Koreana Summer 1996 (English) by The Korea Foundation

I 7J-

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Y6nj6k A Waterdropper

Handmade paper, ink sticks, brushes and ink stones, commonly known as munbang sa-u, the "scholar's four friends," were essential tools for the traditional scholar-gentleman, or s6nbi. The sarangbang, the room where the sonbi spent his time for personal and scholarly cultivation, contained different types of furniture and ornamental objects designed to help him, both practically and spiritually, in his pursuits. They were always few in number, however, and arranged in a manner that fostered a clear mind. On either side of the gentleman-scholar's writing table was a pair of mun-gap, low cabinets. Inside the mtm-gap were documents and personal items, and on top of it were his brush and paper holders and other articles he used regularly. . The waterdropper, or y6nj6k, was as important to the scholar as any of the "four friends." The sonbi used it to prepare ink for painting or writing. He dripped a few drops of water onto the ink stone, then slowly and carefully ground the ink stick around in the water, producing the thick black ink used in traditional calligraphy and painting. The yonjok also had a

decorative purpose, as is obvious from Âˇ this celadon waterdropper shaped like a duck. Yonjok were usually shaped like something related to water, such as a duck, tortoise or fish, but they came in many other shapes as well: squares, hexagons, small fans, mythical beasts and peaches to name a few. Each yonjok has two small holes to allow the water to drip out. The diminutive figures are both ornamental and practical, charming but never overbearing, and always elegant in their own petite way. This celadon waterdropper was made in the early 12th century and is an example of the artistry of Koryo artisans. In its mouth, the peaceful duck holds the heart of a lotus flower which it seems to have just plucked from the water. On its back is a small air hole set in a lotus petal. The figure, though tiny, is remarkably lifelike. This waterdropper, like so many celadon pieces from the Koryo period, combines richness of color and texture with a simple, yet elegant shape, epitomizing the spirit and aesthetics of the traditional scholar-gentleman. +

Celadon waterdropper, Koryo, early 12th century, height 8 em, length 12.5 em, National Treasure No. 74

Cover: With the designa-

tion of 1996 as the "Year of Literature," an in-

depth examination of modern Korean litera-

Modern Korean Literature: Its Past, Present and Future

The Globalization of Korean Literature

focuses on many aspects of Korean literature in-

and its translation into other languages. The

16 Korea's Literary Diaspora: Artistic and Thematic Concerns of Ethnic Koreans by Kim Yong-jik

photograph shows a handwritten Korean

by Kim Byong-ik

by Kwon Young-min

eluding its creators, its place in world literature

Literature Today

ture is in order. This issue of KOREANA thus

Korean

manuscript and a handwoven rice-straw mat

22 The Role of Geography in Korean Literature by Park Duk-kyu

32 EAST MEETS WEST

Translating Korean Poetry by David McCann ©77Je Korea Foundation 1996 All rigbts reserved No part of tbis publication may be reproduced in any form witbout tbe prior permission of Tbe Korea Foundation.

Translating Korean Fiction

The opinions expresse d by the authors do not necessarily represent those of the editors of KOREANA or The Korea Foundation.

The Literature and Dreams of Pak Kyong-ni

KOREANA, registered as a quarterly magazine with the Ministry of Information (Regis· tration No. Ba·l033, dated Aug. 8, 1987), is also published in French, Spanish, Japanese and Chinese.

by Bruce Fulton

38 FOCUS

by Kim Hyung-kook

41 INTERVIEW

Chang-rae Lee by KOREANA

45 Chongmyo: Its Architecture and Rites by Kim Tong-uk

Korea Foundation

Vol.lO, No. 2 Summer 1996

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Modern Korean Literature: Kim Byong-ik Literary Critic

ach decade of modern Korean history has a character of its own. The 1950s was marked by the Korean War and its bitter aftermath. The 1960s started with the pro-democracy student revolution which shortly thereafter gave way to a military coup and the rise of a military dictatorship. The 1970s was a decade of rapid industrialization and political oppression, a decade that closed with the assassination of autocratic ruler Park Chung-hee in late 1979. The 1980s began with hopes of democratization, but such hopes were soon squelched by the Kwangju massacre. Only toward the end of the 1980s, with the restoration of a direct presidential election system, were the hopes of democratization revived. The government's "northern diplomacy," which resulted in the normalization of South Korea's diplomatic relations with Russia and China, raised hopes for national unification. And the economic development that the successive military regimes promoted as their mission and their raison d'etre produced a higher standard of living for a majority of the population; consumption rose and the fulfillment of heretofore suppressed desires became possible for many. These rapid developments brought about many social, cultural and psychological consequences. First of all, they produced a phenomenon which juxtaposed diverse attitudes and values: a feudal mentality came to exist side by side with a post-industrial outlook; the tribal village with the ultramodern metropolis; and conservative values with radical concepts. These contrasting elements and phenomena existed in a complicated mixture, giving rise to multiple conflicts. Second, the rapid rate and allencompassing scope of change ushered

Its Past, Present and Future in many social problems: power was monopolized by the military elite; rapid economic growth created wide disparities between the rich and the poor and conflicts between labor and management; regional animosity increased as some regions developed faster than others; the generation gap widened; irreconcilable conflicts of interest arose between different industries and professions; environmental damage became severe; the rift between North and South Korea continued; and authoritarianism created intellectual solipsism. All these problems undermined the health of Korean society. Third, notwithstanding these negative factors, the drastic changes produced positive effects as well, the most important being that Koreans shook off their fatalistic and tragic view of life and gained confidence in their ability to change their lives and plan their future. This confidence in turn led to technological experimentation and intellectual daring. Radical ideas were advocated and promoted by the younger generation in spite of the government's efforts to suppress such activities. Socialism, which was prohibited under the authoritarian governments, came to be discussed as an alternative ideology. This intellectual exploration quite naturally led to calls for reform and innovation. In the midst of all this social and cultural upheaval, two major events stand out as transitional junctures in the Korean consciousness: the Student Revolution of April 19, 1960, and the Kwangju Uprising of May 18, 1980. The student revolution of 1960 demonstrated the possibility of democracy in Korea. The students who took part in that revolution were the first "Han-gCII (the Korean alphabet) generation," that is,

those who were educated in their own language. Unlike the previous generations who grew up under the Japanese occupation, this generation had rational perceptions in pursuing their ~ individual goals. The next generation, who witnessed the Kwangju uprising in their youth, included those who grew up amid the prosperity brought on by industrialization. They discovered the shortcomings of Western concepts and lifestyles and the emptiness of capitalist values. They sought a means of eliminating the animosity between the classes and between the North and South, and they demanded democracy and equality as a solution to social and political problems. They dared to imbibe the forbidden principles of socialism and tried to discover in socialism an antidote to the ills created by capitalism. With the two major events as watersheds, the three generations before, between and after these incidents may be divided into the conservative, liberal and progressive generations. At any rate, the three ideological strands form the intellectual, mental and behavioral maps of modern Koreans. Literary Consciousness The development of Korean literature in the past half century can also be examined in light of these historical developments. Modern Korean literature, following its birth at the beginning of the 20th century, had been largely based on classical humanism and a traditional worldview. However, with the ascendance of the Han-gUl generation in the mid-1960s, the focus of literary concern shifted to the oppressive political reality and deprived classes. The next generation of the 1980s took a step further, demanding not just reform of corrupt institutions but a radical rearrangement of the social structure. Writers who suggested the need for reform by showing the suffering and victimization of individuals trapped in corrupt and unjust institutions began to make direct calls for change. In other words, literature ceased to be figurative and became an instrument for

challenging reality. What spurred this change was the series of debates that took place in Korean letters throughout the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s. The debates included those between the advocates of "pure" and "engagement" (participatory) literature, of realism and postmodernism, and supporters of "minjung" (the masses) and "minjok" (national) literature. The pure vs. engagement debate was first sparked by an article written by a Korean professor on Sartre's "engagement" theory. The debate raged on for nearly a decade, fanning heated controversy about the nature and purpose of literature. The late 1960s and the early 1970s were a time when political oppression and the ills of industrialization began to be felt in earns~ and the debate over what constitutes a conscientious path for literature drew in virtually all Korean authors. It also led naturally to a discussion on how literature should represent oppressive social circumstances. Most advocates of engagement literature insisted that realism should be the method for indicting injustices, but the advocates of pure or aesthetic literature opposed the realistic approach and insisted that diversity of technique and modernistic experimentation were necessary for artistic enrichment and effectiveness. The minjung literary debate can be regarded as an extension of the other two debates. To be sure, "minjung" is not a precise sociological term, but perhaps because of this impreciseness the term had great appeal to those who demanded social reforms. The minjung literature concept spread to other art genres and to many liberal arts and social science disciplines. Thus, the concept of minjung came to serve as a label for a whole era. The term implies a rejection of political oppression; it also connotes compassion for and admiration of the masses, who have always been oppressed and exploited throughout history but who nevertheless held on to life with tenacity, vitality and warm humanity. The term also came to express an aspiration for a future of equality and compassion.

The generation of the 1980s, which had studied Marxism, took this minjung concept a little further and came up with a "national literature" theory. They advocated that literature should be a tool for liberating the working class. This radical view of literature demanded not only a change in the objective of literature but a change in the approach of literature. In other words, the radical generation contended that literature should be written by the workers themselves, and it should be a collective effort rather than a personal act Furthermore, they demanded a dismantling of the traditional genre divisions of literature and called for a new form that would be a suitable vehicle of expression for the proletariat Some of them went as far as to assert that the existing social structure should be demolished to build a world led by the proletariat But this radical push lost its momentum after. the disintegration of communist regimes at the end of the 1980s. The fierceness of these debates was due in part to the fact that in South Korea the evolution of modern literature, which unfoldedÂˇ in the West over several centuries, was compressed into several decades. Even more importantly, the evolution took place against a backdrop of rapid and complicated social and political change. However, these debates only illustrate the problems and impediments with which Korean writers had to grapple, and do not in themselves address the matter of the quality of the literature produced in the process. Modern Korean literature, forged in the crucible of tragic historical experiences and inhuman living conditions, can rank with the contemporary literature of most major countries. The war, poverty, confusion and contradictions every Korean had to live through were the hot coals that tempered their art. Literary works of the past few decades reflect the changing conditions of Korean life. Even though realism remained the basic lens, various other techniques such as surrealism, collage and other modernistic and postmod-

ernistic approaches were used to circumvent censorship as well as for greater expressiveness. The subject matter became much more diversifjed. The works grew longer. Along with a vigorous output of shorter fiction , many more novels were written than in previous decades, and a plethora of romanfleuves-multivolume fictions that span an entire historical epoch-is especially notable. Experimental techniques opened new horizons for writers, and some viewed the world through new philosophical prisms such as existentialism and Marxism. In the following, a brief survey of Korean literature since the end of World War II is presented under three headings: the Korean War and national division, sagas of the Korean nation, and industrialization and the alienation of the working class. The survey attempts to examine the major developments and trends in Korean literature and reveal what the writers struggled for and aimed to achieve. Korean War and National Division The territorial division of the country that came upon liberation from colonial rule in 1945 and the Korean War which broke out five years later were traumatic upheavals that left few Koreans unscathed. Thus, Korean writers could not help explore the cause, meaning and consequences of each event. In the literature of the 1950s, such representative writers as Kim Tong-ri, Hwang Sun-won and Son Ch'ang-sop viewed the Korean War as the cause of the ruined lives, the collapse of traditional ethical values and the loss of humanity. In the 1%0s, after the April Student Revolution, the war was viewed by younger writers such as Choi In-hun as a clash between two conflicting ideologies. To the Han-gul generation writers including Yi Ch'ong-jun, Kim Won-il and Yun Hl'mg- gil, who experienced the war in their childhood, the violence of war was an introduction to the tragedy that constantly haunts human beings, or an experience that could be overcome by swallowing its bit-

Korean literature, forged in the crucible of tragic historical experiences and inhuman living conditions, can rank with the contemporary literature

terness. To those who were born around the beginning of or just after the war, such as Yi Mun-yol and Im Ch'ol-u, the war was a consequence of territorial partition, inflicting wounds that will continue to hurt while the state of national division remains. The war then seemed to recede from the foreground of writers' minds for sometime, but in the 1980s it again became a prominent theme. With the relative freedom to discuss ideological matters due to the relaxation of rigid anti-communist laws, the war was portrayed as the consequence of all the ills and contradictions that existed in Korean society. Writers such as Kim Won-il, Yi Mun-yol and Cho Chong-rae explored, without ideological bias, the human factors and social causes that created and fueled the conflict. Ko Un voiced his ardent desire for national unification and restoration of the homogeneity of all Koreans in several of his epic poems. The Korean War and the damage it wreaked on the Korean psyche continue to be fertile literary territory for Korean writers and poets.

of most major countries. The war, poverty, confusion and contradictions that every Korean had

live through were the hot coals that tempered their art.

Sagas of the Korean Nation Concerns with the trauma of the Korean War led Korean writers to trace the cause of that tragic event to the very beginning of the modern period. A number of roman-fleuves were written in the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s which aimed to present the social and political history of Korea and its people from the time when it emerged from isolation and became the battleground for various external and internal forces. A noteworthy feature of these historical sagas is that their main focus is on the lives of common people. Another notable feature is that unlike ordinary historical novels that focus on one historical era or event, these novels span generations and explore the interplay of various forces over decades, or even centuries, and the threads that link events in different locales and times. In the 1960s, An Su-gil recreated the history of Korean migration to

Manchuria, and Shin Tong-yop wrote an epic about the Kum-gang River, which witnessed many historic upheavals and the tragic fate of comne ~ s and their champions. In the 1970s Hong SOng-won and Kim Won-il examined the lives of commoners during the colonial period, af1d Pak Kyong-ni, Kim ]oo-young and Mun Sun-t'ae went even further back, to the close of the Choson Dynasty, to explicate the causes of Korea's failure in modernization at the time. Hwang S6kyong recreated the crumbling of traditional society and the commoners' resistance to the despotic ruling class. Their roman-fleuves, which reconstruct the lives of common people before, during and after the modern transformation of Korea, are testaments to the hypocrisy of the ruling class and its ideology. Together, these novels paint a huge mural of the Korean people's history, illuminating the cause of Korea's political failures and suggesting what should be done to solve the present ills. Industrialization and Working Class Industrialization, which got underway in the 1%0s and began to bear fruit for the majority of Koreans from the mid1970s, inevitably involved the exploitation of farmers and factory workers because Korea had few natural resources and a low level of technology. Consequently there developed a yawning gap between the haves and havenots, and between labor and management. Industrialization also begot urbanization, with all its attendant problems. Writers were quick to focus on these problems. In the 1960s Pak T'ae-sun and Cho Son-jak delineated the lives of uprooted farmers who toiled as lowwage factory workers living in urban slums and shantytowns. In the early 1970s Hwang Sok-yong and Cho Se-hOi portrayed vagabond laborers and hoodlums as heroes. In the mid-1970s Cho Se-hi:Ii and Yun Hi:mg-gil exposed the miserable living conditions of jobless workers and their futile efforts to find work and build their lives. In the 1980s, the workers them-

selves became awakened to their exploited status and began to stage large-scale labor movements. It was during this decade that "proletarian" poets such as Pak No-hae made their debut. The empty lives of the urban petit bourgeoisie was another popular theme of this period. Industrialization and economic growth increased the size of the middle class, but writers contended that the new wealth produced a consumption-oriented herd lacking compassion or high moral purpose. Ch'oi In-ho was among the first to focus on the hollowness of the lives of the middle class in his novels and short stories, and poets Kim Kwangkyu, 0 Kyu-won, ChOng Hyon-jong, Ch'oi Sung-ho, Yu Ha and Chang Chongil all satirized or lamented the loss of humanity in the commercial, technological and superficial modern society. The selfishness of the middle class and the self-doubts of middle-class intellectuals were keenly represented by Park Wansuh, Kim Hyang-suk and Kim Won-u. Of course, the foregoing survey can hardly do justice to the breadth and depth of Korean literature of the past half century, not to mention its artistic attainment. Apart from these three major themes, humankind's existential dilemmas and quest for salvation were explored in depth by 0 Chong-hOi and Yi Mun-yol in fiction, and Yi Song-bok, Ch'oi Si:mg-ja and Kim Hye-sun in poetry. Poets Hwang Tong-kyu, Kim Chi-ha and Hwang Chi-u relentlessly criticized the intellectual flaccidity of their contemporaries toward sociopolitical absurdities. In summary, it might be said that the tensions and conflicts in modern Korean history stimulated Korean writers to strenuously battle the social and political evils and oppression and to express eloquently their longing for a society free from such wrongs. Korean Literature Today The latter part of the 1980s brought not only the end of the Cold War and the disintegration of the former communist bloc but also the promise of an end

of the three decades of military rule and the birth of a civilian government in Korea. A popularly-elected civilian president was finally inaugurated in 1993. With the lifting of political suppression, labor movement and other civil rights movements gained momentum. The economic affluence built up over the previous three decades has given almost everybody access to a personal computer and other advanced electronic equipment. People also became more concerned with their own lives than with the larger questions of political and social justice, and the new generation favors visual imagery over the written words. These changes cannot but be reflected in Korean literature. Older writers, who had enjoyed the respect and support of the public, lost some of their prestige, and younger writers with new sensibilities emerged to speak for a new generation. Shin Kyong-suk and Han Kang achieved recognition by writing about their intimate longings and pains. Yi Sun-won, Chang Ch6ng-il and Yu Ha are writing about mammonism and its corrosive effect on society as insiders, natives of that milieu. Ku Hyo-so and Paek Min-sok are drawing inspiration from comic books and computer technology to challenge old values. On the other hand, some of the new writers such as Chong Ch'an choose to continue the quest for truth in a more traditional manner. Ch'oi Yun, Kong Chi-yong and Kim Hyong-kyong became best selling authors with their reminiscences of the dark 1980s and the lost feelings of the student radicals who are suddenly confronting a world in which ideology seems irrelevant. There is a great danger that literature in the affluent and politically stable 1990s will degenerate into light reading for entertainment. Already, sensational thrillers, detective stories, science fiction and nonfiction dominate the literary market. This could well be a temporary phenomenon. There is some value to the frank expression of personal desires and sensibilities, the use of new methods and the assertion of novel ideas. However,

popular success of commercial writers could seduce other writers to write for the market, instead of seriously grappling with the problems of life. The growing volumes of "computer fiction" may spur this trend since its target audience is teenagers and preteens with immature aesthetic and ethical sensibilities and with little or no literary education. Therefore, those who speak about a "crisis in literature" may not be exaggerating. The Korean government designated 19% the Year of Literature to promote a healthy development of literature. In my opinion, three things must be done to further this goal. First, literary J ducation should be undertaken in a way that can restore credibility and truthfulness to literature. Literary curriculum and teaching methods should be revised, with the objective of enabling students to properly appreciate and evaluate literary works rather than giving them an encyclopedic knowledge of the literary canon. Second, there should be a social mechanism for fostering serious and experimental literature. This is a task for such

The tensions and conflicts in modern Korean history stimulated Korean writers to strenuously battle the social and political evils and oppression and to express eloquently their longing for a society free from such wrongs.

Past and present winners of one of Korea's many literary awards; Korean literature is seeing rapid change in the 1990s with the appearanc.e of many talented women writers.

government agencies as the Korean Culture and Arts Foundation and other public organizations, as well as institutions of higher learning and the mass media. Support should be given to writers who write serious literary works without an emphasis on commercial success. Third, Korean literature should be made available to readers around the world. In recent years many institutions have been exerting efforts to disseminate Korean literature overseas, but they have had only limited success, owing to the relative lack of interest in Korea internationally and the qualitative and quantitative deficiencies of translations. Korean writers and poets have made great contributions to the struggle against the evils of society and to efforts aimed at improving the living conditions of common people. They have been a force for change, democratization and the restoration of human values. It is hoped that literature will continue to sound the clarion for a renewal of the moral climate and a reinvigoration of art. +

The Globalization of Korean

Kwon Young-min

Professor of Korean Literature Seoul National University

hat does the globalization of Korean literature mean? The concept of globalization or internationalization has only recently been applied to literature. Over the last century, traditional Korean literature has been transformed to take on modern forms, and the Korean literary community has been preoccupied with modernity, in literary style and methods, themes and spirit. A historical sense of modern revolution or change underlies the concept of modernity pursued by Koreans in the 20th century. As feudalistic Choson society fell apart and a modern civil society was established, Korea underwent a period of brutal colonial rule under the Japanese, and then, just as Koreans set about the task of constructing a modern state, the nation was divided by the Cold War. In the course of changes undergone by Korean literature, what might be called "literary modernity" was linked to the concept of national identity, which in turn formed the foundation for a modern national consciousness. If "modernity" presupposes a modern political or social system, then it must be said that Korean literature has experienced a modernity distorted by Japanese colonial rule and the persistent division of the Korean Peninsula. The "globalization" of Korean literature stands in stark contrast to the concept of "modernization" which has been the subject of such intense discussion over the years. Globalization implies a spatial understanding of literature, quite different from the more widely accepted temporal understanding. An intrinsically spatial understanding of Korean literature requires an

Literature

Moving beyond the Korean context to the international contex~

shifting Koreans' focus from the particular to the universal-this is the path to internationalization.

important transformation in the way Koreans look at literature. This requires leaving behind the debate over uniquely Korean historical factors for a broader debate over universality. The internationalization of Korean literature begins with a recognition of literature's universal qualities. Moving beyond the Korean context to the international context, shifting Koreans' focus from the particular to the universal-this is the path to internationalization. In recent years there has been a growing interest in introducing Korean literature to readers overseas. Literary internationalization implies the dissemination and acceptance of Korean literary works abroad. This process is governed by cultural principles quite different from the principles of price, quality and fashion that govern the market for consumer goods. The internationalization and overseas introduction of Korean literature produces both clashes between Korean and non-Korean sensibilities and harmonious encounters with foreign literature and readers. The success or failure of Korean literature overseas depends on its literary and thematic appeal to non-Korean tastes. The most crucial aspect of this process is literature's intrinsic ability to touch universal emotions.

