

sad? Or get upset? Just be shocked? What kind of feelings

the other side of the restaurant. It was then that something

would Mom have for her? Hate, pity, cold-heartedness or

wriggling inside Seung-ji’s black bag, which she had hung

indifference . . .? As I imagined her possible responses, I was

over the chair, caught my attention. I’m not easily surprised,

reminded of the day I moved into her place.

but my eyes widened.

pp. 11-22

“What’s inside the bag?”

An embarrassed look appeared on Seung-ji’s face and

Translated by Jinah Kim and Seth Chandler

she opened her bag. I craned my neck to see inside the bag.

Jon Kyongnin has published eleven novels, in addition to short story collections, essay collections, and fairy tales for adults. Her novel A Special Day in My Life was made into the movie Deep Loves in 2002. Jon has received the Hyundae Literary Award, Yi Sang Literary Award, and the 21st Century Literature Award. The English edition of her book I Drift on Unknown Waters in a Glass Boat was published in 2010. ▶

56

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FICTION

Savage Alice

by Hwang Jungeun

The dog stirs in its cage. The dog is probably wet. There’s a tin roof over the cage, but it sits so close to the ground that rainwater would have flown into the cage. The dog is probably looking through the mesh floor of the cage at the rainwater below.

Maybe it is thinking that the cage is drifting off somewhere in the currents. Is the dog nervous? Alisair pulls his cold blanket up to his nose and looks up at the ceiling.

He listens to the sound of rain that fades and then hits the trailer hard as it sweeps past. What about the rain? Does the rain also stink? The water that evaporates from deep inside the water tank of the sewage treatment plant to become clouds and then fall over Gomo-ri will smell like filth. It will be, for instance, yellow. The rain will be yellow. It will smell yellow. The pup that comes from the dog soaked in yellow Munhakdongne Publishing Group

rain will also be yellow. When the time comes, the adults at Alisair’s will eat it. Their

2013, 164 pp.

bodies will also be yellow. How yellow.

For publication inquiries, contact us at

koreanlitnow@klti.or.kr

How yellow.

What about people who come from a yellow person?

Will they be yellow?

As yellow as the dog and as yellow as its pup?

Alisair makes plans to lure the righteous girl who ripped up his little brother’s notebook and rip her into pieces. He wants to sneak up behind her and knock her down. He could push her but that sort of thing is not so gratifying. Alisair wants that girl to never forget what happened to her. Not as an accident, but an effect brought on by a cause that she will remember very clearly and never forget. Tomorrow, Alisair will trail her. He will lure her by promising her a bowl of noodles. They will leave the school, walk past the tailor’s, the bicycle store, the fabric shop, and turn onto a narrow alley by the fire hydrant. In the alley, the girl will be ripped up. Alisair will do it himself. He will absolutely do it the very moment he can. He will be sure to do it the first chance he gets. You must be ripped up the same way. He will also lead that bastard and the other bastard and that bitch who touched his little brother to the alley and rip them all up to shreds. He will rip them to pieces so small they can’t be put back together again, and bury them all in that alley. And in the end, he’ll bury his little brother, too. Alisair hates that bastard most of all. He’s so weak it’s repulsive.

He’s a retard and a shit. He once came home with shit in his pants. He wanted to take a dump during class, but he couldn’t raise his hand and ask for permission so he VOL. 36

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want to know, they ultimately don’t. Alisair might have an explanation for her fucked-up-ness. Based on what he’s heard from her or his old man, Alisair may be able to say this: She so very wanted to study but could not, grew up with more than her fair share of abuse from the head of the household, just shit in his pants. The smell spread across the classroom

was sent to a restaurant kitchen when she was grown up, had

from where he sat, and the children pinched their noses

her wages taken away each month by her father, and when

as they turned to look at him, and the teacher moved his

she finally had had enough and fought to keep her wages

desk, his chair, and him in it to a corner of the classroom

for the first time, she was stripped, chased out of the house,

as punishment for soiling his pants. He sat in his own shit

and made to stand in the snow. She’s troubled because she

until school was over, and then came home. Alisair’s mother

cannot get over it.

stripped him down in the front yard and washed the crusty

What a load of crap.

shit off his ass with the hose they used to clean the dog cage.

Get lost, Alisair, who wants to put it that way.

The high water pressure hurt and the boy fled to a corner

When she does that, she does it because she wants to. In

of the yard where she chased him with the water hose and

such moments, she is as transparent and simple as a drop

laughed. The retarded son of a bitch just sat there and shit

of rain. She hits because she wants to. Because she hits,

in his pants, huh? You’re the only retard in the world who

she wants to hit, and because she wants to hit, the hitting

would do that, she jeered. She didn’t seem to mean much

escalates. It’s not so much she can’t control herself as she just

more by it than to make fun of him, but it started up again

doesn’t want to. Because it takes too much sweat and shame

in the evening. Whatever was getting on her nerve had her

to accumulate enough morals to understand she mustn’t hit,

dragging him back out into the yard to shove and yank him

she gives up on the whole business and concentrates on the

around and let him have it.

hitting.

She is like that sometimes, and when she is like that, she

58

does not stop. When she’s like that, she’s not so much a

She would have been cold.

person as she is a state of being. Like heated metal, she

The night she had to stand naked in the snow, she would

becomes hot and strong, changing the temperature around

have been cold.

her. This is fucked-up-ness. As it persists and escalates, its

She would have been wearing her underwear. Because she’s

context evaporates and turns into a fucked-up state that

a girl, they would have left that on. Her skinny feet are

can only be called fucked-up-ness. Alisair and his little

planted in the snow. Her toes, buried in the snow, are red,

brother are exposed to this fucked-up-ness. The old man

and the tops of her feet are blue. Her ankles and thighs are

and their neighbors in Gomo-ri all know this. Because they

so cold they almost feel hot. Her lips pressed against her

know, they don’t want to know, and because they don’t

fist are plum-colored and her black hair is wet with snow

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

and clinging to her head. To hide herself from the passers-

and peaceful.

by, she goes around to the back of the house and leans

She’s Fucking Bitch who begot Post-fucking Bitch.

against the chimney. She is in so much pain she interrupts all thought, clears her head, and looks up at the stars and

When Alisair’s Fucking Bitch hits Alisair’s little brother,

moon embedded in the cold night sky. She does not think

Alisair summons up all the fuck he can muster and turns

of anything. She sticks it out in that spot for a few hours and

into a warrior. The fucking warrior charges.

then sneaks into the house. Her brothers, sisters, and father

He charges and charges.

are asleep. She looks down at the small head of her mother

Fuck, there is no defeat for him.

poking out from under the blanket. She takes an especially long look at her. Her father’s beatings are so frequent and

That’s a lie.

common that it is no longer new or curious. He wants to be

With no time for defeat, he waits for the moment to pass.

this way, and he will continue to be this way whenever he wants to until he eventually dies. But she’s curious about her

Because the night will be over soon.

mother. Why doesn’t Mother do anything about it? Why

Sleep, says Alisair.

didn’t she even check on me? Why didn’t she try to bring me back inside? I was so fucking cold I wanted to die and

✽

yet she’s sleeping with a look on her face that says she’s not

A dog lies on the paddy ridge.

even curious what I’m up to. In the warm air that smells

This dog does not look like the dogs that are raised in

like leftover noodle soup the family had for dinner, old

Alisair’s cage. It’s small and its legs are short. Its hair is

bedding, and humans sleeping, a fucking bitch germinates

longer, curly, and knotty. The dog has been there for some

very quietly. The fucking bitch looks down at Mother

time and was not swept away in the rain last night. Soaked

so comfortably asleep next to Father. The fucking bitch’s

with rain, its stomach is a little bloated. The dog looks bored

mother is a small, quiet person. She learned sewing in Japan

and peaceful. It’s lying on its side with its tongue sticking

and returned a good seamstress, and is an obedient woman

out a little. If it weren’t for the dark red puddle under its

who does not say or do anything violent. She has frail white

chin, it would look like it was taking a nap.

skin like the noble class and does not do bad deeds. One

Alisair’s family steps over the dog as they walk along the

could say she’s as innocent and pure as an egg. If you asked,

paddy ridge. Father, Mother, Alisair, and his brother. They

nine out of ten people would say she was a kind person. She

walk single file down the narrow, muddy path that sticks

does not steal, argue, or raise her voice. She is hardworking,

to their shoes. Alisair’s old man walks at the head of the

and humble to the point of having little presence wherever

line. Dressed snappily in a jacket and slacks, he had rushed

she goes, and laughs when others do. She seems most happy

his family since morning to get ready and head out. On his

and peaceful when she’s peaceful and happy. She’s most

small, round head sits a hunting cap he only wears when he’s

peaceful and happy when she makes soup with the beef or pheasant

traveling far.

He doesn’t talk about himself

meat the head of the household

unprompted, but when asked,

brings home wrapped in newspaper

he speaks excitedly. He was

after a day of enjoying himself with

a war survivor. He grew up

the prostitutes, and gathers his

as the son of a farmer, and

entire family for dinner. She is full

joined the refugees heading VOL. 36

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She would have been cold.

The night she had to stand naked in the snow, she would have been cold.

to put food on the table, they fed me, gave me a place to sleep, and work to do, and so it’s the polite, right thing to visit them every now and then.