Introducing Korean Literature Abroad The introduction of Korean literature to foreign readers began as part of the Korean government's campaign to introduce Korean culture overseas. The Korean Culture and Arts Foundation (KCAF) was founded in 1973 to provide state support for culture and the arts. KCAF has since 11

undertaken a project of translating and distributing Korean literary works overseas, but found that there was little interest in Korean literature in other ~ and early countries. In the late 1970s 1980s, the government's translation and overseas distribution program was tainted by the repressive domestic political situation. The program was generally seen as an extension of government propaganda efforts. Ironically, Korean literary figures active in the antigovernment and pro-democracy movements received more international attention than other writers. From the mid-1980s, however, the KCAF translation and overseas distribution program began to take off. A broader range of works was translated, and quality improved as more native speakers of the target language were recruited. The KCAF also insisted that translated works be published by overseas publishers to ensure better distribution. Works by Hwang Sun-won, Kim Tong-ni and 0 Chong-hlii are best represented in English. Hwang's novel Trees on the Cliff (Seoul: Korean Literature Foundation, 1980), translated by Prof. Chang Wang-rok, and a collection of Hwang's short stories, The Stars and Other Korean Short Stories (Hong Kong: Heinemann Asia, 1980), translated by Edward Poitras, were among the earlier publications, to be followed by Hwang's novel The Moving Castle (Seoul: Si-sa-yong-o-sa, 1985), translated by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton, and two collections of short stories, The Book of Masks (London Readers International, 1984) and Shadows of a Sound (San Francisco: Mercury House, 1990), both translated by Martin Holman and others. Kim Tong-ni's novel Ulh wa, the Shaman (Seoul: Korean Literature Foundation, 1979) and numerous short stories including "Portrait of a Shaman," "The Rock," "Loess Valley," and "The Post Horse Curse" have been translated into English by several translators. Most of 0 Chong-hl'ti's important sto12

Literary internationalization is governed by cultural principles quite different from the principles of price, quality and fashion that govern the market for consumer goods.

Kim Tong-ni, Ku Sang and Hwang Sunwon (from top down) are Korea's most frequently translated writers.

ries including "The Bronze Mirror," "Words of Farewell," "The Toyshop Woman," "Evening Game" and "Chinatown" have been published through translation by the team of Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton. Selected poems of Han Yong-un, Chong Chi-yong, So ChOng-ju, Ku Sang, Kim Nam-jo, Hwang Tong-gyu, Kim Kwang-gyu and other modern poets have been translated and published in separate volumes in the United States and Britain, but Peter Lee's The Silence of Love: Twentieth-Century Korean Poetry (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1980) and Ko Won's Contemporary Korean Poetry (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1970) are the only significant anthologies offering a broad view of modern Korean poetry. The translation and publication of Korean literature in French has been somewhat less extensive, but there has been considerable progress in recent years. The works of Yi Mun-yol and Yi Ch 'ong-jun have led the way. Several of Yi Mun-yol's novellas including "The Kracken," "Our Twisted Hero" and "Winter That Year" have been translated and published in separate volumes, and Yi Ch'ong-jun's novellas "Iodo" and "The Prophet" and his novel This Paradise of Yours are all available in French. French editions of Cho Sehl'ti's A Tiny Ball Launched by a Dwarf, Ch'oe In-ho's "Deep Blue Night," Kim Song-dong's Mandala, Park Wansub 's "Mother's Grave Marker," and Yun Hu-myong's "Tunhuang's Love,." and a collection of poems by Ku Sang and a poetry anthology edited by Prof. Min Hl'ti-shik have also been published. Most Korean works available in German owe their existence to Prof. Ku Ki-song, who published them in anthologies. Maurizio Riotto has produced fine Italian translations of Yi Mun-yol's "Our Twisted Hero" and The Poet among other works. Korean literature has also been translated into Asian languages. A collection of Kim Chi-ha's poems is available in Japanese, as are Yun Hl'mg-gil's

A 1995 Korean literature seminar in Germany, sponsored by the Korean Culture and Arts Foundation and attended by some of Korea's prominent literary figures including senior poet SO Chongju, third from left, was well received (above). Many works of novelists Yi Ch'ongjun (below )and Yi Mun-yol (bottom) have been translated into French.

Mother and a collection of Prof. Paik Nak-chung's critical essays. The translation into Japanese of novelist Cho Ch6ng-nae's epic The T'aebaek Mountains is underway. Although the number of Korean literary works being translated and published in other languages is growing, few have captured the attention of foreign readers. Most are published with the help of grants from Korea, and hardly any go into additional printings. The number of copies printed is limited, and no special effort is made to sell or distribute these books because foreign publishers are paid publication grants prior to publication. As a result, it is difficult to find Korean literary works in Europe or the United States, even at the largest university bookstores. Of course, the major university libraries have most of the volumes mentioned above, but few students. are interested in Korean literature and even fewer universities offer Korean

literature courses. Readers with a special interest in Korean literature also find many substandard translations.

Translation and Publication The most urgent issue facing those championing the cause of Korean literature abroad is the promotion of highquality translations. In the past, Koreans, especially specialists in foreign literature, did most of the translations. This is not an ideal translation method. No matter how proficient a Korean is in a foreign language, he or she will likely never attain the linguistic intuition about or affinity for the language that a native speaker has. Native speakers of the target language skilled in the Korean language must take the central role in the translation of Korean literature. The translator must also be an accomplished writer. Fluency in Korean alone does not make a good translator. Without an interest in and understanding of literature, effec13

tive translation is impossible. Ideally, a foreign translator and a Korean proficient in the target language should work together on a translation_. The selection of works for translation is another important issue. The choice of work can spell the difference between success and failure. Rarely does a translator have the freedom to choose the work he or she translates. In most cases, the institution or organization funding the project has already designated a work for translation. A translator's personal tastes or interests are not taken into account. Korean literature is not served when translators must assume this passive approach. Translators should choose the works they translate. They must consider each work's character and merits, whether translation is feasible, and who will read the work The translator must decide whether the work will be targeted at the general reading public or at university students and scholars. The success or failure of Korean literature in translation also depends on the publisher. Most translations have been published in Korea, and distribution overseas remains a serious problem. In the past, many books were published as part of the government's public relations efforts, but most were ignored by foreign readers. The recruitment of publishers overseas is urgently needed. Of course, finding publishers interested in Korean literature in translation will

Quality is the most important issue in literary translation. The novellas and novels of Yi Mun-yol (right) have been translated into English,]apanese, French and other languages, and Pak Kyong-ni's 16-volume saga The Land has been condensed in a one-

volume French translation, La Terre, (facing page) and is now being translated into English andjapanese. 14

not be easy. Active development of relations between Korean and foreign publishers is critical for this effort. The recent success of Words of Farewell, an anthology of stories by Korean women writers translated by the Seattle-based team of Bruce and JuChan Fulton, and Land of Exile, a collection of short stories translated and edited by the Fultons and Marshall Pihl, illuminates many of the problems which arise in the translation and publication of Korean literature abroad. The two volumes were the first collections of Korean literary works translated and published overseas to go into a second printing. In fact, both have gone into third printings. The publishers are actively advertising the books and have helped arrange readings by the translators at major bookstores, foundations and universities in Seattle, San Francisco, Washington, D.C., New York, Boston, Honolulu and other cities. Rarely, if ever, has this been done for a translation of Korean literature. Seal Press of Seattle took an active role in the planning of Words of Farewell, and Land of Exile, published by M. E. Sharpe in Armonk, New York, was targeted from the earliest stages for use as a college-level source book. These two publications were made possible in part by grants from the KCAF and UNESCO, but the works to be included and the tone of translation were determined by the tastes and

interests of the translators themselves. The success of Words of Farewell and Land of Exile stands in stark contrast to works produced by translators "for hire," who do not select their own projects, and also demonstrates the importance of clearly identifying the target reader when selecting works for translation. Most significantly, Words of Farewell and Land of Exile confirm the importance of good translations. Let me reemphasize the effectiveness of team translating, combining the talents of a native speaker of the target language skilled in Korean and a Korean well acquainted with the target language, and the importance of literary talent and interest. Both Words of Farewell and Land of Exile were translated and compiled by native speakers of English who have spent many years studying Korean language and literature, together, of course, with Korean collaborators. The commercial success of Words of Farewell and Land of Exile was made possible by the publishers' active publicity efforts. Both publishers developed specific marketing strategies, helped the translators organize public readings, and promoted sales. This would not have been possible without links to the vast book distribution network in the United States. The importance of the selection of the right publisher is clearly evident considering both Words of Farewell and Land of Exile were published with-

out the translation subsidies that usually support the publication of Korean literary works overseas. The importance of content is also noteworthy, particularly in th ~ e case of Words of Farewell, a collection of stories by women writers. Clearly Words of Farewell struck a chord with nonKorean readers interested in universal issues, such as the concerns of women. Korean literature's attraction is not limited to its uniquely Korean aspects. Only by transcending, in content and feeling, a narrow Korean focus and addressing universal issues can Korean writers elicit a positive response from readers abroad.

Future Tasks The Korean government has designated 1996 as the Year of Literature, but the internationalization of Korean literature is a process that will stretch into the next century. In my view, a number of issues must be addressed systematically if a firm foundation for internationalization is to be established and substantive results are to be achieved. First, support for Korean language education abroad must be expanded. The internationalization of Korean literature is directly linked to the spread of the Korean language abroad. Through Korean language education, an understanding of Korea will grow and interest in Korean literature will expand. The Korean government has shown little interest in Korean language education programs in universities overseas in the past. It is time to expand government support for language programs and professors doing research related to Korean language study. To this end, the government must take a greater interest in and provide generous support for the systematic development of teaching materials. Educators now teaching the Korean language and Korean linguistic specialists should be brought together in a national effort to develop a unified set of teaching materials for use at the university level overseas. The Japanese govern-

ment developed and distributed Japanese teaching materials in the late 1960s and there has been remarkable progress in Japanese language instruction abroad. It is time Korea did the same. Even more effective would be the simultaneous development of audio-visual materials to supplement written texts. Second, the translation and publication of Korean literary works overseas must Âˇbe carried out methodically. The success of internationalization efforts depends on quality translations and publications reaching a wide audience. No matter how exceptional a work

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may be, if it is not translated well, it will never be enjoyed by readers abroad. However, the translation program should not focus on the short-term needs of Korea. Rather, it should be pursued over the long-term, following the lead of publishing markets abroad. Support for translation and research should also be expanded. For many years, foreign scholars specializing in political science, sociology and economics have received generous support from Korea through a number of sources. Literary translators, on the other hand, have only received translation grants or per page manuscript fees. A grant system to provide more support for translators around the world is needed. The spread of Korean literature and the improvement of research standards in this field depends on the cultivation of scholars abroad. To this end, there needs to be a generous expansion of support for the study of Korean literature overseas in the form of research grants to educators and scholarships for students majoring in Korean literature. The Japanese have invested heavily in the promotion of Japan studies programs overseas since the 1960s, and the results are obvious: There is great interest in and understanding of Japanese culture around the world. The Korea Foundation and other institutions are now engaged in similar programs, but such efforts have to be part of a longterm commitment if they are to produce results. Korean literature has yet to attract much attention overseas, but works rich in content are sure to strike a chord with non-Korean readers when presented properly. As Korean language programs expand abroad, particularly in colleges and universities, and the number of Korean literature majors increases, the prospects for internationalization grow brighter. If the quality of translations improves, it will not be long before foreign readers find many works of Korean fiction and poetry on the shelves of their bookstores. + 15

Korea~s

Literary Diaspora Artistic and Thematic Concerns

Kim Yong-jik

Professor of Korean Literature Seoul National University

n this age of globalization and electronic information transmission, the internationalization of literature should be a fast and easy process. However, spreading literature around the world is not as simple as sending satellite photos or facsimiles. The transmission of culture can be slowed down by the bumps of traditions, consciousness, values and living conditions. Korea, like most other countries in this age of globalization, wants its literature to be read and appreciated throughout the world. Overseas Koreans are the best positioned to lead this effort because they have a foot in two cultures. Therefore, it is worthwhile to look at what kind of literature overseas Koreans are producing and what factors determine the character of their writing. I will focus on enclaves of ethnic Koreans in China, Japan, the former Soviet Union and North America.

History of Korean Emigration China's Manchuria, Japan, Kazhakstan of the former Soviet Union and North America have a long history of Korean immigration. The ethnic Koreans living in these areas have developed unique cultures and produced literature with distinctive characteristics. There are approximately 400,000 people of Korean descent residing in Kazhakstan. Their history dates back to the turn of the century when Koreans first began to migrate to the Maritime Province of Siberia. The subsequent Japanese occupation of Korea drove even more Koreans to Siberia. 16

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enclaves around the world has distinct characteristics arising from the ideological climate and living conditions found in each en cia ve.

A stone marker honoring Yun Tong-ju (1917-1945), a Korean poet born and 1Âˇaised in southeastern Manchuria during the]apanese colonial period (left); ethnic Korean children in Yenbian, one clad in traditional Korean costume (above)

In the early 1930s Stalin forced them to relocate to Central Asia as he prepared for a war with Japan after its occupation of Manchuria. In the course of the forced relocation, countless Koreans died from hunger, cold and other hardships. However, Koreans in Kazhakstan have held fast to their Korean heritage and still publish books, newspapers and magazines in Korean. In North America, there were about 1.6 million Koreans and people of Korean descent as of 1995. Most Koreans in North America are highly educated . The 1990 U. S. census showed that ethnic Koreans were more highly educated than most other ethnic minorities living in the United States. Koreans in North America are culturally sophisticated, and the literature they produce reflects that sophistication. Another important Korean enclave is in the Manchurian region of China. Korean residents in China number approximately 1.9 million, of which 90 percent currently reside in North Kando, or Yenbian (Y onbyon) district, as it is currently called. Korean migration to Manchuria began toward the end of the Choson Dynasty, when indigent Korean farmers moved there in search of fertile land. Then, in the 1930s, the Japanese colonial government forced Korean farmers to migrate to Manchuria to help develop the region Japan had just occupied. In the Yenbian autonomous region today, 70 percent of the government officials are said to be of Korean 17

descent. The Koreans there are also highly educated. Most of the Korean residents in Japan are those who were forcibly drafted by Japan to supl ~ ment its wartime labor force and their descendants. From the 1930s, as Japan prepared for the Pacific War, 200,000 to 300,000 able-bodied Korean men were drafted and sent to mines, construction sites and munitions factories in Japan. After the end of the war when these work sites dosed, Japan made no provision for the livelihood of these men who had little means to return home. The division among Koreans in Japan into pro-North Korean and pro-South Korean factions further worsened their lot. The animosity between the two factions has made it easier for Japan to discriminate against Koreans. The literature produced in these four major Korean enclaves each has distinct characteristics arising from the ideological climate and living conditions of the particular region. Whereas Koreans in Yenbian and Central Asia lived until quite recently under the tight control of communist governments, those in North America and Japan lived under liberal democracies, with freedom of speech and other personal freedoms. The ethnic Korean writers who have lived under socialist governments pay homage to communist ideology, whereas those who have lived under liberal democracies tend to be indifferent to ideology and more concerned with human problems.

Korean Writers in Former USSR Stalin was ruthless in suppressing ethnic minorities in the Soviet Union. As mentioned earlier, he forced Koreans to cross the vast Siberia from the Far East Maritime Province to Central Asia in the 1930s, using the threat of Japanese invasion as an excuse. But even after World War II when there was no longer a Japanese threat, Koreans were prevented from returning to the Maritime Province or Korea. 18

Despite excruciating hardships, Korean residents in Central Asia have preserved their national identity, traditions and customs, as well as their spoken and written language.

However, despite excruciating hardships, Korean residents in Central Asia have preserved their national identity, traditions and customs, as well as their spoken anp written language. A high percentage of Koreans in the former Soviet Union are engaged in cultural, educational and scientific works. They have a theater for staging plays in Korean, their own newspapers and publishing houses for works in Korean. In 1967, the Alma-Ata Writers ' Union, an association of Korean writers and poets in Kazhakstan, published a collection entitled The Sunbeam of October (Shiw61 Lli haetpit) on the

occasion of the 50th anniversary of the October Revolution. The collection includes poems by Cho Myong-hi:ii, Cho Ki-ch'on and others, fiction by Kim Ki- ch'ol, Ri ChOng-hili, Han Sanguk and others, and a play by Ch'ae Yong. Most of these works praise the Soviet system and call for class struggle. Poets such as Cho Myong-hui and Cho Ki-ch'on professed faith in the ideology of revolutionary Bolshevism. But there are also Korean writers from this region who write about the intimate lives and emotions of their fellow ethnic Koreans. Among the writers from this region who write in Russian, Anatoli Kim and Vladimir Bu are well-known in the world of Russian letters and are also gaining fame in Korea. Anatoli Kim's short story "Blue Island (P'uri:in sam)" and novel Squirrel (Taramjui) have been translated into Korean and give Korean readers a glimpse into the hearts and minds of their brethren living halfway across the world. Kim's unique blend of modern sensibilities with historical events Âˇagainst a regional backdrop make him an invigorating force in the literary world of AlmaAtan Koreans.

Literature by Koreans in China Since the People's Republic of China has maintained its xenophobic isolation for so long, Koreans in China have had little access until recently to literature produced in other parts of the world. Inevitably, their literary ideas tend to be rigid and old-fashioned. Therefore, much of the literature produced by Koreans in China tends to have a strong ideological content, featuring peasants living in a feudal agricultural society. Literature by Koreans in China featured strong anti-Japanese sentiments during the period of Japanese imperialism and, following the communist takeover, ideological tendencies including the stress on socialist class struggles. Recently, however, with the opening up of China to foreign thoughts and influences, Korean-

Chinese literature has begun to change. Currently there are about 400 writers of Korean descent in China, mostly living and working in Yenbian. Some of the outstanding fiction produced by these writers include Kim Hak-ch'ol's

First, unlike the Koreans who were forcibly relocated to Central Asia, Koreans in Manchuria maintained contact with Korea across the Yalu and Tumen rivers. In the early years of resettlement, notable figures including Kim Taek-yong, Shin ChOng and Shin Chae-ho were engaged in literary work there. Even during the Japanese colonial period, noted poets such as Kim Tal-chin, Yu Chi-hwan and Kim Pukwon and fiction writers such as Kang Kyong-ae, Pak Kye-ju and An Su-gil published works there and in Korea as well. Most of them returned to Korea around the time of Korea's liberation from Japan at the end of World War II. But they left behind a rich legacy there, which became the soil in which Korean literature in China could grow and flower. Second, compared to the Koreans in the former Soviet Union who had to experience forced relocation to Central Asia, the Koreans in Manchuria developed a stronger sense of tradition and a more fertile cultural environment. The Koreans in Yeribian trace the beginning of their literary activities back to the a11.ti-Japanese literature addressed to the restoration of national sovereignty. Yet, there were many non-socialist authors such as Kim Taekyong, Shin Chae-ho and Yun Tong-ju who were not confined to the notion of literature as a tool of ideological struggle.

Tell Me, Haeran River (Haeran-gang malhara) and The Age of Turbulent Passion (Ky6kch6ng shidae); Yi Kunjon's Years of Trial (Kanan ui y6ndae); Yi Won-gil's Snowy Night (S6lya) and Spring Sentiments (Ch'unj6ng). Kim Ch'ol's epic Legend of the New Star (Saeby61-j6n) and Kim Song-hUi's Mt. Changbaeksan head the list of several

dozen volumes of poetry. The major themes of these writers include the national consciousness of Koreans during the Chason Dynasty's decline, Japan's persecution and exploitation of Koreans, criticism of current social realities from the point of view of the powerless individuals, and contemplation of their status as an ethnic minority and of the meaning of their national heritage. Kim Hak-ch'ol's trilogy Tell Me, Haeran River is set in Yenbian. Most of the characters are ethnic Koreans, who think and act on the basis of their consciousness of ethnic identity. The plot moves toward the "September 18 incident," an uprising of Koreans in Manchuria against the Japanese. Japan, which had invaded Manchuria and set up a puppet regime, began to oppress Koreans there. Strongly influenced by socialist ideas of class consciousness, the Koreans joined with their Chinese neighbors to resist the Japanese. Japan responded by slaughtering some 4,000 Koreans in Yenbian in 1932 alone. In the Haeran district of Yanji County, the Japanese conducted no less than 94 punitive expeditions, slaughtering nearly 2,000 Koreans including independence fighters. As the September 18 incident was the culmination of this struggle and retaliation, the novel captures the strong national consciousness of that period. The literature of ethnic Koreans in China has two main characteristics.

Changbaek Waterfallin Yenbian

Unlike the Koreans who were forcibly relocated to Central Asia, Koreans in Manchuria maintained contact with Korea across the Yalu and Tumen rivers.

Korean Writers inJapan Most of the ethnic Koreans in Japan are those who were forcibly drafted into Japanese mines and war factories and their descendants. Whether they were involuntary or willing immigrants, Korean residents in Japan have faced legal and social discrimination and personal humiliation in Japanese society. Literature by Korean residents in Japan revolves around such basic issues as finding one's identity and selfhood in that humiliating and hostile environment. The division of the Korean community into two ideologi19

cal factions, plus a sizable force of neutrals, further complicates the lives of ethnic Koreans in Japan. ~ to North Koreans with aleginc Korea belong to the pro-P'yongyang Federation of Korean Residents (Choch'ongnyon), which is directly linked to the North Korean government. Writers belonging to this faction produce largely ideological works. Kim Sok-bom's Kwandok Pavillion and Ho Nam-ki's collection of poetry Korean Winter Tales are paeans for North Korea's communist "utopia." As the pro-P'yongyang federation became more and more rigid, it alienated many of the writers affiliated with it. Kim Tal-su, Kim Sok-bom, Pak Kyong-shik, Yi Chin-hi and Yi Ch'ol are some of the writers who left the federation to remain in the middle ground. Most of them are critical of the regimes of both North and South Korea and maintain a distance from both. The protagonist in Chong Sungbak's After the Splinter, a Korean who immigrated to Japan in his youth in search of work , was forbidden to contact his family by the South Korean government because of his former pro-P'yongyang allegiance and had to live the life of an exile in a foreign land. Then, the Seoul government decides to allow former proP'yongyang residents to visit their hometowns in South Korea. After receiving a long letter from his younger brother, he decides to return to his hometown. Although the proSeoul Federation of Korean Residents (Mindan) is extremely uncooperative in preparing the necessary paperwork, he finally manages to make it to Pusan. But he is fleeced by a local tour guide and forced to bribe a policeman. Despite the novel's criticism of corruption in South Korea, there is a distinct difference between the works of these neutral writers and the pro-North writers. The proNorth writers rarely deviate from their ideological focus to express pure nostalgia for Korea. Poets such as Yi 20

Ch'ol cannot hide their longing for homeland. My homeland draws me like a magnet And I cannot shake myself free. I turn a deaf ear to the street orator And gaze at the empty sky Which reverberates no echo. A lonely old man, I gaze at the sky that stretches without end. Yi Ch'ol's poem is about an SO-yearold Korean man who has spent 60 years of his life in Tokyo. His yearning is acute because he cannot go home to die. Ideology is conspicuously absent from this poem. The pro-Seoul federation has many internal problems. Thus, not all proSeoul Korean writers belong to this organization. In fact, many Korean writers in Japan have stayed away from ideological issues and instead fixed their sights on artistic development. Two prominent examples are Yi Hoe-song and Yi Yang-ji. Both are second-generation Koreans, both have won Japan's prestigious Akutagawa award, and both have written about the invisible iron curtains that keep ethnic Koreans from integrating into Japanese society. The protagonist of Yi Yang-ji's award-winning novel, Yu-hi (1982), is a second-generation Korean, like the author herself, who goes to Korea to find her roots. She decides to learn Korean and enrolls in the Korean language and literature department of a college in Seoul. But Korean continues to be a foreign language to her, and she finds she cannot be a native Korean. At last, in spite of the encouragement of many Korean friends and associates, she decides she cannot make Korea her home and returns to Tokyo. This work is a realistic and delicate portrayal of the inner conflicts of second-generation Koreans in Japan who are aliens in both the country of their birth and the country of their origin. Yi's honesty and delicate sensibili-

ty distinguish her from many KoreanJapanese writers whose foremost concern is ideological.

Korean Literature in North America North America is a vast continent, and the ethnic Koreans there include first-, second-, third- and even fourthgeneration Koreans. Most of them are highly educated, and the literature produced by them is of high standards. Korean writers active in North America include Kim Yong-ik, Yi Raksu, Yu Pyong-ch'on, Ko Won, Pak Yimun, (Richard) Kim Dn-guk, Pak Namsu, Ma Chong-gi and Song Yong. Most of them have gained recognition as writers in Korea as well, and many of them are teaching or have taught at American universities. Their work, compared with that of ethnic Koreans in other parts of the world, is nonideological and focuses on concerns of individual protagonists. Perhaps the most successful of the Korean writers writing in English in North America is Richard E. Kim, whose The Martyred and Lost Names have gained worldwide attention. Kim Kichung and Pak Taeyoung (Tai Pak) have produced short stories, and poet Cathy Song won the Yale award for young poets in 1982 with her first collection, Picture Bride. Cathy Song's grandfather was a first-generation immigrant who worked on a sugar cane plantation in Hawaii, and in a number of her poems Song writes about what her grandparents might have thought after a life of hard work and the success of their children. Richard Kim's The Martyred is set in P'yongyang immediately after the Korean War. Captain Lee, the narrator , is assigned to a U. S. Army Counterintelligence Corps (CIC) unit and put in charge of investigating the execution of 12 Christian ministers by retreating North Korean soldiers. The communists had arrested and tortured 14 ministers in an effort to make them deny the existence of God. Then they executed 12, but spared two. One

went insane from the pain and terror of the communists' interrogation; the other, Reverend Shin, is the focus of a mystery. Why was he spared? The American military intelligence agency tries to portray the 12 executed ministers as martyrs. But then they capture a high-ranking North Korean officer who took part in the trial and execution of the ministers. He states that he had ordered their execution because they all denied God and abjectly begged for their lives. He also reveals that Reverend Shin, whom everyone thought had renounced God to save his life, was the only minister who had remained firm in his faith and had not pleaded for mercy. The officer says that he spared Shin because he admired his courage. The 12 "martyrs" turn out to have been apostates and the "apostate" the true man of faith. However, Reverend Shin proclaims that the 12 executed ministers were indeed martyrs and he is a vile apostate who denied God's existence during his interrogation. And he makes an even more astonishing confession to Captain Lee, who confronted him with the facts revealed by the North Korean officer: ... "I married late in life," he said, "only to bury my first child, a boy, and my wife within the same year. My wife died a few weeks after the boy. She became ill. She blamed the loss of our child on herself, on her sins, and she spent all her time praying, fasting. And I-I was sick with my grief but I had my life to live here and she had hers and I resented her slavish devotion to her god, her pitiful prayers. And I dared-! dared to tell her that when we were gone from this life we would never meet again, we would never see our children again, and that there was no afterlife. My unhappy wife, my terrified wife-she could not bear the thought, she was not strong enough to live with my terrible truth. She could not live without her hope and

promise that in the life hereafter she would meet her lost child. She became a living corpse and she died in despair." Reverend Shin made himself a living martyr by falsely confessing his apostacy and drawing the scorn and blame of everyone onto himself, not because he believed in a benevolent, caring God, but because he pitied people and wanted to fill their need to believe in God and martyrs. So the question he poses is an existential one. A similar existential question is raised in Pak Yi-mun 's poem "The Shadow of a Candle." Man is compared in this poem to a candle, which is something that illuminates the darkness: Born to cry, to hate and to love to be transparent, to think and to write down something unintelligible and to die to return into the dust Our reason and our thought our value and our hope, our cries and our joy go with the wind like elements, like unintelligible foreign language.

The Statue of Liberty in the United States

Koreans and their descendants are creating literature wherever they are, working with the cultural climate and social conditions they encounter together with the uniquely Korean sensibility they inherited from their forebears.

The last stanza deserves attention. In it all existing things are presented as evanescent. This may be taken as the Buddhist consciousness of the ephemerality of existence. The poet is expressing a highly metaphysical statement. Koreans and their descendants are creating literature wherever they are, working with the cultural climate and social conditions they encounter together with the uniquely Korean sensibility they inherited from their forebears. What they produce enriches the literature of their adopted countries and deepens Koreans' understanding of their compatriots' struggle for survival. + 21

A SENSE OF PLACE

The Role of Geography Park Duk-kyu Novelist/Literary Critic

Kwak Che-gu's Sap'yong Station

The last train never did come that night. Outside the waiting room snowflakes piled high, and in each window, frosted with purple and white sorghum flowers, the sawdust stove was glowing. Like the month's last day, some dozed, some coughed from colds, and I, recalling precious moments from the past, threw a handful of sawdust into the fire. Though words filled us deep inside we bathed our blue palms in the light of the fire and no one spoke a word. To live-as if drunk, fumbling with a string of fish or a basket of apples, and in the homecoming mood-at times it meant you had to keep silent, we all knew that. Inside the cough of a lingering illness, in the smoke of a cigarette, medicine-tart, the snowflowers piled crisp and dry. Yes, that's it. Now we all bathe our ears in the snowflowers' music. After midnight, the strangeness, the heartache, they are all fields of snow no matter where the night train goes, its windows bright as

autumn leaves. And I, hailing those precious moments by name, threw a handful of tears into the fire. In January 1981 this prose poem won first prize for poetry in the annual literary contest sponsored by the daily newspaper joong-ang Ilbo. The poem, entitled "At Sap'yong Station," marked the literary debut of Kwak Che-gu, a native of Kwangju, born in 1954. This poem evokes a sense of the tragic history of South Korea in the 1980s and the personal landscape of a young man scarred by that history. The reader can feel the warmth of the characters, languishing in poverty and cold but never losing their humanity, as well as the loneliness of a young man looking back, partly in resignation, at what was once a hopeful time, all against the backdrop of a small country train station on a snowy night. But a question arises: Where is Sap'yong Station? Sap'yong-it is a commonplace name referring to a flat piece of sandy earth. But is there really such

South Kwangju Station (left), the model for poet Kwak Che-gu's "At Sap'yong Station," and the waiting room (right) Kwak so vividly portraysin the poem.

in KOrean Literature a station in the southern plains of Korea? It does not matter whether a literary locale is real or not, and yet, when one thinks of the process by which a work of literature is born-be it a poem or a piece of fiction-one knows that a writer creates a specific space by calling forth from his or her own imagination details of actual places. Each time a real space, an actual locale emerges in his or her mind, a truly valuable element of literature is born. But what are the actual spatial elements of Kwak Che-gu's Sap'y6ng Station? The railroad station depicted in this poem resembles many small country stations in the~sourn Ch6lla region, but Kwak was thinking of one in particular when he wrote the poem. South Kwangju Station is, as the name implies, the first station south of Kwangju on the railroad leading to Sunch'6n and Chinju. It is served by local trains that stop at all country stations. Farmers from southern counties, such as Pos6ng and Si:"mgju, arrive at the station early in the morning to sell their vegetables at South Kwangju Market and return in the evening to catch the train back to their villages. In this poem, Kwak re-creates images from any small railroad station: farmers and neighbors coughing, dozing, chatting, then falling silent once more. In one sense, this poem paints a simple scene-the waiting room at South Kwangju Station-but it also evokes a ~ sense of "home" for the southern people who carry strings of fish and baskets of g; apples to market.

1m Ch'ol-u's Namp'yong

Two years after Kwak Che-gu's poem won the 1981 literary contest, another writer from the Cholla region, novelist Im Ch'ol-u, borrowed a few lines from the poem and caused a stir with a short story called "Sap'yong Station." In the story, Im developed the nameless figures of Kwak's poem into flesh-and-blood characters: a farmer taking his sick father to a city hospital; a middle-aged man dazed at his discovery that the mother of a political prisoner he met in prison has died; a university student leaving his hometown, unable to tell his father that he had been expelled; a lowly barmaid who has returned to her hometown for a visit, playing the part of a fashionable Seoulite; two women who make their living peddling fish and cheap clothes in small towns; a crazy woman sleeping on a bench in the waiting room; the station master who keeps the stove burning long after the passengers board the train because of the sleeping woman ... The time and space of those people waiting at Sap'yong Station are distilled within this short story. K'ulluk k 'ulluk The old man begins to cough. The farmer rubs his father's chest with a large, homely hand. The stove is glowing hot. It bathes the people around it in warmth. After watching the men smoking their cigarettes, the women suddenly

need something to chew on. One woman reaches into her bundle, looking for something. Two long dried pollack emerge at her fingertips. She tosses them on top of the stove, then tears the roasted fish into pieces and divides them among the waiting passengers.

Im port ray s the loneliness and growing familiarity of the waiting passengers with great skill. As they wait for the last train that never comes, each passenger reveals a little bit of his or her self and a certain companionship develops. The white snow covering the railroad tracks establishes the season-it is the middle of winter-but the image also suggests congeniality and humanity. The despair and resignation coloring the poem "At Sap'yong Station" have changed somewhat to reveal a more intimate portrait of compassionate neighbors. Interestingly, the model for this story is not Kwak's South Kwangju Station but Namp'yong Station a few stops down the line. The television dramatization of Im's short story was actually shot on location at Namp'yong Station. Here too, while the writer uses a specific location to portray a superficial situation, he is actually depicting the lives of his characters, who frequent the station and live in or near his home of Kwangju, through images of the station and its occupants on that snowy night.

Namp'yong Sta tion (righ t), the stage for n o velist Im Ch'ol- u's s hort story "Sap'y o n g Station," and' the people who make their living aroun d the station (left)

Nampyong Station tr--ZZfZ"f!

I-

Cho ChOng-nae's T'aebaek Sanmaek

maek, Polgyo is much more.

Follow the railroad southward from South Kwangju Station through Namp'yong and you soon come to Polgyo, one of the most prominent places in modern Korean literature. Polgyo is the main stage for Cho ChOngnae's popular 10-volume saga T'aebaek sanmaek (T'aebaek Mountains). When the term "stage" is used in reference to a work of fiction, it generally means the spatial background in which the author's characters exist, but in T'aebaek san-

Geographical setting is important in most lengthy sagas, and Polgyo is center stage for much of the serial novel's action. Characters grow up there, they live, work and die there, but Polgyo also exists as a historical entity, in and of itself, and as such, determines the fate of many of Cho's characters. Of course, Polgyo is not the only location mentioned in the novel. One of the main characters, Yom Sang-jin, is in the Yosu and Sunch'on area in 1948 when

an armed rebellion breaks out. He flees into the mountains of southern ChOlla where he joins the communist partisans. For a time he leads partisan attacks around the Polgyo area, then, when the Korean War ends, he and his compatriots scatter into the Chirisan and Paek'unsan mountains. But they ultimately are wiped out by government forces. Chirisan is one of the most important venues in Korea's modern literature. The territory portrayed in T'aebaek

sanmaek extends much farther than that, however. As the Korean War stretches on, characters travel to Seoul, Pusan, P'yongyang and Kojedo Island where a camp of communist prisoners of war was located. Not surprisingly, the T'aebaek mountain range figures prominently as Cho recounts the partisans' activities throughout the region. Still, the focus of T'aebaek sanmaek is Polgyo, and, more specifically, "Nakajima Field," a large expanse of land created by a Japanese landlord named Nakajima

who mobilizes his tenants .to build a dike near Polgyo Harbor. The entire novel is premised on the relationship between the Japanese landlord and his Korean tenants and focuses on the deep scars caused by the conflicts embodied in this relationship. The saga's historical perspective is closely linked to the "land." Cho believes that Korea's modern history is inexorably bound to the historical contradictions inherent in "Nakajima Field." That is, the conflicts that exist in Polgyo are

The plains of Polgyo where much of the action in Cho Chong-nae's monumental T'aebaek sanmaek takes place

Nak-an (above), a village in the Polgyo plains designated for preservation as a traditional folk village, is where one can observe life as writer Cho Chong-nae (below) depicted in his epic novel T'aebaek sanmaek_

the contradictions of Korea as a whole. Few, if any, of the victims of these contradictions regret or reconsider their own behavior. They all seem to believe that Polgyo, the land itself, has determined their fate. When the first volume of T'aebaek sanmaek was published in 1989, it caused an uproar because of its controversial content and its rich regional dialect. Cho Ch6ng-nae is a master of Cholla's regional dialect. The cocky pride and honesty of the Ch61la people is palpable in T'aebaek sanmaek. Cho's characters, particularly the rightist y om Sang-gu, come alive through the rich lan28

guage of his novel. The locales and scenes portrayed in T'aebaek sanmaek are still found in Polgyo and the surrounding mountains: Chesoksan where the partisans' torches burn, the shaman's house where a poignant love affair takes place, the tinroofed building where the rightist youth group gathers, the square in front of the railroad station where the partisan Yom Sang-jin is hanged, the bridge where so many ambushes occur, the mudflat where village women collect clams. The authenticity of Cho's saga is vivid proof of the value of field research by an author.

A woman working in a field in P'yongsa-ri (above), the main setting of The Land, an epic novel by Pak Kyong-ni (below), here seen working in her pepper patch.

Pak Kyong-ni's The Land My maternal grandparents lived on Kojedo. There was an enormous field on the island. The rice was ripe, stalks bent, just waiting for someone to come harvest them, but the cholera had already taken the people. Everyone in my grandparents' household had died. Only one daughter remained to watch over things. A man came, took her and disappeared. Later, someone from the village said he'd seen her washing dishes at a peddlers' inn. ( "Compa ss ion in Life, An Aesthetic of Longing: A Discussion with Pak Kyong-ni and Song Ho-gun," Chakka Segye, Winter 1994)

Experiences like this constituted the seed from which Pak Kyong-ni's 16-volume novel, The Land (T'oji), grew. Over 25 years, Pak created a world that revolved around a wealthy landlord's actions and the ferment of resentment, longing, ambition and resistance that resulted. There really were wealthy landlords like the one portrayed in Pak's novel, and the Ak-yang Plain in Hadong on the border between the Cholla and Kyongsang provinces is actually on the map. (Like South Kwangju and Namp'yong, Hadong is on the railroad line connecting Seoul and Chinju.) P'yongsa-ri, a small village on the Ak29

yang Plain, is the main stage for The Land. P'yongsa, like Sap'yong, refers to a flat area of sandy earth. Pak's story opens with the trials and tribulations of the wealthy and aristocratic Ch'oe family in the late 19th century. Madame Yun, Ch'oe's wife, is raped by Kim Kae-nam, leader of one of the religious units of the Tonghak Movement. She secretly bears his child, Hwan, who years later returns to romance the wife of his half-brother, Chi-su. Hwan flees with the woman to Chirisan and Chi-su pursues them, only to be killed by Kim P'yong-san, a debauched aristocrat,Âˇ and his maidservant, Kwi-nyO. Madame Yun ultimately dies of cholera, and with the family's 30

mainstay gone, a distant relative, Cho Chun-gu, takes over. Cho's only opposition is Ch'oe So-htii, the last descendant of the Ch'oe clan. She attempts to kill Cho, then flees with her supporters to Manchuria. So-hui becomes extremely wealthy there, thanks to the help of her servant Kil:sang and Old Kong. Bent on revenge and the resurrection of her family, she marries Kil-sang, gives birth to two sons and returns to P'yongsa-ri to claim her land. The Land seems a simple enough story, but it is much more than the tale of a rich landlord's daughter. Through the lives of the people of P'yongsa-ri, Pak portrays the glory and shame of Korea's modern history. In the first

three volumes, at least, the main character of this saga is not So-htii or Kilsang or any of the characters Pak so vividly portrays; it is P'yongsa-ri itself. The empty fields after the fall harvest, the dry breeze blowing through the lonely stand of trees behind the village, the stone markers honoring virtuous scholars and loyal wives, the village spirit posts-the reader can hear the life there, the wealth and poverty, the tumult and loneliness of P'yongsari. The sounds of the land suggest the human experience: murder, arson, infidelity, revenge and the transformations and division of Korea's own history. One critic has described Pak's novel like this:

The SOmjin-gang River winds through P'yongsa-ri, a small village on the Ak-yang Plain of southern Korea which is the main stage for Pak Kyong-ni'sThe Land.