Alisair’s mother follows behind the old man, followed by Alisair and Alisair’s little brother. Alisair’s mother is wearing a green coat and lipstick. She follows her

60

south from the north. Everyone was dead or lost except

husband from the edge of the paddies to the bus stop. They

for an aunt, the wife of his mother’s younger brother. He

wait for the bus under a tree that’s shed all its leaves. A Gomo-

walked with all his strength to not lose sight of his aunt who

ri villager also waiting for the bus approaches the couple. She

tried to get rid of him every chance she got. He walked on

asks the old man how the new house is coming along, and

with his eyes firmly fixed on his young aunt who wouldn’t

glances at his wife who is sitting primly on the bench with

even give him enough to eat, but was separated from her in a

her small mouth pursed. Before the first frost . . . The bus

forest fire. He scrambled up the mountain, running from the

arrives before the old man gets to the end of the sentence,

flames that kept sweeping uphill. When he reached the top,

and the family gets on the bus. The bus is empty and they

he was alone. When the flames were about to catch up with

have their pick of seats. Alisair sits next to his little brother,

him, he swept the leaves and branches off the ground around

and their parents sit in the row in front of them. Without a

him, and lay down in the circle of bare earth he made. The

word, they lurch as the bus takes them away. Alisair stares at

flames engulfed the leaves and branches surrounding the

the heads of the people sitting in front of him. The back of a

circle, and he survived. He walked to the south on his own

human head sure looks peculiar.

and wandered, begging for food until he became a servant in

Hey, brother, Alisair’s brother whispers.

Gomo-ri. This was back when there were still people living

Are we having barbecue today?

in Gomo-ri.

...

The Nam family who employed him as a servant no longer

I said, are we having barbecue today?

lived in Gomo-ri. Their old house was knocked down a long

You like barbecue?

time ago. The family moved to the city and experienced

You don’t?

all sorts of failures, and now owns a large barbecue place

None for me, thanks.

they bought with the money that remained. The old man

Are we going to that place?

periodically pays them a visit, eats barbecue there, and comes

...

home. Periodically, he brings his family along on the visit.

I don’t like the meat at that place.

The old man says they are family. They are no different from

...

family. At a time when the war made it hard for everyone

It smells.

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

...

come and go without much to do and not many customers,

It smells like killing cows.

and leave the four of them alone for a while. Finally, a

...

sullen woman with a northern accent brings them some

I think they kill them in the kitchen right before they bring

handwipes and takes their order. Alisair’s father asks for two

them out. It smells like blood and piss and cow shit.

orders of beef seasoned with just salt and pepper and grills

...

them. The old man sits cross-legged on the floor, his hands

Like the smell of a cow dying.

grabbing his feet, and rocks back and forth as he waits for

There’s no such smell.

the meat to cook. Swabbing the sweat off his forehead with

Why not?

the same handwipe he used to wipe his face and neck, the

You ever smelled it for real, brat?

old man turns the meat over and eats meat and rice wrapped

They arrive at the barbecue place at around noon. It’s across

in lettuce and sesame leaves. He eats voraciously and loudly

the street, and that is its name. It really says “Across the

as though it is far more delicious than any food he eats at

Street” on the store sign. A woman in a rabbit fur vest comes

home. When there are just a few pieces left, he raises his

out to greet them, but frowns when she sees who they are.

hand to summon the owner—Miss!—and the woman sighs.

The owner of Across the Street, she tepidly receives her old

Snotty bitch, Alisair’s mother says under her breath and the

servant’s family. I trust everyone in your family is well, the

old man breezily asks for more food. Barbecue, rice, and

old man inquires politely with his hunting cap in his hands.

soup. He chews and swallows until his clothes and

Alisair steps onto the sticky wooden floor of the restaurant

skin are saturated with the smell

that has been soaking up barbecue grease for years, and

of grilling meat.

watches the former servant and master greet each other. The

pp. 38-48

restaurant looks like an old-fashioned house with a large indoor deck and heavy floor tables. While Alisair and his

Translated by Jamie Chang

family sit quietly and straighten out the cups, napkin holder, and the spoon and chopsticks box, the restaurant staff

Hwang Jungeun has written three novels and three short story collections. She has won several literary awards such as the Kim Yujung Literary Award, the Hankook Ilbo Literary Award, the Lee Hyoseok Literary Award, and the Daesan Literary Award. Her novel One Hundred Shadows was published

by Tilted Axis, an excerpt of which appeared in the Guardian. ▶

Visit koreanliteraturenow.com to watch a trailer of this book.

VOL. 36

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Somsan and Duyên

by Yoo Jaehyun

Sihanoukville, Cambodia.

Somsan, a “moto” taxi driver in Sihanoukville, lost his last twenty dollars playing roulette in the alley opposite Phsar Leu Market in the western part of town before it was three thirty in the morning. He reached into his right-hand side pants pocket, pulling out battered money: two 1,000 riel bills and three 200 riel bills. Under the dim fluorescent light, the small and crumpled bills looked pitifully reddish and bluish. Somsan put the crumpled bills, worth no more than a dollar, back into his pocket before leaving the dozen or so gamblers still playing. The dust kicked up in the wind from the front street of Phsar Leu was carried into the alley, leaving a gritty taste in his mouth. Over the last three days, Somsan had gambled away 1,000 dollars.

From the short story collection

That was more money than he could save for a year, given that he made a hundred

Sihanoukville Stories

dollars a month.

Changbi Publishers, 2004, 280 pp.

For publication inquiries,

Somsan trudged out of the alley, stopped at the wide front street of Phsar Leu,

contact us at

and looked up. The sky was black, dark, and heavy with low-hanging clouds. With

koreanlitnow@klti.or.kr

an unpleasantly humid wind from the Gulf of Thailand blowing in his face, Somsan stood blankly looking at the entrance to Phsar Leu, deep and dark like a cat’s throat with its mouth wide open. A cloud of dust rose once in a while, whirling around Somsan’s ankles.

After a moment’s hesitation, Somsan crossed the deserted street and walked into the vast darkness of Phsar Leu, which looked as though covered in a black curtain.

While he walked through the narrow maze of streets, still objects in the market buried in darkness emerged slowly and faintly into view. The narrow Phsar Leu streets were deep in mud, and Somsan kept stumbling, even though he knew these streets like the back of his hand. Around the corner of one street, Somsan stopped in front of his father’s one-meter square stall buried in darkness. After his release from an Indonesian prison, Somsan had come to his father in Sihanoukville and inherited his job of keeping a night watch from the hammock behind the stall, looking out for thieves.

Somsan had been in that job for an entire year until he started driving a moto taxi after getting a Chinese-made Sanyang motorcycle.

“Thieves are afraid of people,” his father had said, explaining the rationale for keeping watch over the stall—although that wasn’t the case for all thieves, as

62

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

it turned out. In Somsan’s one-year stint as guard of his

The term Yuon, referring to the Vietnamese people,

father’s stall, two of Phsar Leu’s merchants ended up dead

meant savages. Having expanded their territory by

with bullet holes in their bodies, and one thief not afraid of

encroaching on the Khmer’s for hundreds of years, the Viet

people was shot to death by a merchant.

were regarded by the Khmer as savage invaders.

Though Somsan had bid farewell to his father’s stall in Phsar Leu, swearing to never ever look back again,

“Don’t go too far into the woods, or Yuon will take you away.”

having been fed up with everything about it—how he’d

“Yuon will take you away,” Khmer mothers would

be frightened out of sleep by so much as a rustling noise

always say to scare their children. The word Yuon carried

and how he’d been soaked in muddy water when the

ungrounded fear as much as hatred. During the Democratic

place flooded in the rainy season—he would return from

Kampuchea years, Yuon were the people’s enemies, no less

time to time, to stay up all night after a fight with his

bad than imperialists, capitalists, or Americans.

stepmother or half-brothers or when feeling depressed.

Democratic Kampuchea had fallen, but everyone still

Most importantly, Somsan hadn’t found any other place, at

hated Yuon in secret, if not outspokenly, as though they were

least in Sihanoukville, that gave him such complete refuge in

creepy insects. How the Khmer felt about Yuon remained

darkness.

unchanged, even after Vietnam had sent 100,000 troops

Somsan took out a cigarette and put it between his lips,

into Democratic Kampuchea, overthrowing the regime and

but didn’t light it. He searched behind the display stand,

establishing the People’s Republic of Kampuchea, and then

boarded up with thick rough planks and covered in rusty

withdrawing the troops ten years later. That shows how

chains and locks, each the size of a child’s head, and he

deep-seated the Khmer’s contempt was for Yuon. Though

found a small wooden chair. He sat on it, and tried to clear

half-Chinese, Somsan’s father was no exception.

his foggy, sleep-deprived brain.

Somsan felt nothing particular about Yuon, good or

The angry face of Duyên, who’d been begging him to

bad. Twenty years earlier, he had spent seven years in a

marry her for months, came to his dizzy mind. She was a

Cambodian refugee camp in Vietnam. At the age of fifteen,

thirty-year-old Vietnamese woman long past her prime

he decided to follow his aunt’s family to Australia, against

as a potential bride. Every time her name was brought up,

his father’s wishes. He didn’t make it to Australia but ended

Somsan’s father would frown and shake his head. Though

up in a refugee camp in Sông Bé. He returned to Phnom

Somsan was far from an eligible bachelor, having wasted

Penh after seven years in the camp, seven wasted years. He

a total of sixteen years in refugee camps and a prison in Vietnam and Indonesia—time that had been no better than the murderous Democratic Kampuchea

comforted himself with the thought that he’d been lucky to have survived that murderous civil war.

years that had come before—his father

The Yuon living outside the refugee

wouldn’t accept Duyên as his daughter-

camp weren’t particularly better or worse

in-law. “Why Yuon?”

off than Somsan living inside it. Some Yuon

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would envy life in the camp for the occasional delivery of

had gambled away. Smoking his first cigarette in a very long

relief supplies—even though half of them would be lost

time, the smoke going deep into his lungs, Somsan was

along the way—from such organizations as the UN and the

forever sinking into the mud of Phsar Leu. ✽

International Committee of the Red Cross, and other Yuon would regard Kampuchea as nothing more than a colony of Vietnam.