P'yongsa-ri ... is a complex backdrop that brings to vivid life the many emotions and actions of a traditional rural village's isolated society. At the same time, P'yongsa-ri serves to express in compressed form the ideological and philosophical antagonism and social, political, economic and cultural upheaval and travails of modern Korean history. That is to say, in Pak Kyongni's The Land, P'yongsa-ri, a typical rural village, becomes the stage on which modern Korea and the Korean people's way of life are brought to life. (Kim Byong-ik. A National History of Han and A Social History of Conflict. 1988)

The importance of Chirisan in Pak's novel must not be ignored either. Whereas life in P'yongsa-ri is isolated and inward-looking, the lives of the characters that inhabit or pass through Chirisan portray the enormous changes occurring in the larger society. Pak has called Chirisan a "bosom sheltering the persecuted," "a utopia, an escape for people who cannot live in reality." She says that the fictitious Kim Kae-ju is based on the real Tonghak leader Kim Kae-nam who bathed the Ak-yang Plain in blood during his battles with the government army. In this sense, Pak has made an important contribution, showing that Chirisan was not simply a literary stage for the commu-

nist partisans of the 20th century. Through Pak's vivid characterizations, Chirisan is linked to the lives of the people at P'yongsa-ri and to the broader historical circumstances of the turn of the century. ÂˇPak also portrays the Korean enclave in Manchuria, a place she has never visited, with such clarity that Korean readers feel as if they had been there. This region, to which so many Koreans immigrated during the Japanese colonial period, constitutes an important vein in Korean literature. It will no doubt become even more important after the unification of the two Koreas, when the themes explored by Pak Kyong-ni's The Land will be seen in new light. â&#x20AC;˘ 31

EAST MEETS WEST

T~ansltig

Korean Poetry

1 know a poem when I see one' David R. McCann Professor of Korean Literature Chairman of Department of Asian Studies Cornell University

here are two steps to translating poetry: first, knowing what a poem is as a whole object; and then translating, working out the meaning after that initial recognition and on the poem's own terms. What the translator recognizes as a poem in the original sets the border or framework for the meanings. Translating is not like writing a poem, but like revising an initial draft. Certain poems seem to present themselves as ready to translate; others just do not seem to work at all. That is the same in English and Korean: as a translator and reader, there are poems that I read and enjoy, and others that I simply cannot-in both languages. Of course, facility with the language is important, but in a relative, not absolute, sense. A friend who spoke Korean with such fluency that he could teach a graduate seminar in anthropology at Seoul National University in Korean once cornered me in a winehouse. "Your Korean isn't bad," he said, "but how do you trans, late poetry? One of my students is interested in translating, but he's Korean. How do you manage it?'' His question prompted a simple answer: I know a poem when I see one. No one would deny that translating is hard work. It requires a full understanding of the original work as a poem, which is not necessarily the same thing as knowing the meaning of the poem. Poems remain elusive. They use words in odd ways, or they leave words out, or they take their full 32

shape as poems by making imperfect sense. When translating, one works to comprehend the shape and substance of the original, and then to re-create both in another language. There are some poems that I know I will be translating differently, many times, as my understanding of "poem," Korean and English changes. There are others that I translate once and am satisfied with. There are still others

cannot be reduced to understanding; no matter how often I read it, but I find it an absolutely compelling poem. I memorized it the first time I read it, by reading it another 10 or 15 times. Now it has gathered its own melody in my mind. Cho Chi-hun's "Ancient Temple" (Kosa) has the same utterly captivating quality of sound and imagery. Perhaps it appeals to me because it moves so mysteriously, like Bishop's poem, between the realms of sleep and waking.

Poems use words in odd ways. or they leave words out, or they take their full shape as poems by making imperfect sense. When translating, one works to comprehend the shape and

substance of the originaL and then to re-create both in another language.

that I ha-ve no interest in translating, which is not a measure of the poem's worth, but rather an index of my limited skills, perception and taste as a reader. Other poems captivate me completely, yet I know I cannot translate them. These last are the poems I memorize. What I have said about poems is equally true of poems in English and Korean. Elizabeth Bishop's "Insomnia"

Kim Sowol More than 20 years ago, I spent two years teaching at Andong Agricultural and Forestry High School. Not long after arriving in Andong, I discovered a volume of poetry in English, entitled Selected Poems of Kim So-wol, translated by Kim Dong-sung. The book was a small hardback, red, with English translations on the left hand pages and the Korean originals on the right. I bought the book and took it to my boarding house where I began to puzzle out the Korean poems with the

help of the translations. After a while, I tried working my way back, seeing that the poems in Korean, which I was beginning to understand, could have been translated differently. This little book was the beginning of my efforts to translate, and Kim Sowol was my first acquaintance with Korean poetry. I soon met other poets and their poems and quickly came to admire a group of poets active during the period of Japanese occupation: Yun Tong-ju, Yi Yuk-sa, Han Yong-un and Yi Sang. I was impressed by their poems and moved by the stories of their difficult times. They all died before liberation from Japanese colonial rule in 1945, three in Japanese prisons or shortly after being released. I translated a handful of their poems and found myself engaged in a number of conversations with teachers in Andong and elsewhere, and with fellow passengers on trains and buses, all who seemed inordinately pleased at my interest in Korean poetry. Their pleasure in turn encouraged me to continue, and from those accumulated meetings and discussions, as well as a sense of communion with the poets of the 1920s and 1930s, I decided to pursue my study of Korean poetry and history in a formal way. Upon my return to the United States in 1968, I entered a graduate program in Korean history, and five years later, I was back in Korea conducting research for my dissertation on the prosodic forms of premodern Korean verse.

~ 11.

Kim Chi-ha Soon after returning to Korea I met an American journalist studying at one of the universities in Seoul. He asked if I might be interested in working with him on some translations of poems by the dissident-poet Kim Chi-ha. I agreed and we set to work on a group of poems from Yellow Earth (Hwangt'o), Kim's only published book at the time. I was appalled to discover the poems extremely difficult to understand and translate. Very few went readily into English and most used words-some the dialect of southwest Korea-and syntactic structures that I was unfamiliar with. My journalist friend was having the same trouble, and he suggested that we meet the poet, whom he knew quite well. After much cloak-and-dagger work, we met Kim. Through that and one more meeting as well as my later observations at his trial for conspiracy against the Park Chung-hee government, I was able to overcome some of the difficulties I had experienced in my translation. Coming from a culture that places little value on poetry and assigns absolutely no political weight to it, I found it difficult to comprehend the seriousness of the poet's political and social commitment, but thanks to Kim's explanations and most important, the sense of the poet's voice in his poems-its rhythms, inflections and timbre--l completed translations of a number of the poems collected in Yellow Earth.

I planned also to translate one of his longer poems, political satires published in the early 1970s, but I encountered considerable difficulties, quite unlike the problems presented by the shorter poems. One, "Kogwan," was filled with scatological puns, impossible to translate into English. Another, "Five Bandits" (Ojok), seemed heavy-handed when translated, though it was a powerful indictment of the corruption and venality of the political-industrial-military ruling clique. I got further on a translation of Kim 's "Story of a Sound" (Soriui naeryok), published in a suite of satirical poems known as "Groundless Rumors" (Pia). The title of the series was itself a telling shot at the Park regime, since the so-called Yushin (revitalizing) constitution had maqe it a crime to spread groundless rumors, whatever they were. "Story of a Sound" was a rich potpourri of the language and rhythmic forms of the Korean p 'ansori, or oral narrative, recounting the tale of a country fellow who came to Seoul looking for work, only to wind up in prison. It was a splendid literary work, and at the same time, a witty indictment of the proscriptive excesses of the Park regime. I completed a rough draft of the poem, then became thoroughly stuck between the two languages. As much as I fiddled with it, the translation would not cohere in English. There was too much of a shape for it in Korean-all structures borrowed from p'ansori-none of which seemed to have an equivalent in English. The best I could manage was a kind of balanced prose, but it was clearly not right. I left the translation for several months, returning to it from time to time, but to no good end. Then one night at Cornell, I heard Allen Ginsburg give a poetry reading, and in his rendering of several of his longer narrative poems, I discovered the voice and rhythm I needed. His active connection to the narrative, 33

seem to know just w hat the poet is doing in a given poem. So Chong-ju is a splendid, fierce man and a wonderful poet. I am fortunate to have had the chance to read and translate his poems, and across the distances that exist between us, to meet and get to know him. Other Poets One o f th e grea test fru strations I encounter is the grow ing sense that I do not ha ve enough time for the work that I want to complete. There are so man y poets I enjoy reading and translating. Among them are Yo Yong-t'aek, a poet from the Taegu area who w rote a group of poems entitled UJJUng on Foot ( Pallosstln Ullung do) about the yea r h e sp e nt as a middle-sc h oo l teacher on Ullungdo, off the eastern coast of Korea. I visited the island in February 1978. Black volcanic rocks jutted u p from th e sea, the people were warm and gen erous, and red camellias were everywhere, glowing through the snow. Y poems portray this atmosphere and I have tried to capture it in my translations. I never met the late Ch'on Sangbyong but was struck by one of his poems, portraying a man who seemed completely ill at ease in front of the camera. I asked a friend visiting Korea to buy" me a collection of his works and have kept reading and translating his poems at odd moments ever since. He reminds me o f the British poet Philip Larkin (1922-1985), w ithdrawn, in a way, sardonic. . There are so many poems to read and translate; so many poets, living and dead, to become acquainted w ith. I find great pleasure in making the connections between poets of such radically different languages as English and Korea n. Nothing pleases me more than w hen a friend reads a translation- mine or someone else's- and says "That's a good poem." They are, indeed they are! That is w hy w e translate them+

o:s

56 Ch 6ng-ju is a splendid, fierce m an and a wonderful p oet whose p oem s are said to be difficult to translate beca use they are

' ~o

Korean."

recitative forms of English language poetry opened the way. The translation begins with a noticeable tilt in the direction of Longfellow's "Paul Revere's Ride," and once begun, I found the rest of the translation followed along easily.

SoChOng-ju I was told that the poems of So Ch6ng-ju were exceedingly difficult to tr ansla te beca use they we re "so Korean." Kim Yang-shik, the poet w ho eve ntu all y intro duced me to So, 34

explained this was w hy the poet had not wanted his poems translated, and w hen I finally met So, he told me as much himself. With all candor in acknowledging the limitations in m y understanding and control of the Korean language, and recognizing that I do the translator's art and So Chong-ju's a simultaneous disservice by saying so, I must note that for the most part his poems have seemed to me rema rkably easy to translate. I have no idea w hy, but I

EAST MEETS WEST

Tr~nslatig

Korean Fiction

'To share with others who enjoy fine literature' Bruce Fulton Translator

eople often ask me why I translate Korean literature. It's a good question. After all, I can't make a living at it, it takes up a great deal of time, I'm not fluent in Korean (surprise!) and so I need to work with a native speaker of Korean (my wife and collaborator, Ju-Chan Fulton), and it's often devilishly difficult. Well, the answer is simple: it's my fate. You see, I was born on October 9, Korean Alphabet Day, the day Koreans commemorate the promulgation in 1446 of Han-gCU, their remarkably precise script. But the real reason I translate is that I have found Korean authors and stories I like so much that I want to share them with others who enjoy fine literature. I also want to share them with an English-speaking world that knows Kawabata Yasunari but not Hwang Sun-won, Oe Kenzaburo but not Ch'ae Man-shik, Yoshimoto Banana but not 0 ChOng-hOi. And I want to share them with a country, my country, that has played a profound role in Korea's post-1945 history but still knows shamefully little about the country and its people. I should know. When I first arrived in Korea in 1978 as a Peace Corps volunteer I knew absolutely nothing about the country except for its food! had had a wonderful meal at a Korean restaurant the night before our Peace Corps group left the United States. My ignorance wasn't for want of trying, though. As soon as I learned I was going to Korea I checked out every volume on the country I could

find in my undergraduate library-a total of five books. None was concerned with literature. Such was the state of Korean literature in translation as recently as 20 years ago. As an undergraduate I had developed a strong interest in literature, especially the short story, and I had worked for five years as an editor of college textbooks. My tastes in literature and in writing were well defined:

Beginning translators of Korean typically find their energies exhausted just by the challenge of solving the various lexical problems of rendering in English such a rich and syntactically complex language as Korean.

I valued brevity and precision in the use of language, a broad creative imagination, a presumption of h urn an decency no matter how elevated or degraded the character or setting, and at least a hint of passion. A sense of humor wouldn't hurt, either. It should come as little surprise, then, that my interest in Korean literature was awakened by the works of an author who embodies all these qualities, Hwang

Sun-won, the man whom I consider Korea's finest short story writer. Modern Korean fiction in English translation is still in a formative state. There are some fine story translations and some anthologies that are known in university Korean studies programs. But very few novels have been translated, and it is novels that tend to attract the attention of the American reader and, equally important, the large commercial publishers in the United States. Unfortunately, it is generally agreed that in Korea the story has reached a higher stage of development than the novel. . (Interestingly enough, the two Korean novels that have earned the tnost commercial success in the United States, Ahn Junghyo's White Badge and Silver Stallion, were written specifically for an American audience.) The most difficult part of translation is the task of bringing the work alive in English. Beginning translators of Korean-and I was no exception-typically find their energies exhausted just by the challenge of solving the various lexical problems of rendering in English such a rich and syntactically complex language as Korean. But to surmount this hurdle is only half the battle. Stop there and you leave the reader with an overly literal, wooden translation-the type of effort responsible for the opprobrium historically directed at translators and translations: "Translator, traitor"; "Reading a translation is like kissing someone through a veil"; and the like. Completing the job involves taking 35

the initial, literal translation and first of all incorporating as much of the subtext as possible-that is, the information that is implicit in the or-iginal and is understood by Korean readers, but that often needs to be made explicit in the translation. The problem was stated aptly by a Latin American author who is said to have instructed his translator, "Don't translate what I said, translate what I m-eant to say." In other words, don't translate words alone, â&#x20AC;˘translate what the words mean in context What this may involve, to take a very simple example, is translating mian hamnida as "I really appreciate it" instead of "I'm sorry." Next comes the task of polishing the English until the translation becomes a living, breathing work of literature. A good litmus test of success is to read the translation aloud to oneself, or, perhaps better, have another native speaker of English do so. Hitches in rhythm, inflection and idiom then become apparent and can be smoothed out. Finally, translators who find themselves satisfied after two or three bouts of revision would do well to remember that Raymond Carver, a master of the American story, is said to have revised some of his pieces 15 or 20 times.

A translation that does not come alive reflects poorly not only on the translator but on the author. Worse, too many translations that do not come alive reflect poorly on the literature.

Rigorous Process Subjecting a translation to a similarly rigorous procedure yields a work of art. John Holstein, who is producing what I consider to be the finest English translations of modern Korean fiction, typically requires a year to finish a single story to his satisfaction. Just how good is his work? Sometime ago I read a story he had translated by an author who enjoys an impeccable reputation in Korea, but an author I had thought I never cared for. In Holstein's hands the story came alive and for the first time I gained an appreciation for this writer. There is an important lesson to be learned from this. A translation that does not come alive reflects poorly not 36

On the other hand, translators and readers alike should remember that no translation is perfect

only on the translator but on the author. Worse, too many translations that do not come alive reflect poorly on the literature. On the other hand, translators and readers alike should remember that no translation is perfect. Scrutiny of a translation against the original will almost always reveal shortcomings, if not the occasional mistranslation. These miscues are usually more humorous if they're someone else's. For our own part, to take a harmless example, in our translation of Kang Sok-kyong's novella "A Room in the Woods" (Supsokui pang) Ju-Chan and I translated shyu k'llrim literally as "shoe cream." After the translation appeared in print in our women's anthology Words of FareweJJ, Ann Sung-hi Lee was good enough to remind _us that shyu k'urim is actually a kind of creampuff. Just as no translation is perfect, I have rarely felt that any of our translations was finished once and for all It is truly an endless process. Ju-Chan and I have had occasion to publish our translation of 0 ChOng-hi:"ti's "The Bronze Mirror" (Tonggyong) four times, and each time we have found areas for improvement. The point is to know when the law of diminishing returns sets in, and then to move on. One of the pleasures I take from modern Korean fiction is the variety I have found among the finest writers. How different the boisterous voice of the brilliant Ch'ae Man-shik from the chiseled perfection of Hwang Sunwan's tales, or the chatty, cozy stories of Park Wan-suh from the subtly ominous narratives of 0 Chong-Mi-and yet how contemporary all of them are! An appreciation of these differences is essential to any translator who works with more than one author. If two authors with very different voices end up sounding not so different in English, then something has been lost in translation. In this Year of Literature in Korea

Korean literature in translation was the focus of a section of the Seoul International Book Fair '96.

the inevitable question recurs: Can a Korean author win a Nobel Prize? If the main criterion is quality, then the answer is yes. There are world-class Korean writers. But it will take time. A shorter period of time if a poet is selected, for some of Korea's best poets are increasingly being translated by some of the best translators currently active. It will take longer for fiction writers, none of whom is currently represented on a large scale in good translation. Can the timetable for the globalization of Korean literature be com-

pressed, as has most every development in contemporary Korea? Yes and no. Yes, in that Korean foundations are doing a commendable job in terms of the fund ing they are offering translators. No, in the sense that authors cannot be forced upon translators, or vice versa. We must recognize instead that the best authors and the best works will eventually find their way to translators who are a good match for them artistically and temperamentally, but the speed w ith which they do so is unpre-

dictable. There are so many worthy authors and worthwhile works that remain to be translated. Some have been poorly served in translation. That is why it is so important that every translation count. The translator, the author and Korean literature in general deserve no less. + Bruce and ]u-chan Fulton received che Korean Litera cure A ward. sponsored by the Korean Culture and Arcs Foundation, in january 1994 for Words o f Farewell, an anth ology of contemporary women writers.-Ed..

FOCUS

The Uterature and Drea~s

Pak Kyong-ni Kim Hyung-kook Professor of Environmental Studies Seoul National University

oreans have always believed that pleasure follows pain. Despite a long history of conflict as a small nation wedged between the great powers of Asia, the Korean people have preserved their native language and national character, reflecting their belief in the rewards of hardship. The novelist Pak Kyong-ni is dramatic proof of the validity of this belief. Pak is the author of the 16-volume saga The Land (T'oj1), which took her 25 years to complete and many literary critics have appraised as the finest work of modern Korean fiction. The saga vividly portrays the pain and sadness of the Korean people during a particularly stormy period of their history. The story begins in the latter part of the 19th century with the eclipse of the Chason Dynasty, extends through the Japanese colonial period, depicting the common people's tenacious struggle to maintain their dignity, and ends with Korea's liberation from Japanese rule in 1945. The Land has earned the respect of readers and critics because it reflects the hard work and patience, as well as the courage and concentration so evident in the author's own life. Pak, like her characters, has lived through a turbulent era. Widowed by the Korean War, she supported her family with her writing. She has battled cancer, and her son-in-law spent years in prison for writing poems critical of Park Chung-hee's military dictatorship in the 1970s. After many years in Seoul, Pak moved to the small

provincial city of Wonju in 1980 to be near the prison where her son-in-law, poet Kim Chi-ha, was incarcerated. There she lived a frugal life, growing vegetables and completing the last seven volumes of The Land over a 14year period. The novel ends on August 15, 1945, the day Korea was liberated from Japanese colonial rule, and coincidentally , or inevitably perhaps, Pak completed the writing at dawn on August 15, 1994. Physical Vestige of Achievement

For a time, there was some concern about whether Pak would be able to finish her epic novel in peace. Years ago, when I read the early volumes of The Land, I was struck by its powerful representation of the Korean people's attachment to their land and wrote an article discussing the Korean concept toward land with reference to the novel. Since then, I have visited Pak in W onju on one or two occasions each year and come to know more about her. In 1993 I heard that the Korea Land Development Corporation (KLDC) was surveying the area around Pak's home in preparation for a major housing project. Over the years, Pak had taken up organic gardening on the nearby foothills as a way to relax from the trying task of writing and had become involved in the environmental movement, often expressing her opinions in newspaper columns. I thought she would be shocked to hear that her house might be leveled while she was

struggling to complete her novel. Pak was quite calm when I met her, however. She simply said that she was "embarrassed" by the project, embarrassed to be a member of a society that thought nothing of tearing down the home of an author, a society that leveled mountains with bulldozers and called it "development." Then she told me something she had heard a Russian intellectual say on television: Russia may have been reduced to a second-class nation by the collapse of the Soviet Union, but it was s(Jre to rise again because it had such a "magnificent" culture. At the time, I felt the destruction of Pak's home would not only affect the timely completion of The Land but would also erase an important monument to the life of Korea's respected novelist. If Korea was going to preserve and promote its culture, then this was simply not right. People often say there is no future without the past and I wondered: If Koreans cannot protect the physical vestiges of their cultural accomplishments, how can they call themselves a "cultured" nation? Since I have focused on land-use issues throughout my career, I had known the then president of the KLDC and asked for his help. I stressed that the time had come for the KLDC to look beyond purely economic goals in favor of cultural and environmental objects, asking specifically that they spare Pak's house and property. It so happened that at that time a group of

writers from Kangwon-do province was also protesting the planned demolition of the house. Fortunately, as a result of these efforts, the KLDC agreed to revise its project despite the need of additional cost. Pak's house and its surrounding area was designated a childrens' park and her house will be preserved as the Pak Kyong-ni Literature Center. Construction of the housing complex, including the park, is scheduled to be completed by the end of

Writer Pak Kyong-ni receives Chile's Gabriela Mistral Commemorative Medal from Chilean Ambassador EduardoJara at a presentation ceremony in Seoul.