The early morning rain turned into a downpour but tapered

In addition to his deep-seated contempt for Yuon,

off by late morning, still raining hard on and off all morning.

Somsan’s father had another reason to refuse Duyên as

“Poor Somsan, he’s been hard hit for the last couple of

his daughter-in-law: “Do you think you can take a Yuon

days. I wonder where he got that much money,” Soktree, a

prostitute for your wife and still live a normal life in

low-ranking police officer and a regular gambler in Phsar Leu

Kampuchea?”

who just stopped by the house to take shelter from the rain,

Duyên was a Vietnamese prostitute. Somsan’s father

muttered as if to himself, shaking water off his hair in front

knew it without Somsan telling him because everyone

of Duyên, who was eating a breakfast of noodles, slurping the

knew that most Vietnamese women in Sihanoukville were

broth. As soon as Soktree finished saying it, Duyên blinked

prostitutes. But it wasn’t as though Somsan stood a chance

her eyes a couple of times before she understood what he was

of finding a Cambodian woman willing to marry a man like

trying to insinuate.

him who had nothing to offer, no money, no house, and no

“I’ll tear him to pieces!”

land.

Realizing that Somsan had gambled away her 1,000

After spending seven years in the refugee camp in

dollars, Duyên sprang to her feet and dashed into the

Vietnam, Somsan realized that Yuon were no different

backyard, looking for the knife she used to chop firewood

from the Khmer. There were bad as well as good people

into small pieces.

everywhere, so there were obviously some snobbish Yuon who thought of Kampuchea as no more than a colony.

Somsan replaced his unfiltered cigarette, wet with saliva,

Watching as she stormed out like a mad woman, overturning her noodle bowl, the low-ranking officer nodded, pleased that his plan was going well.

and lit a new one. Everything around him sank back into

He’s dead meat, he thought.

darkness after brightening for a moment in the match light,

Soktree hated Somsan, an English-speaking snob who

yet Somsan could see, for quite a while, afterimages of the

used his ability to speak Yuon to hang with the Vietnamese

Phsar Leu streets in the black mud and the rusty chains

and took advantage of others. Besides, Soktree thought

around gray planks boarding up the display stand. From

that Somsan was too foxy. Not that Soktree would classify

somewhere in the darkness of Phsar Leu, there came through

Somsan as a gun-carrying thug selling ganja or heroin as well

those afterimages the sound of someone tossing and turning

as pimping. A crafty coward, that’s what Soktree thought of

in a hammock, as if sighing.

Somsan.

It had been Duyên’s money, the 1,000 dollars Somsan

Duyên’s mama-san also saw her fuming. The mama-

“Do you think you can take a Yuon prostitute for your wife and still live a normal life in Kampuchea?”

64

FICTION

Staring up at the exposed ceiling

mother had left Vietnam, to bring Duyên to Sihanoukville,

of wooden planks, Somsan

Cambodia. Prostitution with Westerners, in particular, was

sighed, shaking his head in his disgust at his bad luck, which he felt he’d been cursed with for almost all his life.

considered the job of the lowest of prostitutes. Duyên had made 1,000 dollars from that lowest of jobs before giving it to Somsan.

“Look, a 3,000-dollar house is on the market in Mithona.”

When Somsan had said this to her a week earlier, Duyên was secretly excited. Mithona was the street leading to the beach between downtown and the pier. On the top of the hill, about two hundred meters to the left of that street, there

san’s face creased with stifled laughter as she crossed her

was a small, poor village of about twenty households. Duyên

arms. “What did I tell you? If you’re looking for a man, a full

thought she wouldn’t mind living there, even though it was

Kampuchean would be better than a half Chinese.”

a shabby neighborhood with steep paths and no electricity,

The mama-san followed Duyên out into the backyard,

as long as she could be brought out of prostitution.

but as Duyên glared at her, knife in hand and eyes

After Somsan told Duyên that he was 1,000 dollars

narrowing, she quickly turned around, her face turning pale,

short, he mentioned that the price of the house could

her mouth pouting, and went back inside the house, into

possibly rise at least to 10,000 dollars in a few years, and he

the hall.

also promised that he would register the house in her name.

With the knife tucked in her waistband, Duyên sped from the house on an 80-cc motorcycle, the heavy rain

Even if he hadn’t done either, she would still have willingly given him 1,000 dollars, essentially her entire fortune.

slapping her face. Though constantly spitting out rain from

“Buy the house, save up some money, and we’ll get

her mouth, she was seething with too much rage and hatred

married in six months,” Somsan remembered to assure

for Somsan to even realize that it was raining. I’ll kill that

Duyên once he’d pocketed her 1,000 dollars.

damn Chinese as soon as I see him.

Somsan knew exactly how Duyên had made that money.

While Duyên was combing Ochheuteal and Sokha beaches,

All the young Vietnamese prostitutes in the house avoided

Somsan’s house in Ekareach, the downtown bus terminal,

serving Western customers. They weren’t welcomed—not

the pier, even Hun Sen Beach, and every nook and cranny of

only for their looks but also because of AIDS, believed to

Sihanoukville to find him, Somsan was hiding in Phonery’s

have spread into Cambodia by Westerners who’d entered

house, located in Phum Thmey by the pier. He would’ve

the country with the United Nations Transitional Authority

been confronted with Duyên’s firewood-chopping knife, had

in Cambodia (UNTAC). Duyên, on the other hand, being

it not been for the rain pouring down on him, fast asleep in

a thirty-year-old prostitute, couldn’t afford to be picky.

the hammock after staying up for three days. Fortunately for

Westerners couldn’t tell—or didn’t care about—her age,

Somsan, it had roused him out of sleep, and he fled to Phum

and, what was better, they would pay her as much as five

Thmey in the early morning, feeling that Duyên might come

dollars, sometimes even ten on her lucky days.

looking for him.

Although chosen without shame for the purpose of

Phum Thmey was the quayside red-light district that

surviving, and sometimes making money, prostitution

Somsan sometimes visited. Phonery was the host of the

wasn’t an honorable profession anywhere. That was why her

house to which Somsan brought guests, each for a dollar in VOL. 36

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commission. On rainy days, the Phum Thmey streets were

the Vietnamese army came as far up as Sisophon by way

filthy as a cesspool, muddy and reeking of rotting fish. After

of Phnom Penh, everyone in Somsan’s family returned

hiding his motorcycle behind Phonery’s house, Somsan

to Phnom Penh, where Somsan attended school for five

entered the plank-walled room and fell into a sleep from

months, the thirty-five-year-old’s only education.

which he didn’t wake until past noon.

When he did wake up, Somsan felt hungry, his mind

Somsan, his two half-brothers, two aunts, and grandmother

muddled. He wasn’t lying when he said he would buy that

left for Saigon, Vietnam, after receiving word from his uncle,

house in Mithona. The problem was simply that he hadn’t

who had emigrated to France. Ten months later, Somsan

had the 2,000 dollars in the first place. Worse, he had been

and the others were sent from Saigon to a refugee camp in

unlucky. Given some luck, there was no reason he couldn’t

Sông Bé, where Somsan spent seven years. After those seven

have tripled the 1,000-dollar investment.

years, Somsan returned to his father in Sihanoukville, and

Staring up at the exposed ceiling of wooden planks,

tried to go to Australia via Indonesia but ended up in the

Somsan sighed, shaking his head in his disgust at his bad luck,

Galang Refugee Camp for another six years. At the end of

which he felt he’d been cursed with for almost all his life.

his six-year stint and right before his imminent repatriation,

In the year that saw Khmer Rouge advance into Phnom

he escaped and spent the next six months wandering from

Penh, Somsan was only eight years old. Some years earlier,

place to place in Kalimantan before he was caught by the

when quite a few US air raids continued throughout, a B-52

Indonesian police and sent to prison in Jakarta for a year.

had dropped a bomb, sending shrapnel flying around the

Again, he returned to Sihanoukville after his release.

field where Somsan’s mother had been working, killing her

Given that he spent fifteen years in refugee camps and

on the spot. Later that year, Somsan’s family left their home

prison, Somsan thought he had been unlucky. After the

in Ta Keo for Phnom Penh, where they settled down near

refugee camp in Sông Bé, one of his aunts had gone to live

Phsar Thmey and had been eking out a living.

Only a few days after Phnom Penh fell, the new regime started evacuating the city. For many days, Somsan’s family moved through the country, walking all the way

66

The following year saw the breakup of his family:

in Australia and one of his half-brothers to France. But Somsan had ended up back in Cambodia.

In Phonery’s small room, where dim light was seeping through the door cracks,

via Battambang to a collective farm in Sisophon, not

Somsan took his passport out of the small bag

far away from the border with Thailand. One of

he always carried, tucked carefully inside his belt.

Somsan’s aunts died of malnutrition in Sisophon,

A Cambodian passport with the red cover.

but everyone else survived not only that arduous

It had cost Somsan a whopping hundred

journey on foot from Phnom Penh to Sisophon

dollars. Twenty to bribe someone for an

but also the three-and-a-half years of Democratic

ID card and eighty to get himself all the

Kampuchea, when people were treated as though

way to Phnom Penh and stay for two

a human life were worth less than a water buffalo’s. Once

days. Printed in France, his passport

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

FICTION

looked spotless and sturdy.

“Now you’re in serious trouble,” Phonery barked, his eyes

Six months earlier, Somsan had met a Vietnamese

glaring. “I can’t believe you’ve gambled away a Vietnamese

man from France, a passenger on his moto for two days.

chick’s money, 1,000 dollars at that! Incredible! A chick

Supposedly a manager of a clothing wholesale business

named Duyên has just been to Phum Thmey, looking for

in Marseille, he sent Somsan a letter four months later,

you everywhere. With a knife in her waistband! If I’d told

explaining that his boss was looking for a clerk for a clothing

her you were here, you’d be dead by now.”

shop in that city and that he would like to invite Somsan

As Somsan sat up from the bed, Phonery plopped down

over if he, Somsan, was interested in that job. Though

on its edge, slapping him on the back of his head, as if trying

not entirely convinced, Somsan wrote back the next day,

to knock some sense into him.

promising to work his fingers to the bone if offered the job.

pp. 9-13, 19–25

A week later, he set out to get a passport. The Vietnamese Translated by Soyoung Kim

man of Marseille had yet to reply.

Do they no longer need a clerk? Somsan wondered. He said the job paid 1,000 dollars a month.

Somsan opened his passport to the first page and studied his photograph and the information on it. The name on his passport was “Ping,” a Chinese name. He had decided to use it because his aunt and nephew by the same name had emigrated to America. Every time he looked at that name, Somsan felt his faith growing stronger, faith that he could actually leave Cambodia this time. Somsan was caressing his passport, trying to feel less depressed, when the door opened and Phonery, the crippled former Khmer Rouge member, stepped inside.

Yoo Jaehyun is a novelist and journalist. Deeply interested in Asian history and culture, he has

©Changbi

published several books on the topic. Yoo has also published seven titles as part of the reportage series

On the Road based on his experiences in Asia, Eastern Europe, USA, Israel, Palestine, and Cuba.

▶

Visit koreanliteraturenow.com to watch a trailer of this book.

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Selected Poems by Kim Su-Young

BOOKMARK

By the Scallion Garden As the shell of a boiled egg is peeled, when old love is peeled, behold the green sprouts in the red garden of scallions.

To gain is to lose.

In the way your shadow moves over the dusty mirror, when old love moves, behold the green sprouts in the red garden of scallions.

To gain is to lose.

Like water given to scallions at dawn remains until midday, when old love is still wet in the center of the regretful mind, behold the green sprouts in the red garden of scallions.

To gain is to lose.

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KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

POETRY

Summer Night On the day noise on earth flourishes, noise in heaven also flashes.

That’s why summer is wonderful, and why a summer night is all the more wonderful.

A white cloud of summer roses bloomed late in the season in a corner of the garden troubled by noise.

A shower passed and wind seemed to come, but did not and noise flourished all the more.

When the day comes when people care about people, the day after noise flourishes to the full, the day when people love people, the day before noise flourishes to the full, we are always on the second floor above the noise.

We have never seen a humane heaven get this close

On the day after people loved people enough,

to us as if the second floor of earth is heaven.

I thought noise existed only on earth.

To pity others is to pity myself

But I realized that thunder in heaven

and my son also.

is louder than our ears can hear— it has always been there.

On the day noise flourishes on earth, the thunder of heaven flashes.

Because of this, the deeper the summer night, the better.

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BOOKMARK

Cloud Watcher If one looks carefully into the person that I am one will know I’m living a life treacherous to poetry.

With a mind standing on the top of a mountain I look at my children, my wife, and other vulgar things around them.

And I am determined to see only what is designated but if a friend comes and wakes me from a dream and rebukes me for my failures, it’s alright.

I am not living this old way because I hate thoughtless bloodshed.

Above the dusty weed is the sleeping cloud.

In the world where you can’t even experience hardship the way you want like a late spider out of season it is hard to live without recognition.

How awkward my life is, living like others, although only in appearance, with two bedrooms, two verandas, a clean kitchen, and pitiful wife.

O, poet’s mind that lives to betray poetry.

What is more miserable than a poet who cannot feel and look upon his naked body.

All the stupid ideas, looking for home on the street and yearning for the street at home perhaps disappeared like swallows that flew away.

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KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

POETRY

Like swallows that flew away without a trace or dream not knowing where I am heading my treacherous mind must go somewhere.

I’m on the mountaintop now— punished for my treason to poetry.

On this dry mountaintop, I must watch clouds for a long time without dreaming.

I am the watcher of the clouds.

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BOOKMARK

A Massive Root I still don’t know how to sit properly.

When I happen to be drinking with two friends, they don’t sit cross-legged, with one foot on one knee.

The minute I sit cross-legged in the Southern style, without fail they turn out to be from the North, so I change my posture.

After Liberation, the poet Kim Byeong-uk always tucked his feet under his butt like a Japanese woman whenever he argued.

But he’s a tough fellow having put himself through college in Japan by working in a steel mill for four years.

I am in love with Mrs. Isabella Bird Bishop.

She was the first to visit Joseon in 1893 and was a member of the Royal Geographic Society of the United Kingdom.

She saw a theatrical scene in Seoul: when a bell in Ingyeong Pavilion tolled all the men in the capital disappeared and Seoul turned into a world of women.

During that beautiful time, men could not walk on the street except for rickshaw drivers, eunuchs, servants of foreigners, and officials.

At midnight, the women disappeared, and the men came out again to engage in debauchery.

She says she had never seen a country with such a curious custom; Queen Min had never gone out of the palace . . .

1. T he Oriental Development Company, a quasi-official apparatus of the colonial administration, was created by the Japanese Diet in 1908. It “began a rapacious acquisition of land that would eventually make the company not only colonial Korea’s single biggest landlord but the infamous symbol and epitome of Japanese oppression to many Koreans.” Quoted from Carter Eckert, Offspring of Empire: The Koch’ang Kims and the Colonial Origins of Korean

Capitalism 1876-1945 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1991), p.16.

72

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

POETRY

If something is tradition, it does not matter how filthy it is.

At Gwanghwa Gate, I am reminded of the muddy road of the Sigu Gate, and think of a time when women washed their laundry in the brook, now paved over, boiling lye, near Inhwan’s wife’s home.

I consider this gloomy age a paradise.

After I knew of Mrs. Bird Bishop, the thoroughly rotten Republic of Korea did not trouble me. Rather, it is far too good for me.

If something is history, it does not matter how filthy it is.

If something is a muddy road, it does not matter how filthy it is.

As long as I can keep memory resonating more sharply than the echo of a brass bowl, humans will be eternal, and so will love.

While I am in love with Mrs. Bishop, you, progressives and socialists, fuck off !

Reunification, neutral policy? Screw it.

Intimacy, profundity, scholarship, dignity, convention, go to the national security office.

The Oriental Development Company,1 the Japanese embassy, Korean officials, all of you, suck ice cream and American cock.

For my part, I like chamber pots, hair bands, long bamboo smoking pipes, garden shops, cabinet shops, pharmacies at Gurigae, shoe shops, leather shops, a pockmarked person, a one-eyed guy, a barren woman, an ignoramus; I like all these reactionaries.

In order to put a foot on this land I thrust the massive root into my land.

The iron pillars of the third bridge of the Han River, planted under the water, are hairs on a moth compared to the massive root.

The massive root, reminding me of the mammoth in a horror movie, with deep black boughs repelling even crows, even magpies, that I cannot dare to imagine compared to the massive massive root . . .

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BOOKMARK

Sentimental Panmunjom2 Thirty thousand won that I promised to pay by the 31st.

Thirty thousand won that I said I would get by the 29th but, to be sure, I asked her to wait until tomorrow.

The person who will receive the money is my friend’s wife who fled from the North during the January 4th Retreat.

The bitch who embezzled the money is said to be a member of a mutual loan club of one million won, of which my wife is not a member.

But the boss of a loan club of which my wife is a member is the boss of the club in question and I heard she makes and sell dolls.

My friend’s wife forced us to repay the money at any cost, and we went to a friend to beg for a loan on the security of our house, without interest, for fifteen months.

The friend is from Hamgyeong Province, where the person who is supposed to receive the money is from.

74

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

POETRY

There is no hope the money will be available by the 31st.

When I called him, he asked me whether the problem had been solved yet.

The mode of questioning seemed strange.

What if this will not work?

I am intentionally trying not to think of the last resort, at least until the 31st!

31st, O my Panmunjom, The field, the curtain of darkness of a fool.

The original due date of the money is the end of October.

It is the due date in my calendar, but in the calendar of the 38th parallel, August 15th is the due date.

It may have been my mistake to tell my friend who is supposed to lend me the money that the woman who is supposed to receive the money is the wife of my friend of the January 4th Retreat The Collected Poetry of Kim Su-Young Minumsa Publishing Group, 2003, 394 pp.

and is from the same home town as him.

It may have been a mistake to tell my friend to whom I said I would repay the money by the 31st, no the 29th, and to whom I gave the deed to our house.

It may have been the miscalculation of my wife and I, people of the South, concerning the 38th parallel.