1997. Pak has been compensated for her house and land as they will become part of a public park. The KLDC suggested she live in the house for the rest of her life, but Pak insisted that, once compensated, she should leave as soon

The Gabriela Mistral Commemorative Medal is named for the Chilean poet who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1945-

as possible. She purchased a quiet hillside spot near Yonsei University's Wonju Campus where she has been teaching creative writing for the past several years. An incurable workaholic, Pak began a new project no sooner than she bought the land. Now that she has finished The Land, Pak has founded and plans to manage a small cultural center dedicated to the revitalization of culture in the W onju area. Wonju stands at the geographical center of the Korean peninsula and retains many traditional local customs and folk practices, such as Maejiri p'ungm ul, a kind of folk percussion music. This has inspired her to support Korea's rich cultural traditions as a force that can bind Koreans together after ter39

ritorial unification. The site of Pak's new cultural center has a beautiful view and will offer writers and artists weary of the bustling city a welcome respite. The novelist says she will invest all the money she received as compensation for her old house and land into the project. The Korean government has designated 1996 the Year of Literature, and the year has also brought a change in the KLDC's official name. The word "development" has been removed in recognition of the changing role of land in Korean society. The new name, Korea Land Corporation (KLC), represents an important shift in the government's thinking, with the authorities now intending to devote more attention to preservation of land. One example of this is the KLC's proposal to establish a literary award honoring Pak as part of the Year of Literature programs. The au thor viewed the proposal as a great honor but declined, saying she was uncomfortable with having an award named after her. She also said that Korea already has so many literary awards approximately 180-that their value has been diminished. Instead, she asked the corporation to provide support to the cultural programs she is developing for her center. The corporation has agreed and promised to construct buildings for the center. It is a somewhat ironic, and yet natural, consequence that the KLC, which is responsible for the productive use and development of land, has volunteered to become a partner in Pak's preservation efforts. It is helpful to understand the origin of Pak's title T'oji (The Land). The Korean word t'oji, while similar to ttang, hilk, taeji and other words for earth or land, connotes ownership. Pak chose the title because she sees the issue of land ownership as a central element of human history. Buoyed by the KLC's support, Pak plans to formally establish the T'oji Literary Foundation in the near future. 40

The foundation will dedicate itself to cultivating and supporting promising young writers and thus stimulating the search for a more meaningful life not only in Korea but also in East Asia and across the world. Pak hopes to create a small but functional sanctuary for artistic and academic activity with facilities for writers to pursue their craft, group discussions, recreation, meditation, readings and performances. Korea has never had this kind of facility, but there are many in the West. For example, Germany has Wannsee Haus in Berlin; France has the Writers House run by the National Center for the Book and the private Hachette Foundation; and the United States has the University of Iowa's International Writing Program. In late March this year, Pak was awarded the prestigious Ho-am Award, which recognizes significant contributions in various fields and offers the largest cash award of any prize given in Korea. The citation read in part: The Land is more than simply a literary accomplishment. It is a monument to the Korean people's national language and spiritual heritage, the crowning achievement of the half century since liberation from Japanese colonial rule. Thanks to Pak Kyong-ni we can now proudly announce to the world that we have a work called The Land.

Pak also received Chile's Gabriela Mistral Commemorative Medal at the Chilean ambassador's residence in Seoul on April 26. The medal was named for the Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral (18891957) who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1945. The Chilean Ministry of Education selected 50 living literary figures from around the world; Pak was one of those honored. Two of the recipients were past winners of the Nobel Prize for Literature, including Octavio Paz, a Mexican poet popular with Korean readers. Pak has gained international renown through transla-

tions of her work into English, French and Japanese. Only the first volume of The Land has been translated into English, however, because of the saga's great length. UNESCO has selected The Land for inclusion in its Collection of Representative Works and all 16 volumes have been translated into French in preparation for publication by a major publisher in Paris. Pak Kyong-ni said she was somewhat perplexed when she heard tpat she was to receive the Gabriela Mistral Commemorative Medal. "First of all, Koreans have a habit of forgetting the past, but the Chilean people are actually giving an award to me, someone from the past," she said. "Also, I wonder how anyone in Chile, so far away from Korea, ever found out about me. ... But after a few days had passed, I felt it was somehow fate. I'm not familiar with Gabriela Mistral's poetry, but in literature there is always truth hidden between the lines. That must be why we understand each other." The Chilean ambassador explained the origins of Gabriel ~ Mistral's name at the award ceremony. It was a pseudonym: Gabriela means "angel" and Mistral "wind." In a way, the pseudonym describes Pak's writing: she has tried to realize the truth of the angels despite the tempestuous winds swirling around her. Koreans have ample reason for being proud of their accomplishments. In a single generation, Koreans have achieved a level of modernization comparable to that which took Western countries centuries to realize. Korea has also made great progress in its industrialization and democratization. But there is more. Amidst the tumult of rapid development, the Korean people have created an impressive body of literature. Dozens of literary magazines are regularly published and enjoyed, but more importantly, Korea has produced a great work: Pak Kyong-ni's The Land. This work is testament to the tenacity of the Korean people and the struggle that shaped Korea's modern history. +

INTERVIEW

'The Drama of Identity' A Conversation with Chang-rae Lee Author of Native Speaker KOREANA: You came here to the University

of Oregon in your twenties, you started writing Native Speaker as part of your master's program, and a few years later, half a dozen publishers in New York City were making offers on the book How did it all happen? LEE: I had a friend, Gordon Kato, who was an agent. I'd been writing in New York City for a couple of years after college, and was introduced to him there. We kept in touch after I moved to Eugene. When I got the book into decent shape I contacted Gordon and about three other agents and sent them a chapter or two, asking if they'd like to represent me or see the rest of the book. Immediately all four said they wanted to see the rest of the book, and some wanted to represent me right off. But Gordon and I already knew each other and h e had some good ideas about how to sell the book, and I went with him. He sent the book out to editors he thought would respond favorably, and it just turned out that these houses wanted the book. It was a real shock. I wanted to get the book published but I never thought any mainstream publisher would have more than a passing interest in it. I never expected the visceral interest the editors showed, and that pleased me.

KOREANA: Now that you look back, what

were some of the things that sparked their interest? LEE: My editor, Cindy Spiegel, was taken by the self-possessed voice, which wasn't necessarily Asian-American, wasn't anything but itself. She liked the

arly in 1995 Chang-rae Lee published Native Speaker (Riverhead Books), a meticulously crafted and remarkably assured first novel about a young Korean-American man coming to terms with his personal and professional identities. Lee was born in Korea and immigrated at an early age to New York State with his parents. He was educated at Phillips Exeter Academy, Yale University and the University of Oregon, where he now teaches creative writing. On behalf of KOREANA, translator Bruce Fulton recently spoke with Lee in Eugene, Oregon, where he lives with his wife, Michelle, shortly before Lee flew to Boston to receive the PEN/Hemingway Award, given annually for the best first book of fiction by an American wrtter.

fact that it didn't seem to fit into any category, that the whole book didn't seem to fit a category very well.

KOREANA: Jsnt it unusual that all these publishers would be interested in a book they couldnt categorize' LEE: But true literary fiction never fits a category, right? A serious book is about everything all at once, a whole block of life. Cindy saw that Henry Park [protagonist of Native Speaker] was an Asian-American, a Korean-American, and this book was obviously about Korean-Americans, and immigrants, and all sorts of newcomers. And the way it was written, its language and forms, she found different and interesting. It reminded her of Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. I'd read that book long ago, and I was blown away immediately by its emotion, from the first sentences. And maybe that's a little bit of what Henry Park has, I hope. That's what I tried to give him.

KOREANA: You mentioned being seen as an

Asian-American writer? Are you comfortable with that? LEE: I'm very comfortable with being an Asian-American writer. That's what I am. What I'm not so comfortable with is how people want to define what Asian-American writers do and what they should say and how they should say it. If I don't always write about Asian-Americans in my novels I'll write about issues that speak to my experience as an Asian-American in this country, and it's an Asian-American experi41

ence-the experience of someone who's recently an immigrant, who's probably lived in urban areas and experienced the kinds of tensions that arise there. ÂˇAnd there's something that's particular to the Asian-American experience: there's a kind of acceptance by the mainstream, but as we move into our lives and life experience, that acceptance becomes more tenuous each step of the way. It's an interesting but troubling idea-the Asian-American as a person only partly welcomed by society.

KOREANA: Do you see a parallel between this and what's often described in business cirdes as the "glass ceiling''-the experience of Asian-Americans rising to a certain position and getting frozen there? LEE: Yes, I do. There's enough trust, I suppose, and familiarity to embrace them to a certain extent, but to actually gain a deeper sense of intimacy and trust, and a kind of understanding that they can be CEOs, something else needs to happen. And I think Asian-Americans encounter those barriers a lot later than other minorities, but they find them nonetheless. So those are the kinds of things I'm going to write about. But I think as an artist I should be able to pick and choose what I want to write about. Of course it's the responsibility of the artist to do a good job and be thoughtful and aesthetically moral, but I really stop short when someone makes any suggestion about issues of authenticity-about who's speaking for the Asian-American community, or who's speaking for Asian-American artists.

KOREANA: This reminds me of the brouhaha over the great success of Amy Tan_ LEE: Yes, and Maxine Hong Kingston. Aside from what anyone thinks about Amy Tan as an artist, and I think she's a wonderful storyteller, I hate it when people say, "Amy Tan, you have so much power, you have so much influence over the mainstream, and white society, and the people who have power and sway over others. So you must be careful what you write about." 42

Well, all writers are careful what they write about-that's the nature of the game. Amy Tan's only crime, it seems to me, in the eyes of that kind of cultural critic, is that she hasn't followed a certain artistic or cultural identity that adjudicates justice and proposes morality in the way that critics wish. She's not following the letter of the law. But the law is always changing. Things that happen in society and things that happen politically are so dynamic, but the writer is acting on a different scale of time and experience. Writers aren't journalists, they're something else. They do journalistic work, but they're not journalists.

KOREANA: Would you mind talking about your family? LEE: I have a sister who lives and works in Hong Kong with her husband. My mother passed away in january 1991, before I came out here. My father's still a practicing psychiatrist and has remarried.

KOREAN A: How has the success of Native Speaker affected your relationship with them? Has it changed at all? LEE: Actually, I think our relationship changed after my mother died.

KOREANA: How so? LEE: We generally communicate better, we talk more.

KOREANA: The three of you LEE: Yes. I think after my mother died-maybe this happens in all families-it jarred us. It certainly jarred me, and although I was always wanting to write and ~eanig to write, it jarred me in a different way-it helped my writing. Garrett Hongo [Lee's mentor at the University of Oregon] sometimes says he thinks I was bestowed with her humanity after she died, that just being with her and living through that experience, watching her die, made me more human. Maybe that's true. I think I was never as vulnerable emotionally as I was after she died, and I definitely think that vulnerability is something all writ-

ers need if they want to write anything decent.

KOREANA: Your mother was obviously a significant presence in your life And Garrett Hongo is a significant professional presence What other people? LEE: I had a really wonderful experience in college with Henry Louis Gates. I was in a writing class he gave on autobiography, and I was just amazed. Here was a guy, quite young at the time, early thirties, if that, at Yale, black, so seemingly on top of everything, so much energy, so much personality, consummately professional and engaged, and connected with the world, attacking the world, in all the best ways. A lot of the time that's what mentors do, whether they know it or not. By example they're showing people that no one's going to keep me down, you're going Âˇto pay attention to me or you'll have to run through me. I was really impressed. I'm not like Henry or Garrett, but what I take from both of them is a sense of real empowerment. I know that word is overused these days, bi.1t it's true.

KOREANA: What about literary influences? LEE: I have so many favorite writers, but my first favorite writer is James joyce, I guess more early joyce. The clarity and the lyricism are just outstanding. Someone else I've always loved is William Styron, and for the same reasons: different language but the same flights of language, and also precision; he's not loose.

KOREANA: Any Korean authors? LEE: No, because I haven 't read Korean authors. Especially when I was growing up I always had a hard time finding stuff [in translation], and I was so used to a certain kind of language that when I did find something, it seemed prosaic; I didn't feel like the blood and guts were translated. A good translation is just a new and equally good book, right? A slightly different book but just as good; it should never feel like a translation. But even as a

Chang-rae Lee (left) cl1ats with Patrick Hemingway, son of Ernest Hemingway, moments befo1Âˇe a ceremony in which he was presented the Hemingway A ward.

twelve-year-old I always felt I was reading a translation. In some ways I liked the stories for what they showed, but I couldn't learn from them as a writer. And I was always writing. KOREANA: When you say you were always

writing, you mean in your teens? LEE: Yes, especially in middle and high school, I was writing poetry and stories-a lot. KOREANA: What did Korea mean to you in

1991, when you started Native Speaker, and what does it mean to you now? LEE: The year before I started Native Speaker I was in Seoul with my parents. It was my mother's last trip there. KOREANA: Was this a kind of farewell trip

for your mother? LEE: Yes, so it was kind of a sad trip but also a wonderful trip because we

saw not just family but her friends, and I got a taste of her life. That was the first time I was old enough to see, to look around. I didn't really have any sense of Korea-it was more just getting back together with family. No appreciation, even at that age, twenty-three or twenty-four, for the landscape and the daily life, political life, no idea. My last two trips-! just went back with my wife, Michelle-they were my first trips as an adul~, without my parents. The first time for Michelle was amazing. The culture shock was really intense for a while. It was like landing on Mars for her; she had nothing to compare it to. She knew the food very well, but the people, the density and massiveness of Seoul, and the way people treated her, which is to stare, she was ready for it intellectually but not emotionally. And that made me think about the ways in which people are outsiders. I feel the

same way here, though there's a difference in degree: for Michelle it was a massive, overwhelming feeling of people looking at her as a stranger, but for me I always get the feeling people are sensing I'm a stranger, and I'm sure I'm not. It reminded me of my outsiderness, which I've felt all my life, here and especially when I go back to Korea. I did, though, feel very comfortable in one way: walking the streets of Seoul I had a feeling I'd never experienced anywhere else-just being among Korean people and not sticking out. It's a very wonderful feeling, and a frightening feeling too because I've gotten so used to sticking out. But what a great feeling, surprisingly great! KOREAN A: How has your life changed since

the success of Native Speaker? LEE: I get a lot more mail! And, for example, I got a call from the New York 43

Times this week to do an op-ed piece. I was talking with Garrett about it, about how there's a certain public responsibilias a ty you have as an artist and p ~ rhaps citizen that you never had before. And this is a big way in which my life has changed. Sometimes, like with this New York Times piece, I feel I should write something, though I have so many other things to do. Normally I might not do it, but given that particular space and forum, and knowing what I want to write about, and the opportunity, I feel like I should. It's not a question of money. It's that somehow these editors want to hear what I have to say-they call me to see what I would say. That kind of interruption is wonderful but it carries great pressure and responsibility. Not that I feel like I represent anyone, but I do know those words have meaning and those pages influence people. A novel does that too, though we're thinking about the inside world of fiction and the characters and what makes sense there. Outside in this messy world it's a different story, and more and more I'm asked to write about that. I'm Chang-rae Lee willing to do it, and then again I'm not. So that part of my life has changed quite a bit, and probably I like it less than I would have thought. And that reminds me more and more of what I really like to do, and that's writemy stories, something about my family, maybe this New York Times op-ed piece. I guess I'm troubled a little about being a figure rather than a writer. Because in this society people don't accept anybody but figures. They don't 44

want true writers, or true actors, or true politicians. They want figures, demagogues, promoters, models.

KOREANA: Can you describe your work

routine, the nuts and bolts of how you work? LEE: Well, I work at home, and I try to find a little part of every day to do my writing, my novel, or some piece I'm

KOREANA: Do you read it out loud, sentence

by sentence? LEE: I always have to hear it, and if I don't hear it out loud, I can't get a feel for the sound of it. Maybe in some ways I'm like a poet: if it doesn't sound right, regardless of what it says, it's not going in. I can't accept a sentence that doesn't do anything. If it doesn't have a sound to it, I find it just plain dull. I'm continually looking for that other word or nuance that will find the drama of language.

KOREANA: Can you tell us about your next book? I

understand the comfort women figure prominently in it

doing. Typically I take a long time to do a pretty decent first draft. If you were to look over my shoulder as I wrote, you'd see that every sentence, every word I try out gets erased and something else goes in. What I end up with is the fifth or sixth sentence. I'm not the kind who writes it through and then goes back. Maybe it's the ease of the word processor, but I find I have to look at a sentence three, four, five, six times.

LEE: It's not so much a novel about the comfort woman experience but more about a woman who had that experience, and how her experiences in those camps and then afterwards back in Korea affected who she is. All novels are in a sense about the drama of identity, and her identity is bound up with these horrors. There's another prominent character, an American, and the story is about how these two can find a way to go on living. In some ways it's about the future rather than what happened in the past.

KOREANA: How's that book coming along? LEE: Slower than I expected. What's funny is I have a very good sense of what I want to do in this book, much better than with the last one. I think I'm a little wiser this time around, in terms of the craft of writing. The things I've been trying are working; I just have to find the best way to tell the story. +

WORLD HERITAGE

Kim Tong-uk Professor of Architectural Engineering Kyonggi University

ropriety (ye) was a basic tenet of human conduct in the Asian societies which were influenced by Chinese culture. Ye involved a variety of rites, of which the most important were held to venerate the deities and spirits that abided in nature whose blessings were regarded as necessary to the well-being of humans. As early as the fifth century B.C, Confucius introduced a system of ethics for harmo-

nious human relations based on the concept of ye, and Confucianism, as the system came to be known, developed into the fundamental ruling ideology for ancient Asian countries. There was reverence for the heavenly god as well as the spirits of rivers and mountains and deities that influenced human affairs such as farming and family life. Each of them was accorded an altar at which rites were held with great

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sobriety. Historical figures were deified and became objects of veneration as in the case of Confucius and Kwanu (Kuan Yu), a legendary Chinese warrior of over 2,000 years ago. Deceased kings were also venerated with rites at shrines where their spirit tablets were enshrined. Such shrines were called chongmyo, chong meaning "high" or "master" and myo meaning "shrine." Building altars to hold adulatory rites to

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the gods of heaven and earth and shrines to honor Confucius and deceased kings was a time-honored tradition in ancient China, Korea, Japan, Vietnam ap d other East Asian countries that were within the Chinese cultural sphere. The rites gained national importance, especially in China and Korea where centralized monarchies prevailed for ages. The rites held at the royal ancestral shrine were of the gravest importance for they symbolized the power of the ruling house. Each dynasty built its

The rites held at d1e royal ancestral shrine were of the gravest importance for they symbolized the power of the ruling house. Each dynasty built its ancestral shrine at the most auspicious location and held grandiose rites there.

Chongjon, the main hall of the ancestral shrine of the Choson Dynasty

ancestral shrine at the most auspicious location and held grandiose rites there. Its glory notwithstanding, the shrine was destined to share the fate of the dynasty, dismantled with the downfall of the dynasty. Each new dynasty built its own shrine. Construction of the ancestral shrine of the Choson Dynasty (1392-1910) began with the establishment of the kingdom. It was one of the first structures built by T'aejo, the founder-king of Choson, in his new capital when he moved to Hanyang,

today's Seoul, in 1395. Choson's ancestral shrine, or Chongmyo as it is now formally called, has a few points that deserve special note. First, it was utilized for an exceptionally long period as the dynasty lasted for more than 500 years. Even more unusual is that the spirits of all its kings were enshrined here and honored with rites. It was the general custom of the time that ancestral spirits should be venerated for five generations or, at the most, seven generations and no more, but all of the Choson kings were venerated

throughout the dynasty and are still, venerated today, almost a hundred years since its downfall That the rituals which commenced toward the end of the 14th century are still being followed step by step today, 600 years later, is indeed a rarity not found in China or other countries. Twenty-seven kings, all from the Chonju Yi clan, ruled during the approximately 500 years Choson existed. All except two, who were overthrown by coups d'etat, were enshrined in Chongmyo for veneration. Six crown

princes who died before ascending the throne and four generations of ancestors of the dynasty's founder were also enshrined there and venerated. T'aejo's ancestors were honored in conformity with the custom of holding memorial services for ancestors of up to four generations. A total of 35 royal spirits were thus enshrined in Chongmyo. Of course, all 35 spirits were not enshrined at the same time nor was the shrine originally built to accommodate all of them. Chongmyo began as a small

structure which was expanded as kings died and the throne was passed to a successor. The spirit of each king is alloted a cubicle of 1 kan (a traditional unit of measure for the space between two columns) in the shrine. On the far side of this 1-kan chamber, the spirit tablet of the king is enshrined on a high, chair-like table. The tablet, made of wood, bears the name of the king. In front of the table is a space just large enough for a person to make a prostrate, head-to-floor bow. The area is closed off by a thick, two-leaf door. Outside the door is an open space between two columns where a table is set up for an incense burner during memorial services. The original Chongmyo was a 7-kan structure. As the number of spirits to be 48

During the Chos6n Dynasty, memorial services were held five times a year and whenever there was a significant event to report to the ancestral spirits. The slow, grandiose ceremony continued the whole day in the midst of beautiful music, the vast stone terrace teeming with numerous officials, musicians and dancers

all the while.

revered increased, an annex was built to the west of the existing structure. Four generations of T'aejo's ancestors and the kings who did not produce heirs to the throne were enshrined in this annex named Yongnyongjon (Hall of Everlasting Peace). The original shrine came to be called ChongjOn (Main Hall) to differentiate it from the annex. In it were enshrined T'aejo, kings who produced heirs who ascended to the throne, and kings who made outstanding contributions to the nation. The spirit tablet of King T'aejo was enshrined in the westernmost chamber, with the tablets of succeeding' kings enshrined in the chambers stretching to the east The arrangement was different in Yongnyongjon: four ancestors of T'aejo were enshrined in the four central chambers and kings were

At left is YongnyongjOn, the shrine for kings who did not produce heirs to throne. There is a cubicle (above) for each king and in it is enshrined a wooden tablet (right) bearing the name of the king.

also last expanded in 1836 when six chambers were added to each side.