Could it have been the groundless sentimental thought of another year?

2. Panmunjom is a village on the border between North and South Korea, where the 1953 armistice that halted the Korean War was signed. As one of the last vestiges of the Cold War, the building where the armistice was signed is used as the meeting place between the South and the North.

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BOOKMARK

The Divorce Is Off I am overjoyed by your decision the second day after we decided to separate.

I am thrilled that after you decided to divorce me you decided to pay the debt for which I co-signed for my friend’s widow.

I am so happy you decided to pay the debt by borrowing 100,000 won at 6 percent interest on the security of our house.

We hesitated to pay between 30,000 and 50,000 out of 100,000.

I was the one who hesitated more.

We tried to refinance 50,000— in order not to hemorrhage, I went to a rich friend for a loan for the first time in my life, but failed to get it.

We did this and that, that and this, and this in order not to hemorrhage, or at least to bleed less painfully.

We did this and that, that and this and this.

Then I received a letter from a young friend who went to Scotland to study at the University of Edinburgh and I was moved to read Blake’s poem in his letter: “Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desire.”

I knew what it meant but could not achieve it.

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KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

POETRY

And now I have. Darling, we’ve won.

We’ve achieved Blake’s poem, now we can have contempt for cold people— at the house of the Chairman of the National Assembly yesterday the cold, intelligent eyes of the angelic woman writer at the cocktail party yesterday are lying.

Those eyes were not bleeding.

Everything that’s not good is evil, there is no neutral ground in God’s territory.

Honey, let’s reconcile, let me share in your bleeding, for that reason alone, let’s cancel our divorce. *Note— I translated Blake’s poem this way: “You must know, when a counterpart looks like an enemy, it’s time you arrived at the door to goodness.” [Note by the author—translator]

For publication inquiries, contact us at koreanlitnow@klti.or.kr

*Note to the note—the counterpart is the widow. [Note by the author—translator]

Translations by Lee Young-Jun

Kim Su-Young (1921–1968) is one of the most exceptional poets of modern Korea.

He mainly wrote participatory poetry that emphasized the criticism of reality and the spirit of resistance. He died from an accident when he was forty-seven, after which the Kim Su-Young Literary Award was instated in his honor. Mischief of

Moon Country is his only collection published during his lifetime, although he left behind over 300 poems. Collections of his poems have been translated into French, Spanish, and German.

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REVIEWS | ENGLISH |

Teenage Throwaways

adventure. A boy standing on an open

general seized power vowing to “clean

truck speeds along a riverside expressway,

up society”—an allusion to General

boldly facing the future. The silver grass

Chun Doo-hwan’s military coup of 12

and sunset evoke a “foreign, faraway

December 1979 and “social cleansing”

land.” Yet the boy and his mother are

policies.

riding a garbage truck bound for the

Bugeye joins masked pickers he sees

western outskirts of a megacity. As the

as astronauts or space aliens, trawling for

convoy climbs a dirt road beyond the

“yogurt bottles, empty cosmetics jars”

“cozy lights” of a village, the child is

in hardhats with miners’ headlamps. A

ripped from his fairytale.

shadow-city microcosm, the dump is a

At the crest of the hill, “they could

production line with a pecking order of

barely breathe from the stench. The smell

rakers. Bugeye’s stepfather figure, whom

was unbearably foul, a vile combination

he dubs Baron Ashura after a manga

of every bad odour in the world—manure,

villain, runs the work crew like a general.

sewage, spoiled food, hard-boiled soy

District dumps yield less than private-

sauce, fermented soybean paste. Clinging

sector waste such as US military bases.

Familiar Things

to their faces . . . were swarms of flies.” This

While humble pickers pay a permit fee,

Hwang Sok-yong

fetid heap is to be the thirteen-year-old’s

there are “Flower Island chaebols, the big

Translated by Sora Kim-Russell

workplace and home.

CEOs of the trash world.” As his mother

Scribe Publications, 2017, 216 pp.

The novel’s 1980s setting on “Flower Island” alludes to Seoul’s Nanjido, once

points out, “It may be garbage now, but they say it turns to gold.”

a beauty spot in the Han River famous

Seoulites pinch their noses when

for orchids and peanuts. Nanjido became

Flower Islanders hit town. Facing

More than forty years ago, Hwang Sok-

the capital’s landfill from 1978-92, when

schoolgirls in uniform, Bugeye “felt

yong traced the bewilderment of millions

its garbage mountain rose hundreds of

like he was watching a movie, and he

who toiled for the economic miracle

meters. In this child’s-eye view of the

could not enter the screen.” Yet he and

in his classic short story, “The Road to

rapacious logic of mass production and

the Baron’s son Baldspot, in hacked-off

Sampo,” about a drifter returning to his

consumption, “the people who lived

blue jeans, roam and watch the seasons

fishing village to find his island scarred

there were likewise discards and outcasts

turn. They visit Peddler Grandpa who

by construction sites. In Familiar Things,

driven from the city.”

dismantles electronics, and his epileptic

published in Korean in 2011 and now

Choi Jeong-ho aka Bugeye (a police-

daug hter who rescues stray do g s

out in Sora Kim-Russell’s assured English

man called him a “bug-eyed little punk”)

abandoned amid the new high-rises.

translation, the author returns to an era

lives by his fists, wits, and resilient

When not wolfing “Flower Island stew”

of breakneck industrialization to probe

imagination. A veteran of garment

made from scavenged food, the boys eat

the human and environmental costs of

sweatshops, he and his mother quit

ramen from styrofoam care packages at

the “Miracle on the Han River” and its

their inner-city slum to join the perilous

church school (“where rich ladies come

analogues around the world.

shantytown of 6,000 trash-pickers. His

to have their picture taken”). Pickings are

The novel begins with the enchant-

father was among thousands marched

plentiful during Chuseok (Korean harvest

ment and anticipation of a children’s

off to re-education camps after a new

festival), while kimchi-making season

78

REVIEWS

yields little but rotting cabbage and coal ash. Twice a month, a chemical stench sprayed from helicopters turns roofs “shiny black from dead flies.”

The novel pulls poetry from the

| ENGLISH |

Brothers on the Border

from Seoul, falls into the latter category.

After trying to get in touch with his long-lost father—who fled to the North during the Korean War, never to return to the wife and children he left behind

detritus, with a lucky find after a good

in the South (something Yi himself

turn affording a spree in a downtown

experienced firsthand, his own father

toy store. A glue-sniffing interlude

defecting the same way)—he finds his

resembles a hallucinogenic video game.

father has passed away, this attempt at

Since Hwang’s break with pure realism

reconciliation too late. Does he want to

in 2000, he has borrowed from shamanic

meet his half-brother instead, asks Mr.

narratives, as he told me in London in

Kim, the intermediary organizing the

1

2015. Here, mysterious “blue lights”

reunion.

become a portal into a dokkaebi realm,

After an emotionally fraught day

with a lost pastoral of sailing boats

spent with his new brother, the now

and swaying sorghum that may yet be

slightly drunk narrator is berating his

recovered. At a riverside shrine where islanders once held shamanic rituals, a “mad” woman makes solemn offerings of

Meeting with My Brother Yi Mun-yol Translated by Heinz Insu Fenkl and

loud-mouthed fellow traveler because he’s had enough of the man haranguing

Yoosup Chang

everyone about the “importance of

cherished possessions—a broken pipe,

Columbia University Press, 2017,

reunification,” but so too his suggestion

a tarnished hairpin—in defiance of a

120 pp.

crystallizes the larger raison d’être

throwaway society.

of the novella itself: Yi navigates the

A blaze sparked by methane fireballs

political by way of the subjectivity of his

sweeps the shantytown. But with time,

protagonists—of one man shouldering

“the flower stalks would bore their way

“Is it possible that your approach

the grief, anger, and resentment of

through the ash.” The Nanjido landfill

is wrong ? Taking a purely political

having been abandoned, while the other

was reborn in 2002 as an urban eco-

approach to reunification . . .” asks the

contends with the burden of growing

project, Seoul’s World Cup Park. Hwang

narrator of Yi Mun-yol’s 1994 novella

up in the shadow of a mirror image he’s

offers a crucial reminder of the park’s

Meeting with My Brother. He’s engaged in

never met.

emergence from a pitiless system where

a heated discussion with another member

And it’s via these two personal

children are “worth less than scrap

of the tour group he’s on, one who goes

experiences that we’re able to begin to

metal.”

by the nickname “Mr. Reunification”—

comprehend the very real complexities at

an activist with a “passionate interest in

stake when it comes to the larger divided

by Maya Jaggi

the lost glories of ancient Korea.” They

nation. Yi’s message rings out loud

Cultural Journalist

are in Yanji, on the Chinese-North

and clear: a “purely political” approach

Korean border, a place where smugglers

is to miss the point; the political is

pass themselves off as tourists and

always personal. “Perhaps that’s what

hwang-sok-yong-in-conversation-with-

estranged families attempt surreptitious

reunification is,” muses his narrator

maya-jaggi

rendezvous. The narrator, a professor

towards the end of the tale, “only on a

Critic for Financial Times and the Guardian

1. https://audioboom.com/posts/3199690-

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79

grander scale and all at once: meeting a

the narrowness of their own experience

brother whose face you’ve never seen.”

or the ideolog y they’ve absorbed—

It’s not that the imagery Yi uses is particularly radical—indeed, as

then secondly, that in which unexpected similarities come to light.

| ENGLISH |

Chaos and Courage

the novella’s talented and attentive

Cultural differences between the

translator Heinz Insu Fenkl explains

brothers necessitate Mr. Kim stepping

in the introduction he’s written to

in every once in a while “like a dutiful

accompany this new edition, the author

interpreter,” and just as integral are

uses a “well-understood post-Korean

Fenkl’s efforts of elucidation. A previous

War metaphor of separated brothers as

English translation—by Suh Ji-Moon—

divided nation”—all the same, in Yi’s

was published in 2002, under the title An

hands, it’s powerfully evocative, and I

Appointment with My Brother. It’s not a

found myself deeply engrossed in every

huge leap between this and Fenkl’s new

nuance of the guarded dance played out

title, but the informality and inclusivity—

between the brothers, every shred of

the agency the word “meeting” implies on

tension, jealousy, and love pulled as taut

both sides of the assignation—are much

as possible. Ordinary sibling bickering

more indicative of the story that unfolds.

and one-upmanship is transformed into

At Fenkl’s suggestion, the author also

political power play, as if each brother is “a

added an additional scene to his original

Göransson, Jiyoon Lee, and Jake Levine

representative at a South-North summit.”

work, set during the war (remembered as

Vagabond Press, 2017, 88 pp.