Architectural Solemnity It was customary to construct the

enshrined from west to east in chronological order. Whereas the east was generally believed to be the auspicious direction for the living, the west was thought to be the auspicious direction for the dead, hence the spirit tablet of T'aejo was enshrined in the westernmost chamber. The arrangement proved to be very convenient when the original 7-kan structure was later expanded to 11 kan, for the expansion only entailed adding chambers to the east of the existing structure. Additions to the building continued until there were 19 chambers at the time the dynasty ended in 1910. The last addition was made in 1836. As for the Yongnyongj6n structure, an identical number of rooms were added onto each side of the four central chambers. It was

royal ancestral shrine to the east of the royal palace and the altar to the gods of the earth and the harvest, Sajiktan, to the west of the palace, so that the gods and ancestral spirits could support the ruler from both sides. Chongmyo thus came to be located to the east of Kyongbokkung Palace and Sajiktan to the west Few changes were made to Chongmyo except for the occasional addition of spirit chambers. It was burnt to ashes during the 1592 Japanese invasion but was promptly restored after the war. Ch0ngj6n stands at the center of a large wooded area. It faces the south as does Yongnyongjon to its west. Both structures are of a simple, traditional architectural style marked by thick wood columns and sharply pitched roofs that are covered with traditional gray tiles. Ceramic animal figures , symbolic guardians of the buildings, adorn the ridges of the roofs.

Whereas both buildings are noted for their e:JS:traordinary length, their construction and layout are simple. All that is needed for a shrine of this type is a table to hold the spirit tablet and a space large enough to allow a person to do a prostrate bow during memorial services and to hold a small table for an incense burnet. Indeed, each of the spirit chambers in Chongmyo is of an austere design. The 19-kan-long Chongjon, in which 19 kings are enshrined, has a 5-kan wing protruding at an angle at each end. The east wing is an open structure whereas the west one has walls. The wings serve no function other than to balance the appearance of the whole building. Yongnyongj6n also has a wing attached at each end, undoubtedly to lend visual stability to the long structure. 49

A large, low rectangular terrace measuring over 100 meters on one side fronts Ch6ngj6n. During a memorial rite, it is crowded with officiants, musicians and dancers. The terrace is covered with square, roughly hewn stones which were laid down irregularly on purposethe lack of regularity and refinement creates a vitality for the terrace. Overwhelming the visitors are the majestic facade and the astute division of the space of the Ch6ngj6n. The 19-time repetition of a starkly simple spirit chamber, the basic unit of the building, is the secret behind the building's architectural solemnity and structural magnificence. The immensity of the stone terrace adds to the majesty of the shrine. The terrace is surrounded by a neat stone wall. There is a gate with three doors at the center of the south wall that is not for the living but for the spirits, and not even a king could use it. The

The front corridor of ChongjOn

king used a small door in the east because, in front of ancestral spirits, even a king had to humble himself, and officiants used a gate in the west. The solemn edifice was after all an architectural tribute not to humans but to spirits, the masters of the shrine. Grandiose Rite The memorial service at Chongmyo involves the offering of painstakingly prepared food, recitals of poetry, ponderous music and dance. In a sense it was a festival combining various forms of art, accompanied by food. Beef, pork and lamb are the basic ingredients of the food offerings which also include a great variety of frui~ grain and wine. In all, 63 kinds of vessels are used for the food offerings and libations. The food containers used in the memorial services have been specially made with three legs, their shape and style unchanged

since ancient China. The memorial rite begins with an orchestral performance of Pot'aep'yong, a suite in praise of King T'aejo's establishment of the Choson Dynasty, and Chongdaeop, a suite that describes his military feats. This music was not part of the Chinese pattern of ritual, which had an immense influence on Korean memorial rites. The orchestral music, which is called Chongmyo cherye ak (ritual music for Chongmyo memorial services), is noted for its ponderous rhythm and graceful tone. With the use of taegum (long transverse flute) and other native Korean and Chinese instruments, Chongmyo cherye ak is quite original as the clear-toned percussion instruments such as p'yon-gyong chimes and p'yonjong bells and the powerful beats of large drums harmonize with the slow, somber melody of the p'iri (flute) and ajaeng (zither).

Two kinds of dances are performed while the music is played: munmu (civil dance) to the music of Pot'aep'y6ng and mumu (military dance) to Ch6ngdae6p. The dancers hold p'iri and pheasant plumes when they perform the civil dance and swords and spears when performing the military dance. During the Choson Dynasty, memorial services were held five times a year and whenever there was a significant event to report to the ancestral spirits. The king attended in person and prostrated himself four times in front of the spirit chamber before offering wine. He repeated the procedure at the chamber of each of the 35 spirits enshrined. The slow, grandiose ceremony continued the whole day in the midst of beautiful music, the vast stone terrace teeming with numerous officials, musicians and dancers all the while. Chongmyo cherye, as the memorial rite at the shrine is called, is still held in all its grandeur every year on the first Sunday of May. As there is no king today, it is officiated by the descendants of the royal branch of the Chonju Yi

Descendants of the royal branch of the Chonju Yi clan performing ancestral rites to the kings of Choson (top). Dances (above) highlighting the civil and military achievements of the kings are an important part of the ceremony.

clan. Although its stature has been reduced to the memorial service of a clan, the scale of ~he rite and the care that goes into it are no less than when the rite was conducted during the prime of the Choson Dynasty. The elders of the clan begin preparations days in advance to pay proper homage to their ancestors. Musicians from the Korean Traditiqnal Performing Art Center perform the Chongm yo cherye ak and young girls from the Traditional Performing Arts School, dressed in replicas of the original costumes, dance just as the dancers would have in the old days. Sitting in the middle of a forest of skyscrapers, yet sequestered from the hubbub of a metropolis bustling with 10 million inhabitants, Chongmyo is alive with a history of 600 years. It is a cultural wonder that the same memorial rite has continued to be performed for 600 years. Chongmyo and its memorial rite embody two Koreas-a modern country that is undergoing dazzling development as it moves toward the 21st century and a traditional country that honors its customs and heritage. + 51

~Exploring

the Universe Within

JOHN PAl Yoon Soon-young Anthropologist

ome modern artists are known as heroic figures. Others, like John [Y oung-ch ull] Pai, are pilgrims. Having lived in both the United States and Korea, Pai has sought the meaning of these different cultural experiences in his art. What is extraordinary is that these experiences have not wrapped him in a narcissistic cocoon but opened him to a universe that is deep within himself, yet connected to the rest of humanity. He searches for the philosophical and moral basis of art with the intensity of a Korean monk practicing asceticism. In an era when many artists prefer simply to work rather than raise questions about their art, his search is revolutionary. Indeed, Pai comes from solid revolutionary stock. His father, the Rev. Pai Min-soo, was imprisoned for his nationalist activities during the Japanese occupation of Korea. His mother was a pioneer in breaking traditional taboos about the social and political roles of women. Both were forced into political exile. They lived for a while in the United States, but as soon as they could return, both threw themselves into the arduous task of rebuilding a war-torn Korea. This meant leaving 14-year-old Pai in West Virginia with relatives. One of his most vivid memories of that time was of his grandmother. Says Pai, "I could see myself with my head on my grandmother's lap, listening to her tell me Korean stories. I would be looking up into the sky at the brightest stars imaginable." For years, he thought of those

JohnPai

Âˇ'You cannot remove yourself from life to he an artist- you have to be a pia yer, test yourself from n!oment to moment make mist:zkes, feel doubts, jump into the middle of things."

nights, wondering how his life was connected to those stars. In 1964, 26-year-old Pai returned to Korea to help his parents. Having just graduated with a degree in industrial design from Pratt Institute, he agreed to help design a new wing for his parent's rural school outside of Taej6n. While working on the project, he wondered about what his life's work should be. Was it to make Korea rich? "No!" his father said. Once when young Pai was about to give some coins to a beggar, his father grabbed the money from his hand. His father said nothing, but later, Pai understood that his father believed that Koreans must become economically independent; they must be given hope and pride, not handouts. Pai's second attempt to help the poor taught him another lesson. Finding himself w ith some time on his hands, Pai joined some students who were transplanting rice seedlings. A man who was a veteran of the Korean War approached him and asked, "What do you think you are doing here?" Pai replied that he was trying to help the students. The veteran told Pai not to worry about the students who could do the planting better than he. The man instead advised him to concentrate on his own work which was more important but could not be done in Korea. Pai realized that love for one's country could transcend geographical boundaries. During the same visit, a man dedicated to preserving Korean culture and art took Pai to a museum where he saw

ancient Korean pottery shards, spoons and metal works. Pai began to understand Korea's true cultural identity as enduring and precious, something that went far beyond material wealth and luxury cars. Looking at the artifacts, he felt the presence of countless Korean artists, musicians, writers and philosophers who had shaped Korean civilization. He knew then that he wanted to become an artist rather than a master builder.

INVOLUTION, 1974 W eldedsteel,lOO x l OO x l OO cm

While his pa rents continued their wo rk in Ko rea , Pai returned to th e United States to teach. He became head of the Pratt Institute's sculpture department and then one of its youngest art directors. He helped build innova tive programs for international cooperation and creative edu ca tion. During that time, Pai's pioneering approach attracted many students. He encouraged them to lea rn the fundamentals of their craft, seek personal insights and grasp the 53

SculptorJohn Pai at work in his studio

uniqueness of their own cultures so that they would have something to say about contemporary issues. He taught young artists that if they searched hard enough, stripping away the layers of their identities to the bare essentials, they would eventually discover something of universal relevance and worth. For many years, Pai was as committed to education as to his own sculpture. During another visit to Korea, nearly 15 years after his last visit, this changed. The Korea of 1979 was in the midst of an upheaval brought about by rapid economic development and cultural changes. Western art, music and literature had found their place in universities, concert halls and museums. But beneath the veneer of modernism, there were shadows of Korean ancestors and spirits.

Multicultural Universe Pai discovered this while hiking on a mountain with his friend, dramatist Yu T6k-hy6ng. Out of nowhere, an old shaman pulled Pai aside. As Pai tells the 54

story, "We were just walking by and this woman called me over. Her face was like this face out of Herman Hesse's Siddhartha, like that ferryman whose face had become the earth, the river. Her face had become like that, with little slits for eyes. I couldn't see her pupils, but I had the sense of infinite depth. She told me that I had come from a foreign land and that I had two children and had just built a house, all of which was true. She told me things that truly surprised me. In fact, she even told me what my wife was like. How did she know? For the rest of the time I w~s in Korea, my head was spinning." For Pai, it was as if his dead grandmother had suddenly grabbed him by the hand and pulled him back into Korea's past. When he returned from the trip, he created Column of Silence which was, in his words "... very ritualistic, one cube built upon another as straight as possible." His inspiration for the sculpture came from within him, from his own intuition and universe.

Meeting the shaman confirmed for him the existence of other ways of looking at the world. He came to realize that every human being carries around his or her own unpredictable, symbolic and complete universe. He admired and respected the differences. Art gave him the light he needed to reveal his own universe. In 1980, the wife of the late modern painter, Kim Whanki, organized an exhibit of works by Kim and Pai at the FIAC in Paris. For the first time, Pai's multicultural universe reached a truly international audience. His artistic reality was evolving into one that linked cultures and races to nature. Through his experiences with American and European artists and philosophers such as Roszak, Vishniac and Murchie, he had explored a wide variety of artistic expressions and concepts. His studies in African and primitive art and comparative literature led him to a deeper understanding of human civilization as a whole. These explorations convinced him of the ambiguous meaning of hero-

ic artists. In an interview with the sculptor Gillian Jagger, Pai explained, "Calvin Albert said something like artists were cursed to create. . . I was nev ~ Âˇ comfortable with that image." For years, Roszak was a source of inspiration for Pai, but at some point, he began to rethink Roszak's art. As he puts it, "I had to leave Roszak when I realized he had stopped asking questions." For Pai, the meaning of human creation lay in a personal quest, not in taking on the human burden of providing ultimate answers. Explaining what this has meant for his sculpture, Pai says, "What happens here is a structure that is much more responsive to chance, combined with a little bit of will. You're struggling with limits and the results of your actions, and you just don't know where it's going to end for you." In recent years, Pai has approached his sculpture with greater conviction and energy than ever before. But he does not want to be a "maker of things." He talks about the Australian aborigines who believe that their art form known as "song lines" is what keeps the world going. He approaches art as if he were performing music. "Through art, you know that you are alive," he says. "You cannot remove yourself from life to be an artist-you have to be a player, test yourself from moment to moment, make mistakes, feel doubts, jump into the middle of things. Ultimately, this is more important than the end result." On walking into a room of Pai's sculptures, it takes a moment of silence before one can hear his music. It is about the beauty which struggles inside the steel to become spiritually alive. It is the sound of a spider weaving its web, inviting you to join in. Pai's sculptures call to mind the artful stones called sus6k which Koreans mount on wooden bases to remind them that there are great mountains beyond. To reflect on Pai's works-perfect additions to nature-is to be invited into the midst of his mountains. +

Cube Root, 1984, welded s~el,

50 x 50 x 50 em

Three Kingdoms, 1983, welded steel, 122x 109x45em (above); Untitled, 1968, welded steel, 147 x 96 x 96 em (left)

ON THE ROAD

An Island of Cultural ReUcs KimJoo-young Novelist

he island is situated quite far off the coast, a richly endowed piece of land measuring 50 or 60 li in diameter. Its mountains are tall, its waters deep. The land is fertile. Herds of grazing horses cover the fields like scraps of silk, and the orange trees grow in forests. It is a treasure trove, a paradise of fortunes, the perfect place for a southern county seat." 56

So wrote Yi Suk-ham, one of the early governors of Chollanam -do province. Chindo truly is blessed, a jewel off the southwest coast of the Korean Peninsula. The county of Chindo actually consists of several islands dotting the sea off the coast of Haenam-gun in Chollanam-do. Because of its distance from the halls of power, the island was long used as a place of exile. Its natural wealth also meant it

played a part in many of the disturbances that have plagued Koreans throughout their history. The island was first used as a place of exile in the mid-Koryo period when the son of Yi Cha-gyom, a powerful courtier who sought to depose King Injong and assume the throne himself, was sent there because of his father's misdeeds. It was used for exiles more frequently during the Choson period.

The many insurrections and the factionalism of both the Koryo and Chason periods resulted in the exile of many members of the royal family and well-placed aristocrats to Chindo. Some exiles later returned to serve in the central government, but many died there, often the victims of murder plots conspired at court. One record, attributed to a government inspector assigned to Cholla province in the mid-18th century,

sheds some light on how many people had been sent to Chindo by that time. The man petitioned the court to move the exiles elsewhere: "There are too many exiles on Chindo. The innocent island people starve trying to feed them." Most of the exiles were well-educated members of the royal family or aristocratic households who appreciated the arts. Perhaps hoping to forget their

past glory, the exiles wrote or painted, and the local people often sang and danced to relieve the visitors' loneliness. Chindo remains home to a rich culture of writing, calligraphy, dance and song. I attribute this to the island's history of despair and shared joy and sorrow. Although Chiodo is a relatively small island, quite isolated from the mainland, it boasts some of the nation's most refined culture. Many of Korea's 57

finest calligraphers and painters come from Chiodo. This is no coincidence. Chiodo's rich culture has also been influenced by the island's fertile soil, the islanders' sense of spiritual well-being owing to their relatively comfortable living standards, and their isolation from the mainland by the choppy seas between China and Japan. But island life was disrupted by military campaigns on numerous occasions. Most well-known are the struggle against the Mongol assault by Koryo's Three Elite Patrols (Samby6lch'o) in the 13th century and Choson admiral Yi Sun-shin's victorious battle against Japanese invaders in the Battle of the Myongnyang Straits in 1597. Chindo was invaded in 909 by the forces of Wang Kon, who soon united the Three Kingdoms under Koryo. By 58

occupying several strategic coastal points, Wang was able to block his enemies' communication with China and Japan and prevent their movement northward. Chindo was again strategically important when the Three Elite Patrols revolted against Koryo's capitulation to Mongol forces and launched their own anti-Mongol resistance in the 13th century. After the Koryo court reached peace agreement with the Mongols, the Three Elite Patrols went south to Chiodo to establish a permanent base of operations which included a large palace complex. They also brought the surrounding islands and adjacent coastal area under their control. The rebels' little kingdom did not last long, however. A combined KoryoMongol assault overran the island in 1271, forcing the rebels to flee to

Chejudo Island. Some 10,000 islanders were taken prisoner, not to return to Chindo for 13 years, and the island was devastated. The islanders suffered again in 1597 when Admiral Yi Sun-shin launched a successful attack on a Japanese flotilla as it headed through the Myongnyang Straits on its way to the Yellow Sea. 'Mountains on the Coast' The island is separated from Haenam on the mainland by the Myongnyang Straits that features rapid tides known as Ultolmok. In 1984 a bridge was built across the straits, making it much easier to reach the island. In a sense, Chindo is no longer an island, but the waters of the Myongnyang Straits remain as fierce as they were when Admiral Yi defeated that flotilla of 330 Japanese warships

Chindo is linked to the Korean mainland by this bridge (left). The island is most famous for the native Korean dog that bears its name (above). It is also known for hongju (upper right), an indigenous red liquor made from a native herb, and kugich'a, a tea made from the fruits of the Chinese matrimonyvine(right).

with only a dozen of his own. The Ultolmok rapids flow through the 300meter-wide straits with such incredible force that even large steamships have trouble navigating the waters. The community of Nokchin, where the Chiodo Bridge meets the island, has been designated an official tourist site and is home to numerous artifacts and legends from Chiodo's traditional culture and its turbulent history. The island, Korea's third largest after Chejudo and Kojedo, has many hills, extensions of the Ongmae sanmaek mountain range, itself a branch of the Sobaek sanmaek range which stretches down the Korean peninsula. Chiodo was called Okchu, literally "fertile land," during the reign of Koryo 's King Songjong in the late lOth century. Not surprisingly, people often say: "On

Chiodo you can farm one year and not worry about food for two and a half years." The land is so fertile islanders do not need to fish the more perilous seas. Hence the island's nickname: Haeby6n sanjung-"mountains on the 'coast." The island is most famous for the native Korean dog that bears its name. The Chindo dog belongs to the medium-sized ~las of dogs, its average height being about 50 centimeters. Its coat may be white, yellow, black, sesame colored, tiger-striped or grey, but white and yellow are the most common. Chindo residents claim the dog is a descendant of Mongolian dogs brought to the island by Mongol invaders. Others say it is descended from a stray puppy which was raised by a wolf and cross-bred. The most plausible theory is that it is

descended from a stray puppy that washed ashore from a wrecked Chinese merchant ship. Chiodo is also known for the production of kugich'a, a tea made of dried Chinese matrimony vines believed to promote health and long life, which are used in wine as well. Chiodo also produces a large quantity of brown seaweed, used in soups and cooking, and chich'o, a red herb used in the island's indigenous liquor, hongju, literally "red liquor." There are many interesting historical sites on Chiodo. Noteworthy among them are Yongjang Mountain Fortress and Namdo Stone Fortress. Yongjang Mountain Fortress is located on the northeastern corner of the island, not far from the east coast facing Haenam. The fortress wraps around 59

Yongjangsan, a small mountain. It was the base of operations for the Three Elite Patrols during their nine months of resistance on the island. The Mongols attacked Kory6 seven times over a period of four years before they finally defeated the Three Elite Patrols in 1271. The entire country was laid waste by their invasions. In the second lunar month of 1270, Koryo's King Wonjong entered into a humiliating peace agreement with the Mongols and government forces laid down their arms. The Three Elite Patrols refused to accept the peace, however, and under the leadership of General Pae Chung-son, put forward Wang On, the Marquis of Sunghwa, as king and established a new government on Kanghwado Island. Wary of Kanghwado's proximity to the Kory6 capital of Kaesong, the rebel regime gathered its forces, including over 1,000 warships, family members 60

Yongjang Mountain Fortress (top) and a close-up of the wall (abo v e)

and soldiers, and headed south to Chindo where they built the fortress at Yongjangsan. Finally, after nine months of rebel resistance, the combined Kory6Mongol forces, with 400 ships and over 10,000 soldiers, launched an assault against Chindo. The battle lasted for more than 10 days, and in the end, Chindo fell and the survivors of the battle fled to Chejudo where they continued to fight for two more years. In 1273, the resistance was subjugated, after nearly four years of insurrection. Yongjang Mounatain Fortress consisted of a 13-kilometer-long fortification, most of which was built of stone, though some segments were made of earth. Much of the fortification has collapsed, but it once surrounded a vast area, and today, visitors can see two old wells and more than a dozen stone foundations where buildings once stood.

General Pae Chung-son, leader of the Three Elite Patrols during this historic period, is said to have made his last stand at Namdo Stone Fortress on the southwestern tip of the island. The fortress, which measures approximately 370 meters and has walls 2.4 meters high, remains intact, with three gates facing the south, east and west. Inside are many houses where people still live. The stone fortress is often said to have been built by the Three Elite Patrols to defend the southwestern coast of Chindo, but more accurate historical records indicate that a fortress had first been built here during the Three Kingdoms period. Today's fortress is most likely the result of numerous reconstruction efforts over the centuries. Two bridges, Hong-gyo and Ssang-gyo, span the small creek that flows past the south gate of the fortress. The bridges are made from slabs of gneiss. Hong-gyo is one of the few bridges of its kind in Korea.