This push and pull between the

a flashback by the narrator who was just a

two men is replicated in the pitfalls of

child at the time): “an essential element of

official attempts at “cultural exchange,”

the story to be made vivid to the English

though not necessarily in the form we

readership.” Freshly presented to a new

Here’s a book that’s fascinating from

might expect. “I tried to introduce the

generation, Meeting with My Brother

the onset. Simply titled Poems of Kim

South Koreans to people who were a bit

makes for required reading.

Yi d e u m , Ki m H a e ng s o o k & Ki m

Poems of Kim Yideum, Kim Haengsook & Kim Min Jeong Translated by Don Mee Choi, Johannes

Min Jeong, there’s no representative

more open-minded and less political, since they themselves seemed to have a

by Lucy Scholes

metaphorical label, no guiding vision for

bit of a—how should I put it?—radical

Literary Critic, Freelance Editor

the reader, no attempt to mince together

slant,” says a cultural ambassador. “To

the work of these three Korean poets.

think they call that cultural exchange—

This straightforward title is fitting of a

birds of a feather telling each other what

slender anthology of Miraepa, or Future-

they already think. Is that what passes

Wave, poetry, which is, according to

for philosophy in a democratic society?”

Jake Levine, “widely believed to be an

There’s a twofold process of illumination

incongruous movement.” In the book’s

at work here: first, that which a simple

introduction, Levine provides a brief

shift in perspective engenders—brothers

history of the sociopolitical factors

who must learn to see things from each

leading up to Future-Wave, including

others’ points of view, not be limited by

the Seoul Olympics, rise of K-pop, and

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REVIEWS

IMF bailout. Levine also parses out

Kim Min Jeong’s poetry, as translated

children won’t calm me down, I will . . .

the problematic nature of viewing art

by Jiyoon Lee and Jake Levine, also

the / children . . . they could drown.” The

as an act of capturing or responding ;

brims with captivating chaos. The section

contemplative phrasing, as if through

“from this point of view poetry is an

begins with a poem titled “Finale,” and

sniffling, seems both violent threat and

artifact for gaining historical knowledge,

the piece itself begins with what would

genuine concern. The imagery anchors

not a force of historical change.” This

be an end, a death: “As the belt tightened

us in the eerie similarities between

scholar writes of how Korean women’s

around my neck / I merely stared / so he up

life and death as the children “sing /

poetry has “always been pushed to the

left.” The poem closes with an exclamatory

underwater. Mother . . . mother . . . mother

margins.” Because it “is written outside

greeting : “Say hello to the new me!”

. . . they mouth / like breathing fish.”

the historical lens of male ‘authenticity,’ it

The level of disorder almost normalizes

Water is essential. It’s also dangerous.

best embodies the chaos of contemporary

it, which feels like a coping mechanism,

Kim Haengsook’s poetry capsizes us

life,” which this stunning, and raucous,

perhaps for contemporary life.

repeatedly, and we tumble through

collection demonstrates superbly.

In Kim Min Jeong ’s “Butterfly

moments held together by this poet’s

The first section of poems is by Kim

Addict,” the speaker recalls, “I saw a girl

mastery in cohesive motifs.

Yideum as translated from the Korean

carrying a milk cow over her shoulder.

Po e m s o f Ki m Yi d e u m , Ki m

by Jiyoon Lee, Johannes Göransson,

/ Someone who also wants to drink

Haengsook & Kim Min Jeong embraces

and Don Mee Choi. In the first line of

milk. I can relate.” The nonchalant voice

the indefinability of Future-Wave.

the poem “The May of Goya and Me,”

doesn’t acknowledge the absurdness of

Through literary translations by Don

for instance, the poet dissociates from

the situation. The scene seems to defy

Mee Choi, Johannes Göransson, Jiyoon

herself, or at least her name, writing :

good sense—and the law of gravity—

Lee, and Jake Levine, the lines of these

“Kim Yideum and Francisco Goya talk

but, through her imagery and tone,

three fierce Korean poets are readily

about The Second / of May, they stitch

the poet skillfully stabilizes chaos, for

accessible to the English-reading world,

themselves together and pour water /

brief moments. Somewhat like a snow

some of which is weary of nationalist

into their ears, Mother whines and cries,

globe, we readers may peek at the

vectors at home and increasingly open to

‘Help me’ / inside my ear.” Kim Yideum

pandemonium within our world.

previously marginalized voices abroad.

These three Miraepa poets are breaking

is a master of compression. In these few

The closing section, by Kim

lines alone, through the juxtapositions

Haengsook, as translated by Jiyoon

created via the inclusion of Goya, the

Lee and Jake Levine, offers a climax

late deaf Spanish painter, numerous

of extremes. The title of “The (Dis)

by Heather Lang

motifs are explored including blurred

appearing Path” acknowledges the

Poet, Literary Translator

lines between cause and effect, points of

opposites as one, and the piece opens, “I

TLR World Literature Editor

view, East and West, self versus another,

am walking the same path in different

past versus present, and agency and

places.” We encounter the word “path”

lack thereof. Later in this same poem,

enough times to become numb, and to

the poet writes, “All these things are

accept it as a placeholder for anything:

completely unrelated. Do you want / me

“like a car, the path angrily honks,” for

to yoke them together?” This allows the

example.

work, and the reader, to draw conclusions without ever actually settling into them.

down borders.

In “A Crying Child,” the speaker, who also cries and cries, states, “If the

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| ENGLISH |

Turning Self-Help into a Bedside Reader

concentration, a stage before Nirvana).

better to a situation by changing your

Nor does his pen fill the 267 pages with

perspective on it?

highfalutin spiritual language. After all,

Haemin Sunim’s literary skill will

this book got its start by Haemin Sunim’s

also win over readers. He structures his

tweeting much of its aphoristic content.

aphorisms in poetic form, which he and

Let’s stop to consider aphorisms.

Chi-Young Kim have deftly translated.

They’re akin to Aesop’s fables, full of

The verses look to the eye as lovely as

simple truths. Something far easier to

they ring to the ear. The white space

suss out than Zen koans. The aphoristic

surrounding these verses emphasizes their

rather than affirmative content sets

simultaneous simplicity and profundity.

this book apart from others in the self-

These aesthetic choices especially appeal

help category. There are no promises

to those interested in the artfulness of

of guaranteed heaven or even absolute

literature and spirituality.

peace in this lifetime. It discusses a variety

These elements will keep readers

of examples and ways readers might

piqued throughout all eight chapters

remember to slow down and notice the

about rest, relationships, love, appre-

daisies (more about daisies later). The

ciating divergent spiritual paths, and the

Haemin Sunim

anecdotes may be short but they provide

liberating effects of forgiveness. Each

Translated by Chi-Young Kim

huge materials with which we might

chapter opens with a short personal essay

Penguin Publishing Group, 2017, 267 pp.

bridge the gaps of our lives.

in which Sunim explains how he learned

The Things You Can See Only When You Slow Down

One of these succinct life lessons

the lessons he imparts. He teaches

comes from the chapter, “Why Am I

through example, sometimes mixed with

So Busy?” In one section, he admits

Zen philosophy.

Many of us self-proclaimed sophisticated

he sometimes wonders if he hasn’t

He writes, for instance, about how

readers will miss out on The Things You

overloaded his own schedule with

entrenched we become to our own

Can See Only When You Slow Down:

Buddhist monk and professorial duties.

beliefs and opinions as if they themselves

How to Be Calm and Mindful in a Fast-

In another section he reminds us that a

were truths. In fact, beliefs and opinions

Paced World. Why? It’s been shackled

person’s behavior doesn’t make us mad:

are merely temporary, which history

with the self-help moniker. While it is

it’s we who allow ourselves to become

has shown by the coming and going of

geared toward those who understand

maddened by it. He writes:

the rack, disco, and colonialism, among

an unexamined life is not worth living,

others. We don’t have to be entrenched in

realize the self-help part is just a category.

People react differently to the same

This aspect of it is less like Tony Robbins

situation.

and more like Zen and the Art of

If we look at it more closely,

One lesson of maturity is that we should

Motorcycle Maintenance.

We see it’s not the situation that is

not take our thoughts too seriously, and

troubling us,

must learn to curb our ego and see the

but our perspective on it.

bigger picture,” he writes. “Being right

Haemin Sunim’s book is visually and literarily breathtaking. In it he doesn’t promise readers the ability to reach samadhi (intense yet weightless

82

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

them, however.

“Maturity comes with experience.

isn’t nearly as important as being happy How true! How often have you adapted

together.”

REVIEWS

Surely the content and its illustrations look happy together. Books of poetry and self-help guides often contain ersatz illustrations. Not true here. Thanks to artist Youngcheol Lee. From cover to cover Lee’s delicately painted images

| SPANISH |

Choi In-hun’s Cervantine Korean Nivola

certainly sound like a truism. Still, it seems to me the most expedient way to pose an equally inevitable issue when dealing with Choi In-hun in general, and certainly with this novel in particular.

What is at stake, however, is how Choi’s

present a thematic journey of a man and

vast knowledge is transformed into

woman, likely lovers, through a large

novelistic dialogue and conversation

field of daisies. Sometimes the images

alternating with narrative passages.

are Chagall-esque in their metaphysical

Put another way, Choi’s text is

approach. Sometimes they’re Impre-

ultimately the result of a collaboration

ssionistic. Always, they gorgeously

between the narrator and the intellectual

represent the content on the pages.

that reside in the person of its author. As

Whether you are a fan of self-help,

in other novels, Choi has developed a

into Zen practice, a Buddhist, or none

tight symbiosis between the protagonist

of those things, this book shows it’s

and his native land, similar then to his

all there for the taking : mindfulness,

own experience that drove his family to

self-awareness, and a little daily peace.

El hombre gris (A Grey Man)

flee from North to South Korea at the

Sunim’s words ring true and good and

Choi In-hun

outbreak of the Korean War when he

pure. After all, as he writes: “The world

Translated by Gu Sok Chong

had barely entered adolescence. Both the

is experienced according to the state

Editorial Verbum, 2016, 300 pp.

author and his characters experienced

of one’s mind . . . When your mind is

political disillusionments in both Koreas.

filled with negative thoughts, the world

They are as split as the country itself.

appears negative, too. When you feel

Inevitably, a majority of Western readers

That every Korean, and not just the

overwhelmed and busy, remember that

who are not specialists in Asian culture

protagonist Doko Jun, carries within

you are not powerless.”

are usually in for a surprise upon reading

themselves a personal 38th parallel, also

a novelist such as Choi In-hun, whose

becomes quickly clear on reading the

by Nichole L. Reber

knowledge of both worlds, the Euro-

book. It is in view of this historical reality

Winner, Diana Woods Memorial Award

centered and the Far East, is truly

that one can begin to understand and

impressive, if not unique. It would

appreciate the blending of narrative and

certainly be quite rare to find a Western

disquisition in El hombre gris, for, far

equivalent among fictional narrators

from digressing, the discussions always

of whom the same can be said. To any

wind up complementing the narrative,

reader of the Spanish translation from the

its characters, dilemmas, and search for

Korean of the 1963 novel that appeared

solutions.

in Nonfiction

in English as A Grey Man, namely, El

First, however, let us clear any doubt

hombre gris, published by Verbum as

about Choi’s narrative powers, and the

part of a major series of Korean literature

beauty of his poetical descriptions of

in Spain, my opening statement must

nature, which is at times intensified by

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83

deep lyrical emotion. The sadness and

world; the role of religion in establishing

violence of the devastation of war is

sociological, political and psychological

Other examples can be found in the

particularly unforgettable in a passage

contrasts among nations; and the use

Spanish Generation of 1898. Two of its

where Doko Jun returns to his school,

(but also misuse) and beauty of language,

most reputed writers obviously shared

destroyed in a bombing attack. An

poetry, music, and philosophy, bearing

Cervantes’ and Choi’s idea of an “open”

especially intriguing passage has a Korean

in mind always, as one of the discussions

novel, namely, Miguel de Unamuno, who

sailor on a training mission in the port

reminds the reader, that the politics of a

invented the term nivola for his novels

of Yokohama relate an impulse to bomb

country are not an isolated phenomenon,

in defiance of the structural inflexibility

the Japanese city with a first sexual

but belong rather to international

of a supposed model for the genre, and

experience.

relations. Evidently, for Choi our era of

Pío Baroja, who described the novel as

globalization is not limited to the topical

a broken sack into which everything

economic sphere.

may be poured. While Baroja’s view may

When the narrator gives way to the intellectual, extending his purview

limited to Cervantes’ day.

from the individual characters to general

As long as we are here dealing with

lend itself more to digressions than to

human issues, the outcome is the creation

the Spanish translation of a novel by a

novelistic complements, as in Cervantes

of a potentially collective protagonist.

major international novelist, we might as

and Choi, still our only purpose here is

This is due to the symbiosis between the

well end with a comparison that brings

to emphasize again the mastery of Choi

dialogues and conversations and the lives

Choi closer to certain Spanish authors

in a novel that potentiates the various

and difficulties of the participants that

and works, thus manifesting once again

possibilities within this most elastic of

inevitably and ultimately coincide with

the benefits of a comparative literature

literary genres, while at the same time

those of the Korean population; though,

approach that links international

encouraging the reader to appreciate to

obviously, the latter are, in general, less

authors and works in the universal

the maximum degree its reflections of the

aware of the national situation. Yet,

search for the meaning of human nature

complexities of human lives.

regardless of which character’s voice in

and life through art.

the discussions is that of Choi himself—

We may begin with no other than

as seems clear in the case of Señor

Cervantes whose Don Quixote, like El

Hwang, so reminiscent of a Confucius-

hombre gris, did not hesitate in its first

Plato authority in that brilliant eighth

part to incorporate other novels, related

chapter of the novel—the voice is still

to and told by secondary characters,

that of a segment of the people.

as well as another novel written by an

Choi’s immense knowledge of world

anonymous narrator. Like Choi’s novel,

history has not passed unnoticed, but

Don Quixote also abounds with isolated

what is more pertinent is his equally

discussions that complement the central

immense capacity to link different

issues, ideas, and the lives of its characters.

fields and thus provide comparisons

Despite the criticism this brought about,

and contrasts between Korea and

and which Cervantes keenly refuted,

other nations. In El hombre gris, Choi

today it would be difficult to find a

touches upon varied issues, such as:

cervantista who would still share such

why democracy in his native land has

a misunderstanding of what is basically

not followed the path of the Western

a challenging Baroque technique not

84

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

by Eugenio Suárez-Galbán Novelist, Poet, and Literary Critic NYU Madrid

REVIEWS

| SPANISH |

Game of Mirrors

fluid reading, Yoon has consolidated

ritual of a grandmother who can’t stop

a rich, original, and unique literary

cutting one hundred pig’s feet. There are

universe.

also unfinished stories of love that some

Spectators is, in that sense, a confirmation.

It is a collection of interwoven tales that

twist of fate ends up neither thwarting nor consummating.

reconstructs the life of a typical Korean

Spectators is a family trip where

family in detail. The apparently simple

children, parents, grandparents, and

texts are at once a complex and potent

uncles add memories to a logbook

exercise of memory, where the characters

that is constructed like a long path

wage a silent battle against despair. The

of footprints in the snow. Behind

tales are like a trail of breadcrumbs upon

the succession of seemingly anodyne

which one fine day Yoon decided to

and routine anecdotes lurks a deep

return. As the author tells it, in order

journey into the souls of individuals

to write them she got up at three in the

with whom it’s impossible not to reach

morning, “checked the moon’s position

a certain identification. In this way, a

in the sky, had a hot tea, and turned

stuffing machine encloses a challenge to

on the old laptop.” From that climate

willpower or some teenagers who spit

began to emerge the characters she chose

in the street become a metaphor for

Lee Eun Kim

to carry these multiple stories on their

maturity that is perhaps never achieved.

Bonobos, 2017, 207 pp.

shoulders.

There are also places for reflections that,

Espectadores (Spectators) Yoon Sunghee Translated by Laura Hernández and

Like in a great work of theater or,

behind a simple formulation, hide for

better yet, like the scenes and cuts that

the characters and the world in which

happen in a film, Yoon makes them enter

they move the character of a judgment.

Yoon Sunghee was born in 1973 in a

a scene, exit, turn around and return

For example, when one of them affirms

province of South Korea and began her

as in an inexhaustible game of mirrors.

categorically that “you don’t really know

literary career in 1999, when she won a

There is in all of them a latent loneliness

someone until you play cards with them.”

contest in the newspaper Dong-A Ilbo.

that transforms them into survivors, but

Or when another writes “What is love?”

Later other distinctions would follow,

despite their missteps, they never cease to

on the steamed-up glass of a bus.

from the Hyundae Literary Award and

reveal life in a series of actions as slow and

the Lee Hyo-seok Literary Award to the

inexorable as the passage of time itself.

Yoon Sunghee demonstrates in Spectators a great ability to unite a long

Spectators is a crossing of paths,

chain of events that flows without

a necklace of stories that give way to

interruption. And where, as is affirmed

Her literary trajectory noted minor

others, that in turn refer to still others

on the back cover, “those involved are

stories, populated by almost invisible,

and others. For example, the story of an

authors of a story in which the events

poor and down-trodden characters,

abandoned refrigerator in which a child

and their small miracles return to the

whom her writing seems to rescue from

later hides; the arguments that originate

everyday its seminal condition and

a certain and inevitable forgetting.

in a two-story house between successive

space for the wonderful to resonate.”