Among Chindo's other attractions are a five-story stone pagoda built in the late Kory6 period, which stands at Kumgolsa Temple near Nokchin, and Ullim sanbang, the residence and studio of the Chos6n era painter H6 Yu (1809-1892), renowned for his mastery of the techniques and style of the Chinese Southern School.

The Namdo Stone Fortress (above) is surprisingly intact though it dates to the 13th century. Near its south gate is a slab bridge called Hong-gyo (below).

Kumgolsa Temple stands at the foot of Mt. Kumgolsan, the most prominent mountain on the island. While hardly towering, the mountain features many beautiful rock formations, and from a distance it appears to be covered with beautiful sculptures. Kumgolsan is famous for its completely different appearance from the front and back. The five-story stone pagoda of Kumgolsa is tall and slender, typical of Koryo pagodas which were influenced

Counterclockwise from top: Ullim sanbang, the residence and studio of the late Chos6n painter Ho Yu; a scene from theSsitkim-gut;arockcarvingof the Maitreya Buddha in a grotto on Kiimgolsan; a pagoda on the grounds of Kiimgolsa Temple;Chindo's "Miracle of Moses," the parting of the seas that occurs annually at the beginning of the third lunar month 62

by the Paekche tradition. It measures 5.4 meters in height and stands on a foundation made of four slabs of stones. Pillars and props are carved on each face of the foundation slabs. There are three stone grottoes on Kt:imgolsan. The highest one is relatively large and located on a cliff halfway up the mountain. It was built in about 1470 and has a 3.5-meter-high stone image of the Maitreya Buddha. The linage is crude, but one has to wonder how anyone was able to carve anything on such a steep cliff. Ulli.In sanbang was the residence and studio of Ho Yu, a leader in the promotion of the Chinese Southern School of painting in the late Choson period. Ho lived here in his later years. To the west is Mt. Ch'omch'alsan, to the east Ssanggyesa Temple. The sanbang is a tile-roofed structure shaped like the Korean letter c. Behind it are thatchedroof living quarters and a new exhibition hall. In the middle of the lovely pond in front of Ullim sanbang is a small artificial island made of stones on which grows a 300-year-old crape-myrtle tree transplanted to the island by Ho Yu

himself. Four generations of the Ho family have carried on the Southern School tradition. The sanbang was restored to its original condition by Ho Yu's grandson Ho Kon (1907-1987). Much of Chiodo's essence is found in the songs, paintings and calligraphy of the Chiodo people. It is often said that all Chiodo people sing beautifully and are gifted in painting and calligraphy. Clearly, theirs is a rich culture that combines many sentiments about life and death, sadness and longing in their songs, dances and art. The island is known for its version of the popular folk dance Kanggang suwollae, but also boasts a number of folk songs, such as Chindo Arirang, the Chiodo Field Song and songs derived from shaman ceremonies. Today, four folk activities from Chiodo enjoy the status of national Important Intangible Cultural Assets: Kanggang suwollae, the Southern Field Song, the Ssitkim-gut shaman exorc ism , and the Chiodo Tasiraegi, a folk play performed by pallbearers on the night before the coffin is taken to the grave site. The Chiodo islanders' traditional funeral song and

drumming practices have also been designated provincial Important Intangible Cultural Assets, and more than a dozen islanders have been recognized for their mastery of these skills. When Chiodo islanders leave this world for the next, they are accompanied by a cacophony of sounds, combining vibrant drumming, song and dance. The Chiodo Ssitkim-gut shaman exorcism is a folk ritual governing the passage from life to death. The rite combines song and dance to appease angry or resentful spirits so that they may enjoy a gentle and easy passage to paradise. The Ssitkim-gut provides the living and dead with an opportunity to meet and solve unresolved differences. Modern Chiodo islanders still believe that the foremost act of filial piety is the performance of this rite on the occasion of a parent's death. Every year at the beginning of the third lunar month, when a calm day foretells a bountiful harvest and a windy day portends a bad harvest, the waters stretching between Hoedongni of Kogun-myon and Modori of Oishinmyon separate at low tide in what is

known as Chiodo's own "Miracle of Moses." The event attracts tourists from around the country. As the sea separates, a sandy bank, 40 meters across, emerges. The temporary land bridge is called Yongdi:'mgsal No sooner does it appear than a stream of people, bundled in bright winter jackets for the wait at the village of Hoedong, start walking onto the sandy spit. In a matter of moments, y ongdi:'mgsal is transformed into a colorful human bridge. Some people start dashing into the water before the bridge has appeared, and there are always plenty of people eager to catch stranded sea creatures. The event is also the occasion for the lively Yongdi:'mg Festival, the venue for the performance of many local dances and songs, including the rarely performed Yongwangje and Ppong Grandmother Rite. The island of Chiodo remains alive with enthusiasm and a respect for the spirits. Whenever I watch the islanders perform a traditional song or dance, I find myself bobbing with the music, filled with the kind of warm glow that comes from drinking Korea's domestic rice wine, makk6lli. +

CLOSE-UP

YiJoo-heon

Art Critic

rt is all accident. Kang Ikjoong demonstrates that as an artist." So declared art critic Kenneth Baker in the January 26, 1994, edition of the San Francisco Chronicle. Baker is suggesting that Kang has transcended many of his contemporaries' obsession with perfection to create art that is comfortable, an art of tranquility and ease that bursts forth from life itself. By allowing for "accidents;' indeed, by sometimes encouraging them, Kang has strayed from the general trend toward specialization in modern painting to recover a universal and natural human essence that existed in the preindustrial period. Of course, this does not imply a simple regression into the past. That is clear to anyone who has seen Kang's paintings and installations. His art is an appeal to a human universality that penetrates all historical eras, to an artistic universality. Still a young man, Kang has achieved a great deal in the 12 years since he went to New York as an art student. In 1994 he collaborated with video artist Nam June Paik in "Multiple/ Dialogue," a multimedia exhibition at the Whitney Museum of American Art which featured Paik's ubiquitous video monitors and thousands of Kang's tiny paintings. That same year, Kang was awarded a prestigious art commission for an installation at San Francisco International Airport. Most recently he held his first solo exhibition in his homeland sponsored by Art Space

Seoul, Hakkojae Gallery and the Chosun llbo Art Museum. Kang's work has attracted many visitors to galleries in Korea and abroad with an intense energy derived from his fusion of contemporary American and Korean culture. Kang's ability to span and embrace American and Korean culture has made him what many call a ''world artist." Several art critics in New York, where he is most active, have called Kang a "major artist" and have suggested that the 21st century is his for the taking. Kang was born in Ch'ongju in 1960 and moved to New York City in 1984. During his early years in New York he worked 12 hours a day to pay for his education at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. Strapped for time as well as money, he had to take advantage of every free moment. So he made small canvases, just 3 inches by 3 inches, which he carried in his pocket and worked on as he commuted on the subway between school and his work. While his approach may seem strange, it demonstrates the importance of art in Kang's life. In the years since, the 3-by-3 canvases, combining a number of media, from watercolors, woodcuts, transparent plastic cubes to squares of chocolate, have become his trademark. Kang's miniature canvases portray immigrant life in American society. They could be called ''Scenes from New York:' All manners of small objects and phrases

Kang Ik-joong's "One-Month Living Performance," 1986

are attached to the canvases. Some even have small speakers hidden inside. Kang calls these "Sound Paintings." His woodcuts were inspired by a desire to create an art form that could be appreciated by his father who, back in Korea, was losing his eyesight from diabetes. They portray images and phrases that the artist collected from American newspapers and daily life. There are 8,490 of these 3-by-3 "canvases" in Kang's transparent cube series, one for each day the artist lived in Korea before coming to the United States. Inside each transparent cube is a small object: a rubber shoe, a mask or a small purse, all symbolizing Korea; pencil stubs, handmade marbles and jacks, old screws, symbolizing Kang's childhood. The incorporation of small things in a greater whole is a theme carried on in Kang's "Mickey Mouse Learning Korean" series. Insatiable Curiosity Kang grew up in Seoul As a child he lived in It'aewon, near the large US. army base at Yongsan, and often American soldiers gave him chocolate. Korea was still a poor country trying to recover from a devastating civil war, so the American soldiers' chocolate was treasured by Korean children. In the chocolate Kang tasted a strange combination of shame and sweetness, satisfaction and desire, envy and embarrassment. He has built on his memories in a chocolate series using US. military insignias made of chocolate. Through the medium of chocolate Kang looks back on the influences of the Korean War and the Cold War on his own life and fuses Korea and the United States and his own personal history with world history. Kang loved drawing from his childhood and majored in Western-style painting at Hongik University in Seoul Upon graduation he went to the United States. Like most Korean students in the United States at that time, he had to earn money to pay for his living and educational expenses. Although life was hard it was not without its pleasures. Everything was fresh and exciting, so different from 66

Korea. Things that might have seemed routine, even boring, to the average New Yorker were new and unfamiliar to Kang. Everything was intriguing, and soon many of the things he saw found their way into Kang's paintings. His insatiable curiosity remains a powerful force in his art. Everything looked different in New York-the shape of a door knob, the leg on a piece of furniture, even the blade of a kitchen knife. Soon Kang went beyond painting these objects and began attaching them to his canvases and installations. Once when his wife attended the opening of one of his shows, she found the leg from a piece of their own furniture sticking out of an installation.

Today he still cannot walk by the cheap toys and gadgets sold on the streets of New York He fuses the many kitsch objects he finds on the streets into the simple shapes and lines of his canvases. After reading of an aspiring dancer who came to New York from the countryside only to die in the collapse of a building where she was working as a part-time waitress, Kang expressed his sympathy in a work for the young artist who had invested her hope in the future. Many of his canvases are inscribed with phrases like "They work hard for fame" or "I paint for my sanity." These statements are Kang's way of reaffirming his own direction in life. In the early years when he was painting and sketching on the subway, Kang carried portable watercolors, even nee-

dles and embroidery thread, for use on his canvases. Impressionist painters often left their stuffy studios to paint alfresco, but their outdoor paintings did little to diminish the gap between the "sublime" world of art and everyday reality. Nature was simply an artistic subject to them. Kang's subway paintings in the 1980s, however, place art and everyday life on the same level. They represent a happy marriage of two worlds, interacting in a kind of osmosis. The artist was holding onto everyday realities and those realities held onto him. It is often risky to categorize an artist by the culture into which he or she was born because that culture may not be a very important part of his or her work This is especially true of artists of great artistic creativity. These artists' works may go well beyond the boundaries of cultural identity. Kang Ik-joong is a unique artist. However, understanding the unique nature of Korean culture helps explain the basic mechanisms of his work For example, much of Korean food is "water-based"; soups and stews abound in Korean cuisine. Interestingly, these "water-based" dishes combine, synthesize, harmonize and sublimate their many ingredients. Kang's art is much the same. He combines many seemingly incongruous ingredients, but the artist, like the cook, brings them together as a single ,entity. There is no room for disharmony. Kang often compares his work to the Korean dish pibimbap, white rice topped with a variety of seasoned vegetables and meats which are mixed at the table with spicy red pepper paste. Kang's combination of many small pieces into a larger mosaic reflects the unique character of Korean cuisine and an important element of Korean culture. He observes the world around him, picking up bits and pieces of everyday life and using them to create a world of his own. He collects his ingredients on the streets, from the newspaper and television, from his own imagination. Each item tells its own story within a context of "basic equality."

"Multiple/Dialogue," am ultimedia exhibition on which Kang collaborated with video artist NamJune Paik in 1994

This synthetic approach was an important factor in the decision by Eugenie Tsai, curator at the Whitney Museum of American Art, to stage the "Multiple/ Dialogue" exhibition in 1994. Tsai said: American popular culture, the stuff of daily life, holds (Nam June) Paik and Kang in thrall, and appears as image, artifact and sound in their respective work. Both artists regard their adopted culture from the distinctive perspectives of Korean-born immigrants who survey the ebb and flow of their environment with a perpetual sense of wonder and bemusement. Their observations display similar wit, cleverness and self-deprecatory humor. The work of both is organized in modular units that build up to a large whole. Characteristically, Paik stacks a number of television monitors, big and small, into various configurations, whereas Kang aligns thousands of 3-by-3 canvases to form an orderly grid. Both artists subscribe

to the adage "the more the bettet (the title, incidentally, of Paik's piece at the 1988 Seoul Olympic Games), believing that an accretion of multiples best captures the vast undifferentiated field of contemporary life. In the analogy of Korean cuisine and the art of Paik and Kang, the modular structure is clearly the shared constant, and extracted from life. In short, Paik and Kang throw everything together and add. 0

Kang Ik-joong has been invited to present a solo show at the Whitney Museum's Philip Morris Hall this summer. This is a great honor for such a young artist, but for Kang, it is simply another beginning. His small paintings always combine to form something new. In a sense, one could say Kang does not paint on a canvas so much as he paints on the passage of his own life. His works are not painted on a given space. The river of life rolls along, emitting the glittering light of existence. Kang's paintings rise to the surface of

that river like tiny fish scales. He is a young artist but his art reflects life's depth. Seeing one of his paintings, one can easily imagine the other paintings, just as one sees a single scale and imagines a whole fish swimming through the water. This is the way to experience Kang's art. Kang's work was introduced to the British public this January when a British television anchor nibbled on chocolate while covering Kang 's "Buddha Eating Chocolate" exhibition at Leeds Metropolitan University. Kang's work clearly has a powerful popular affinity, and his philosophy-"the more the better"-is attracting great interest as a result. Perhaps the American painter Byron Kim best captures Kang's essence: Kang evades the touchy question of quality by asserting that quantity is quality. His paintings are a virus. He produces them everywhere. You can imagine finding them anywhere. ('1k-joong Kang," Artspiral, Winter 1991)

+ 67

DISCOVERING KOREA

here is no greater pleasure than eating, except, of course, eating truly delicious food. Enjoying a tasty meal is one of life's greatest gifts, a true source of happiness. It seems, however, that many people deliberately forfeit this simple pleasure. Indeed, "civilized society" seems to be pushing everyone in that unhappy direction. Ancient Koreans knew how to eat, although they did not enjoy the comfortable living conditions or economic

Seasonings T

Adding Flavor to Korean Life Hong Sung-yoo President of Korean Novelists Association Chairman of Literary Division, National Academ y of Arts 68

wealth that today is taken for granted. They were a wise people, wise in the sense that they knew how to use ingredients to their best advantage. Knowing how to produce a certain taste and how to appreciate that taste fully is a sign of wisdom and an essential element of the good life. Korean cooking is unique for many reasons, but one of its most important elements is the recognition of each ingredient's special character and its proper use. The secret to producing a

variety of flavors from one ingredient is '-.. the time-honored use of seasonings. The word "seasonings," or kan, refers to ingredients used to produce or enhance flavor. In Korean cooking, the most important seasonings are garlic, green onion, ginger, red peppers, sesame salt, black pepper, mustard, green peppers, Korean horseradish, sesame and perilla oil, vinegar, sugar, fermented red pepper paste and bean paste, plus a variety of soy sauces. A pungent mustard is often used to

Counterclockwise from upper left: Garlic tied beneath the eaves of a thatched roof to dry; soy sauce, soybean paste, red pepper paste and other condiments are commonly stored in crockery jars on an outside terrace; a woman puts pepper paste into a smaller container for use in the kitchen; a table set with a great variety of foods and condiments; and a beef dish garnished with sliced jujubes, thread pepper and pine nuts

prevent the development of bacteria in foods during the hot, humid summer months, and Korean horseradish , known to eliminate fishy odors and toxins, is always served with. dishes featuring raw fish. While all these ingredients may be eaten by themselves, they are most often used to enhance the flavor and aroma of food. Some are used fresh, others are dried or roasted first, still others are pressed for their oil. Some are added when a dish is served; some are chopped or sliced and added during the preparation process. Garnishes are frequently used in Korean cooking. Known as komy6ng, a garnish makes a dish look appetizing and adds to its aroma and texture. Komyong is usually sprinkled on top of a dish. Most common are chidan, thin white and yellow strips of fried egg, and kim, crisp roasted laver. Both add color and texture. Of course, any discussion of Korean cuisine would not be complete without mentioning fermented staples such as red pepper paste (koch 'ujang), bean paste (toenjang) and Korea's ubiquitous kimch'i. Koch'ujang and toenjang are essential to the creation of a true Korean flavor and, together with kimch'i, are cherished by Koreans. A skillful blending of these many

seasonings is responsible for the special character of Korean food, whether it be soup, stew or the simplest side dishes served at daily meals. Salt is an essential and decisive element in all cuisines. The addition of salt or a salt substitute is essential to the success of a dish. Of course, the seasoning, or kan, varies from dish to dish. Some foods are meant to be salty and some mild; other foods are spicy and fermented to perfection. The strong aroma of Korea's spicy and fermented foods makes many foreigners hold their noses; these same dishes are mouthwatering to most Koreans. But how salty or spicy is a dish supposed to be? That depends on the region and the individual's tastes. A great chef is known for reproducing the flavors, aromas and textures of a particular region, and traditionally a Korean housewife is judged by her ability to reproduce the epicurean tradition of her husband's family. A Rich and Varied Cuisine The history of every national cuisine is closely linked to the country's traditional culture and customs and is heavily influenced by the local climate and environment. Cooking techniques and tastes are born of each culture's unique circumstances.

One of the simplest, most well-balanced dishes isssam, rice or meat and a dab of seasoned bean paste wrapped with leaves of lettuce or other fragrant vegetables.

The history of Korean cuisine is no exception. That history reaches back to the earliest days of the Korean people, but for all practical purposes, Korean cooking as it is known today originated in the haute cuisine enjoyed by royalty of the Choson Dynasty, which ruled the Korean Peninsula from 1392 to 1910, the dishes prepared for the yangban elite, so influential during that period, and the everyday foods of the common people which differed quite markedly from region to region. Korea has a long history of agricultural development and has thus enjoyed a rich and varied diet for centuries. Food is harvested from paddies, dry fields, mountains and pastures, as well as the sea, which surrounds the country on three sides. Fertile land and clean air and water provide a perfect environment for the cultivation of a variety of foodstuffs and vegetables used as seasonings and garnishes. This bounty is evident in local customs and cuisine. The right seasoning is usually achieved with salt and soy sauce, but garlic, green onion, sesame salt, sugar, red and black pepper powder, vinegar, sesame oil and many other seasonings are also used. Garlic and green onion are found in prac tically all dishes, except desserts, and could be called the key elements of Korean cookery. Korean food is actually quite varied. The principal element of every meal i~ some kind of grain-be it steamed rice. barley or millet, rice porridge, or wheat, buckwheat or rice ground into flour and transformed into noodles or dumplings. Soup or stew is served at almost every meal, and side dishes of vegetables, meat or seafood are panbroiled, steamed, hard-boiled in soy sauce and garlic, broiled on skewers, or deep-fried. There is remarkable variety in both ingredients and preparation. Add to this the more than 200 kinds of kimch'i and myriad chang-atchi, sliced dried vegetables pickled in soy sauce or red pepper paste, and ch6tkal, raw fish or shellfish pickled in salty or spicy sa uces. The list goes on and on.