With warm-hearted humor, hints of

tenants; the experience of two students

In telling the sad hopefulness and half-

costumbrismo and appealingly agile and

fighting over a desk; or the mechanical

happiness of her characters, which

Today’s Young Artists Award and the Hankook Ilbo Literary Award.

VOL. 36

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SUMMER 2017

85

makes them absolutely human, Yoon

| NORWEGIAN |

satisfaction, back in Norway, I found

appeals to miniscule details that can

Poetic Brutality

that two of her books were about to be

only be explained through a patient and potent capacity for observation of her

translated into Norwegian. The first book, Human Acts, also seemed to offer

surroundings. As she affirms: “Recently

more insight into, and history about, the

it has occurred to me that life consists

country I had just visited, which I wanted

of contemplating things and remaining

to know more about. While reading the

disconcerted . . . I made the decision to

book, I learned about a massacre that

observe everything. To put all my effort

had taken place in the city of Gwangju in

into being disconcerted.”

1980. I was twelve years old at the time.

Spectators demonstrates that this

Human Acts starts off in a language

was a fortuitous decision for which her

so poetic and beautiful—in tremendous

readers can only be grateful and enjoy.

contradiction with the brutality it describes—with the voice of a young boy. Fourteen-year-old Dong-ho is

by Mauricio Rodríguez Cultural Journalist Director of Granizo.uy

Levende og døde (Human Acts) Han Kang

looking for his best friend after the brutal massacre. If he finds his friend, will that

Translated by Vivian Evelina Øverås

friend be alive or dead? Immediately, we

Pax Forlag, 2017, 245 pp.

are there, right in the middle of what has happened. Dong-ho, unable to locate his friend, is recruited as a volunteer to sort the dead bodies after the massacre.

Visiting another country always makes

Spread out in a gym are eighty-three

me interested, aware, and alert to the

corpses, some identifiable, others not.

history and culture of that country. My

Dong-ho does the task of registering

eyes open up; I sense news from the

distinguishing marks and characteristics

country with a deeper interest; I suddenly

of the bodies. Will this help the families

see myself placed in another spot on

trying to find the mortal remains of their

planet earth, blending in with a people I

loved ones? What was the background

often know much too little about—and I

for the massacre, and what makes people

become aware of that lack of knowledge.

so cruel, so cynical, so stubborn and

When I first visited South Korea to attend the Seoul International Book

86

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

convinced of their right to take another’s life?

Fair in 2016, it did not take me long to

In chapter after chapter we meet

notice an author who was seemingly

different characters who describe the

everywhere: Han Kang. She was recently

most brutal ways people act towards

awarded the Man Booker International

their own countrymen. The massacre in

Prize, and posters of The Vegetarian

Gwangju is described from the point of

made me curious about her. To my great

view of the living, those searching for

the dead who answer back to the living.

Literature brings awareness of the world

We start with Dong-ho, but the next

around us and gives insight and reflection

section is told by the dead friend himself,

on what we have yet to imagine. Han

followed by the stories of an editor, a

Kang is a brave, poetic, and important

victim of torture, a mother in grief, and

voice in the world of literature today.

the author herself.

I recently heard an author stating

2017 LTI Korea

Translation Award W I N N E R S

Vaseline Buddha

The characters have all been scarred

that his reason for writing books was

by the massacre—whether they have been

to be able to understand himself better.

killed, have survived, or were victims of

My immediate reaction was that the

torture, censorship, or denial after the

same counts for me as a reader: I read

tragedy. Dong-ho’s eyes are young, fresh,

in order to understand myself better. I

Deep Vellum Publishing,

and inexperienced when exposed to

believe reading and writing bring people

2016, 226 pp.

the massacre, and Han Kang’s language

closer to themselves and to each another.

is calm, poetic, and beautiful. This

Visiting another country always makes

strengthens the deep contrast between

me reflect on my own background, my

the language itself and the actions against

own inheritance. I could just as well have

the victims. The fascinating way the book

been born in Gwangju. I did not know

is told—through the voices of different

anything about it—and what happened

characters, both alive and dead—we

there could have happened to me.

ENGLISH

Jung Young Moon Translated by Jung Yewon

Le chant des cordes (Song of Strings)

FRENCH

Kim Hoon Translated by Han Yumi and Hervé

witness the massacre and the resulting

Péjaudier

consequences, the uproar and the

by Andrine Pollen

aftermath.

Norwegian Literature Abroad (NORLA)

Han Kang writes about a civil uprising in South Korea in 1980, an event that was

Gallimard, 2016, 304 pp.

Никто не узнает . . .

(What Took Place No One . . .)

overlooked in the world. Why did the news of Tiananmen Square in 1989 reach

RUSSIAN

the world so widely, whereas Gwangju

Kim Young-ha Translated by

was never brought to our attention?

Seung Jooyeoun and

This made me think of Solidarność

Alexandra Gudeleva

and the struggle for democracy in Poland

Natalis, 2016, 253 pp.

around the same time. Why did I hear so much about Poland, but nothing about South Korea?

Gümüş Somon’un Büyük Yolculuğu (The Salmon Who Dared to Leap Higher)

In Human Acts, Han Kang discusses TURKISH

what it means to be a nation and what

Ahn Do-hyun

happens when a country fights its own

Translated by

people. Dignity and pride shine through

S. Göksel Türközü

the dark history of the book to lift the

Doğan ve Egmont

reader to believe in humanity yet again.

Yayıncılık, 2016, 208 pp.

VOL. 36

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87

Translators Sophie Bowman is completing an MA

Jinah Kim studied English literature

Teresa Kim completed her studies

in Korean Literature at Ewha Womans

at Korea University and translation at

in English Literature at the University

University and was the recipient of the

Ewha Womans University Graduate

of British Colombia, Canada. She

ICF Literature Translation Fellowship.

School of Translation and Interpre-

began her studies in Korean literature

She won the Korea Times Modern

tation, and now works as a freelance

translation while an undergraduate,

Korean Literature Translation Award

translator. Together with Seth Chandler,

and in 2010, received a fellowship

grand prize for poetry in 2015 and has

she was awarded the 45th Korea Times

to study at LTI Korea’s Translation

received LTI Korea translation grants

Modern Korean Literature Translation

Academy. Since then, she has resided

to translate Lee Ho-cheol and Jon

Award grand prize for their translation

in Seoul, working as a freelance

Kyongnin. Sophie is part of the English

of Kim Soom’s short story “On Slow-

translator. Her publications include a

Translation Atelier at LTI Korea’s

ness.” p. 52

translation of Park Wansuh’s “We Teach

Translation Academy. p. 7, 24, 42

Shame!” p. 30 Seong-Kon Kim is a translator, literary

Seth Chandler is currently studying

critic, columnist, editor, and writer.

Young-Jun Lee is Professor and

modern poetry in the Korean literature

He is also a professor emeritus at

Director of Humanitas Institute for

department at Seoul National University.

Seoul National University. Educated

Liberal Education at Kyung Hee

Together with Jinah Kim, he was

at Columbia and SUNY/Buffalo, Kim

University. He edits Azalea: Journal of

awarded the 45th Korea Times Modern

was awarded an honorary doctorate

Korean Literature & Culture , published

Korean Literature Translation Award

in humane letters from the State

yearly by the Korean Institute, Harvard

grand prize for their translation of Kim

University of New York in 2017. He has

University. pp. 68-77

Soom’s short story “On Slowness.” p. 52

taught at Penn State and UC Berkeley and conducted research at Harvard

Lucina Schell works in international

Jamie Chang is a literary translator. She

and Oxford. Kim has received the CU

rights for the University of Chicago

teaches translation at Ewha Womans

Distinguished Alumnus Award, the

Press, and is founding editor of

University and LTI Korea’s Translation

Fulbright Distinguished Alumnus

Reading in Translation . She translates

Academy. She has translated The Great

Awa r d , a n d t h e S U N Y / B u f fa l o

from Spanish. p. 85

Soul of Siberia . p. 46, 57

International Distinguished Alumni Award. His translations of Korean

Jason Woodruff is a literary translator

Anton Hur was born in Stockholm,

literature include The Square, Woman

based in his hometown of Salt Lake

Sweden. He is the winner of a PEN

on the Terrace, and Strong Winds at

City, Utah. His translations have

Translates award and multiple LTI

Mishi Pass . p. 12

appeared in Asia Literary Review and Asymptote Journal , where his

Korea translation grants. His work has been published in Words Without

Soyoung Kim studied physics and

translation of Kim Kyung-uk’s short

Borders , Asymptote Journal , Slice

a s t r o n o my b efo r e p u r s u i n g h e r

story “Spray” won runner-up in the

Magazine , and others. His translation

interests in language and literature,

2016 Close Approximations translation

of the collected short stories of Kang

e a r n i n g h e r m a s te r ’ s d e g r e e i n

contest. p. 35

Kyeong-ae is forthcoming in 2018

translation. She has translated Kim

(Honford Star, UK). pp. 21, 38-41

Junghyuk’s short story collection The

Library of Musical Instruments (Dalkey Archive Press, 2016). p. 62

88

KOREAN LITERATURE NOW

“

If you go back to the myths, legends of origins, and folktales, that’s where you’ll find people’s most universal thinking,

and these things all speak to each other. I was able to discover what East and West looked like together as one.

From an interview with Choi In-hun

”

Copyright © 2017 by the Literature Translation Institute of Korea 9 7 7 2 5 08

3 4 5 0 06

ISSN 2508-3457