All this variety requires equally varied seasonings to create distinctive flavors, textures and colors. Different sauce types of red pepper paste, ~ oy and bean paste are used to create different soups and stews. There is one red pepper paste for stew, another for chang-atchi and still another for use as a table condiment. Similarly, some soy sauces are used exclusively for soups, others are for dipping deep-fried vegetables at the dining table. These pastes and sauces are made from different grains depending on locale and use. Glutinous rice is a common ingredient, but in some regions and some families, hulled millet or sorghum is used. The annual preparation of soy sauce and seasoning pastes has always been an important event in traditional Korean life. Delicious red pepper paste, bean paste and soy sauce are the cornerstones for a good meal, so a housewife is expected to master sauce- and paste-making. Types of Seasonings The seasonings discussed here can be divided into three categories: flavor-balancing seasonings (chomiryo), spices (hyangshillyo) and garnishes (komy6ng). Flavor-balancing seasonings can also A good cook must know how to use all seasonings and garnishes correctly for they are the decisive factor in each dish's particular appeaL Ground sesame and red pepper threads make tl1e dish of steamed onions (upper right) appetizing.

bination. Red peppers are sliced into etables and meats and often is eaten as be broken down into three categories: tiny threads, or dried and ground into a condiment with freshly steamed rice seasonings used to give a salty taste, powder for use as a seasoning or in the wrapped in raw sesame leaves or letsuch as salt, soy sauce, toenjang and tuce. Besides being tasty, toenjang is manufacture of red pepper paste. koch'ujang; sweeteners, such as sugar, also a rich source of protein. Finely ground red pepper is used to honey or wheat gluten; and miscellaRed pepper paste, or koch'ujang, is as make red pepper paste. A medium neous seasonings, such as cooking oils, essential to the Korean diet as toenjang. grind is used in fermented cabbage or vinegar, red peppers, sesame salt and radish kimch'i, and a coarser grind is The paste is made of grain-glutinous various chotkal. used in kimch'i that is eaten before any rice, buckwheat or barley-and ground Korean cooks have a number of salts significant fermentation takes place. meju, red pepper powder, malt and salt, at their disposal: coarse "Chinese" salt, The different grinds are important and like soy sauce, varies in color and refined salt, table salt and artificial salt to because they affect the flavor, color flavor. name a few. Each has a specific use, and texture of each dish. Sweeteners are essential to all much too complicated to explain here. cuisines. Most Koreans use white sugar As already noted, garlic, green onions, Soy sauce is one of Korea's most black pepper, ginger and musbasic seasonings. It is judged tard are considered spices or on the basis of its color, flahyangshillyo. Of these, garlic vor and aroma. The main and green onions are most ingredients in soy sauce are important, especially in soybeans and wheat. kimch'i, the gastronomical Soybean malt is made from pride and joy of the Korean these ingredients and fashpeople. ioned into a large lump called Garnishes, or komyong, are meju. The shape of meju sprinkled on top of foods or varies according to regional placed alongside for added and household tradition. color, flavor and aroma. Egg Sometimes the lumps are chidan or kim are the most round, sometimes square. Its common, Âˇbut mushrooms, color also varies depending pinenuts, walnuts, ginkgo on the type of beans and nuts and other nuts and fruits preparation methods used. are frequently used, as are Soy sauce is made by ferbrightly colored vegetables menting lumps of meju in and shredded meats or saltwater. The longer they are fermented the more deli- Peppers, both green and red, are perhaps the most distinctive seafoods. Each garnish has a specific cious the soy sauce. Today seasoning in Korean cuisine. Green peppers are eaten fresh most households buy soy and red peppers are dried and ground into powder for use as use. Indeed, a good cook must know how to use all sauce at the supermarket. seasoning or in the making of red pepper paste. seasonings and garnishes corFactory-produced soy sauce in their cooking, but in the old days, rectly for they are the decisive factor in is inferior in taste, color and aroma and each dish's particular appeal. Even the has corrupted popular tastes. Today honey and wheat gluten were more finest ingredients will not guarantee a most Koreans think all soy sauce is dark commonly used. truly great meal if its seasonings are not A variety of oils are used in Korean in color and quite sweet. cooking, 'each with its own unique properly selected and included. In fact, there are several different Korean food is best known among aroma, flavor and color. Sesame oil and kinds of soy sauce: sauce used to flavor non-Koreans for being spicy and salty, perilla oil are commonly used for flasoups and stews, specially aged soy but careful consideration of each dish voring, whereas bean oil, cottonseed oil sauce for use as a table condiment or in reveals a wide range of distinctive flasmall amounts for flavoring side dishes, and peanut oil are used for frying. vors and smells, made possible by the and factory-produced soy sauce. Each Peppers are perhaps the most disrich variety of seasonings used by tinctive seasoning found in Korean cuihas a special use. sine. Spicy green peppers are eaten Korean cooks. As Korean food becomes Bean paste, or toenJang, is made from fresh, dipped in a mixture of red pepbetter known to the outside world I am the meju left over from the manufaccertain that non-Koreans will come to per and bean paste, or preserved in soy ture of soy sauce. The rich brown paste love it as much as Koreans do. + sauce or a red pepper-bean paste comis used to flavor soups and stews, veg72

CURRENTS

Tragic Tale of an Empress

My6ngs6ng Hwanghu Kim Moon-hwan Drama Critic, Professor of Aesthetics Seoul National University

A-Com, a musical group based in Seoul, presented an encore performance of its hit musical Myongsong Hwanghu (Empress Myongsong) this spring. The musical, based on novelist Yi Mun-yol's play Yo-u sa-nyang (Fox Hunting), attracted some 50,000 theatergoers during its first run late last year. Yi's original title Yo-u sa-nyang refers to the Japanese military's codeword for its plot to assassinate Queen Min, or Myongsong Hwanghu as she is known by her dynastic title, in October 1895. In the late 19th century, the Chason Dynasty was facing numerous foreign and domestic threats to its existence and the government found it increasingly difficult to govern effectively and to manage its diplomatic affairs. Farmers were protesting against the corruption and incompetence of the feudal society, and there was widespread concern and factional strife about the threat posed by Russia, Japan, China and the United States and the forced opening of the country. Afloat on the turbulent political waters of the 19th century, the Chason Dynasty finally succumbed to Japanese imperialism. Last year was the 50th anniversary of Korea's liberation from Japanese colonial rule and the 100th anniversary of Myongsong Hwanghu's assassination. The musical production, as well as Yi Mun-yol's original play, is aimed in part at rectifying misconceptions about the queen and her death. The queen was a woman of strong charac-

ter and many talents who was known for her extraordinary intelligence and wisdom. She was a powerful force behind King Kojong (r. 1867-1903) and influenced state affairs. However, in most history books she is portrayed in a negative light and is referred to as "Minbi," literally "Queen Min," a term derived from Japanese historiography. Yi Mun-yol spent two years re-

If Myongsong Hwanghu is any indication of what the future holds, Korean audiences can look forward to world-class productions. searching ,his play and his hard work appears to have paid off. People certainly leave the theater with a different impression of King Kojong's queen-not as a meddling consort but as a wise, influential empress. Requiem for the Last Queen As the curtain rises, the number 1945 appears against an image of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and

gradually changes to the number 1896, the year the 40-plus assassins of the queen were tried and acquitted in a Hiroshima court on the grounds of insufficient evidence. By linking the Hiroshima of 1896 with the bombed out city of 1945, the producers are showing that justice was eventually served: The militaristic Japanese imperialist regime that acquitted the killers was later forced to surrender unconditionally. Unfortunately, this lesson in retribution was lost on most theatergoers as it was not clearly conveyed through the musical. The queen's relationship with her father-in-law, the regent Hungson Taewon-gun, who virtually ruled the country much of the time Kojong was growing up, was adversarial. In the play, however, their hostile relationship is depicted in a somewhat different light-as a disagreement over how to display patriotism in a rapidly changing world rather than as a struggle for political power. Thus, the lavish wedding uniting King Kojong and Queen Consort Min is portrayed as a strangely peaceful rite, like the lull before a storm. Shortly after the wedding scene, Kojong is seen in the courtyard of the palace flirting with court ladies as his worried queen looks on. Although it may seem like a simple marital lapse, it foreshadows a storm of more serious problems stemming from the Taewongun's regency and assumption of governing powers, the turmoil among the common people, the appearance of 73

CURRENTS Japanese merchants selling modern goods not yet available inÂˇ Korea, and pressures from Russia, Germany, France, Japan and the United States to open up Korea, which was opposed by a conservative faction led by the regent. Having given birth to a healthy son, an heir to the throne, the queen gains the confidence she needs to persuade Kojong to wrest control of the government from his father. However, Kojong vacillates due to factional strife between the conservatives and reformists, an alliance of foreign powers against his court, and a conspiracy among foreign envoys in the capital. The queen, on the other hand, develops an even keener understanding of politics and diplomacy and becomes aware of Japan's sinister plan to take over Korea. The plot thickens when the old palace guard, ousted and replaced by a "modern" force, rises up in

protest against deteriorating living conditions and foreign intervention and helps the Taewon-gun return to power. The queen, who disappeared during the commotion, conspires with the court of Qing China to take the Taewon-gun into protective custody and then returns to the court, much to the joy of King Kojong. It becomes clear to the Japanese, however, that the queen is a stumbling block in their quest to control Korea and thus they conspire to eliminate her. Whereas the first act moves slowly, being bogged down with excessive background information, the second act is fast paced and presents a convincing picture of a courageous, politically astute and skillful queen. There is also a subplot involving a regimental commander of the court, Hong Kyehun, who has harbored a love for the queen since before her marriage when he saw her for the first time. The act's

closing scene, the murd er of the queen, ends with Hong trying to shield the queen with his own body and the heartbreaking cry of the child crown prince. In the epilogue, the queen sings of her devotion to Korea, calling for the people to rise up and defend their country. The musical ends with the people singing of the eternal life of their country.

Debut on World Stage The success of this performance as a requiem for Korea's last queen is attributable to director Yun Ho-jin's bold omission of narration and dialogue in transforming the original play into a musical. The dramatic content was strengthend by playwright Kim Kwang-lim, while the lyrics and music of the husband-and-wife team, Yang In-ja and Kim Hui-kap, elevated the Korean musical genre to new heights.

The queen gives her young husband, King Kojong, advice on state affairs in this scene from Myongs6ng Hwanghu.

CURRENTS The most memorable scenes are the opening scene featuring a miniature Kyongbokkung Palace beneath an enormous mushroom cloud, the splendid wedding at the royal court, the reception for foreign envoys, the queen's assassination in which the stage is divided in two to show the conspirators and the defenders, and the smoke-filled battle scenes. The scene in which a chorus of children sing "Spring without plum blossoms is no spring at all" is fairly impressive, although the reason for the scene is unclear. Regrettably, the sword-fighting scenes appear labored and amateurish. Many of the production's 60 musical pieces seemed rather stale and inappropriate for the scenes. Nevertheless, the music managed to enthrall the audience and in that sense it was a success. Had the composer taken a bolder approach, I believe the music would have had an even greater im-

pact on them. The choreography as a whole was not impressive. On the other hand, the stage art was quite good. Park Dong-wou's set design gives depth to the production, and Kim Hyun-suk's outstanding .costumes closely resembled traditional clothing while meeting the production's need for wide variety and authenticity. The laudable efforts of the set and costume teams would have been wasted had the performers not performed well. Playing the title role, Yoon Suk-hwa did a marvelous job of bringing the tragic queen to life, but the role requires an actress with more musical experience. Worthy of special note is the performance of the talented vocalist Yun Ch'i-ho, whose rich, powerful voice delivered the lyrics in a way that set a standard of excellence for the rest of the cast. The musical is by no means a new

genre in Korea. But this production is particularly significant-in a sense epoch-making. If Myongsong Hwanghu is any indication of what the future holds, Korean audiences can look forward to world-class productions. This is not to say that there are no obstacles ahead. Even if producers manage to overcome the financial difficulties involved in producing a musical, there are many technical problems they must deal with. For instance, if a production is forced to rely on recorded audio, reducing the performers to little more than lip-synching, it will certainly lack vitality and thus fail to appeal to audiences. Much work lies ahead if Myongsong Hwanghu is to enjoy the success of a Broadway production such as Miss Saigon. However, it does show distinct possibilities. I wish the production great success as it prepares to debut on the world stage. +

In this scene from the musical's epilogue, the queen sings of her devotion to Korea.

BOOK REVIEW

KOREA Scenic Beauty and Religious Landmarks Mark De Fraeye/Frits Vos Schillinger Verlag, Freiburg im Breisgau, 1995,171 pages

pening at random Korea: Scenic Beauty and Religious Landmarks by Mark De Fra-

eye and Frits Vos, I was surprised to find the following love song by an anonymous sijo poet:

Now, what was love? What was it? Was it round? Was it square? Was it long? Was it short? Could one span it or measure it? It does not seem to be really long, Yet I do not know where it ends .. I was surprised because, judging from the cover, I thought this volume must be just another lovely coffeetable book about Korea. Quite the contrary; it is filled with not only lovely photographs but also a wealth of information. The text is presented under the headings: Nature and Landscape, The Koreans, History, Mythology, Religion and Philosophy, and Language and Writing System. The chapter on nature and landscape contains a separate section on the island of Chejudo. The front matter includes a note on the transcription and pronunciation of Korean words and a note on names, both family and geographical, and the back matter includes a bibliography of German, English and French books. A succinct history of Korea from ancient times up through 1992 is presented in a very readable format and includes developments in art and literature as well as some information on North Korea. The chapter on mytholo76

gy presents the foundation myth of the Korean people along with the foundation myths of a few of Korea's earliest kingdoms. The chapter on religion and philosophy is divided into detailed sections on shamanism, tutelary deities, the Mountain Spirit, Buddhism and Confucianism as well as information on Taoism, geomancy and Christianity. The chapter on language and han-gul explains the history and development of the Korean language as well as its phonetic, sentence and grammatical structures. The 145 photographs give the reader a sense of Korea's landscape, including some areas in North Korea. The pictures let the reader peek into Korean homes, artists' studios, royal palaces, Buddhist temples, shaman shrines, Confucian academies, Christian churches, museums, restaurants, markets and more.

The book is a comprehensive introduction to Korea that was first published in German in 1992 as Korea, Land der Berge und Buddhas. Frits Vos, the writer, is professor emeritus of the National University (Rijksuniversiteit) of Leiden, where he taught Japanese and Korean studies as a docent from 1946 to 1958 and a full professor from 1958 to 1983. He is the author of a German book on Korean religions, a Dutch book on Korean poetry and many other publications on Japanese and Korean history, religion and classical literature.. He is a frequent visitor to Korea and has lived in the country for extended periods of time. Photographer Mark De Fraeye, a native of Zaire, teaches photography at several Belgium academies of art. He says that he was immediately captivated by the rhythm of Korean life and Korea's 'rich culture when he first visited the country in the summer of 1988. He travels regularly to Korea to photograph its landscape, religion and everyday life. His works have been exhibited in galleries and museums in many European countries, the United States, Canada and Korea. He has many pub lications to his name, including Korea Inside, Outside (Seoul: Haenglim Publishing Co., 1990). This beautifully illustrated volume provides a wealth of information about many aspects of Korea. It has a lot to offer students of Korean studies, foreign residents in Korea, tourists and anyone interested in Korea and Koreans. (Suzanne Crowder Han)

JOURNEYS IN KO.REAN LITERATURE

Pa-rk Wan-suh

Park's writing is an honest fictional response to the destructive and unjust influences born of industrialization and urbanization. She offers a subtle portrayal of the decline of human values brought on by these processes, of the corruption of the human spirit caused by the worship of money and materialism, and of the moral decline of society as a whole.

Park Wan-suh

Psychological Trauma_and aNonconformist's Spirit Yujong-ho Yun Tong-ju Professor of English Literature Yonsei University

ark Wan-suh made her literary debut in 1970 when she was nearly 40. In the decades since, she has become one of the most important Korean writers of her generation. From her debut work The Naked Tree (Na-mok, translated by Yu Young-nan, Cornell University East Asian Program, 1995) to her most recent noveL Was That Mountain Really There? (Kogie ch6ngmal kil san-i iss6sst1lkka), Park's novels are among the most widely read in Korean modern literature. Her short story collections have been consistently of high quality and appeal to a wide audience. Park's perceptive and principled work as a guest columnist and her reputation as a moderate yet resolute feminist have also made her one of Korea's most respected intellectuals. An author's debut work is often said to be an indicator of what readers can expect of future writings. Although this is not always so, it has proven to be true in Park Wan-suh's case. For much of her life Park was a model housewife. In Korea, homemaking is a time-consuming and exhausting occupation, allowing little time or energy for intellectual pursuits. This was especially true prior to the 1970s. While she was working on her first book, Park was raising five small children and, as the eldest daughter-in-law, was also caring for her parents-in-law. The Naked Tree is the story of her youth, and since its publication she has continued to attract many young readers with her work The novel is set in Seoul during the Korean War and revolves around the young female narrator's profound yet doomed love for a middle-aged painter. Its portrayal of a pure and sad love not

far from the battle front is what one might expect from a "youth" novel, but Park's tenacious literary motifs are evident throughout the work Kyong-a lives with her mother who is emotionally distraught as a result of the deaths of her two sons during the war. Kyong-a works at the post exchange at a US. military base in Seoul. The novel is set against the background of the war, but the war itself is never seen directly. StilL it is an overwhelming presence which dictates the lives, consciousness and actions of the novel's characters. The horrendous emotional trauma of the Korean War is an important theme in Park Wansuh's novels, but it is most evident in The Naked Tree. The painful loss that the narrator's mother experiences in this novel is the epitome of the grieving Korean mother. One merit of Park's novels is her relentlessly nonconformist approach to the shamelessness, insensitivity and indecency of modern society. Park's antagonism is directed at all hypocrisy and arrogance. All negative characteristics are described as vulgar and criticized harshly. The author skillfully depicts the vulgar, bringing an insightful quickness and liveliness to her writing. In The Naked Tree the object' of Kyong-a's resentment is another young woman, with the unlikely name of Diana Kim, who also works at the post exchange. Kyong-a's love for the middle-aged artist Ock Hui-do is triggered by his dejection when the selfish Diana insults his work Exhaustion and depression were reflected in his eyes, momentarily overwhelming his good nature, and I felt his depression

stab me. (pp.17-18) Park's nonconformism is again evident in the novel A Faltering Afternoon (Hwichonggorimln o-hu), a stark depiction of the shallowness and pitfalls of empty materialism and the worship of money, and continues to color her writing today. In this sense, Park's fiction is among the best "novels of manners" of her generation. In the afterword of A Faltering Afternoon, Park says she hoped to depict "an honest cross section of our time through the lives of ordinary people, neither rich nor poor, and their collapse of conscience." This is an apt self-analysis of her work Park's depiction of society in her writing is colored by a spirit of nonconformism. It is here that her critical spirit is evident. As with all skilled writers of the novels of manners, Park displays remarkable talent in character delineation. Although her descriptions are few, Park brings her characters vividly to life. Her grasp of the workings of the human mind and delineation of character are flawless, and as a result, the action and development in each story are readily believable, though her style is concise. In Park's verisimilitude can be discerned the fundamental sadness of everyday life, the essence of her appeal After a long wait, the wife finally applied for a visit but the application was denied immediately. They said it was because there had already been one visit. That's strange, she thought ... After wrangling for three or four days, she finally heard her husband's prison number being called. Yes, someone answered; it was a woman she

had never seen before. She grabbed the woman by the scruff of her neck and shook You whore! Who are you' So began a cat-fight the likes of which the prison yard had never seen bef o r e. ~ B it c h l Whorel The curses flew, sending cracks through the air like lightning and piercing the ears of the onlookers. Inside the towering walls of the prison was a miserable excuse of a man, a man who offered nothing more than the opportunity to bring food and clothing to a prison visiting room, the worst of all the world's lousy husbands. And outside the women fought as if he were the last man on earth. To watch their impassioned battle, without a scrape of femininity left to them, made the heart choke with a kind of fatal sadness, knowing that the men and women of this world might as well be two different species. This excerpt from the short story "One Perso nal Acco unt" ( Onli ch 'eh omgi ) vividly demonstrates Park's talent for drawing the reader into an unknown world, revealing the vicissitudes and danger of seemingly ordinary lives. Curiosity about the unknown is one of the fundamental reasons people read, and it is here that one finds the source of Park's literary appeal Through her work, readers realize that the unknown world she is leading them to is really the world in which they live, nothing so strange or unbelievable. Park Wan-suh is a gifted observer of life and a talented storyteller. Her most recent noveL Was That Mountain Really There?, is filled with detailed scenes of life in Seoul after the retreat of U.N. forces in january 1951, incidents involving the use of "Red" military script and tales of sex ual dev iants li ving around U.S. bases. These incidents belong to a world alien to anyone who had not lived through that time, yet Park brings them to life for the reader, giving a feel of reality to her fiction and demonstrating her talent as a writer. In the past, storytellers proved themselves with their eloquence, but modern authors cannot rely on eloquence alone. Literary style has since emerged as the

Park Wan-suh

source of the modern novel's vitality. A powerful scene in Park's debut work, The Naked Tree, demonstrates Park's control of language. It was the first time I used the word "love" to him, but it sounded very hollow. It had been used by so many people that it was too worn-Out to describe my passion of Ock Hui-Do.... I had no choice but to emphasize the word love, but I felt we needed another word to describe our feelings. Sad, strong words that no one had used before. (pp.102-103) Here Park expresses the linguistic ideal pursued by modern poets, the desire to create a new, unique language and to resist the homogenization of language.

Park has a talent for drawing the reader into an alien world, revealing the vicissitudes and danger of seemingly ordinary lives. She grasps the inner workings of the human mind in a concise and believable style. 79

When a writer succeeds in creating a new vocabulary, the composition of that language is, by necessity, poetic. A novel of manners dealing with the realities of life head-on cannot always pursue a poetic ideal but it can approach that ideal in a delicate embrace of human nature. The unique literary accomplishment found in Park's fiction flows from her aspiration for "strong words." As already noted, the emotional trauma of the Korean War is an important motif in Park's novels, but in fact there are few, if any, postwar authors who do not deal with this motif. The overwhelming appeal of Park's work lies in her unbiased view of the war. It is all too easy for an author to make hasty judgments, distorting the tragic nature of life by taking a one-sided view based on rash ideological prejudice. Some writers blame an imaginary enemy of the right or lef~ substituting their own accusations for an unbiased understanding of reality. In such cases the author's political views are the only thing revealed The character of an older brother killed during the war appears frequently in Park's fiction and personal essays. Park lost her own brother, and not surprisingly, her depictions ring true. In her most recent autobiographical works Who Ate All the Grass? (Ku manton shing-anun nuga ta ttamokossulga?) and Was That Mountain Really There?, Park's personal history offers valuable insight into her earlier work Her older brother, who at one time showed an interest in socialism, dies in the rubble of war. One side used all manner of vicious methods to bribe and intimidate Brother. They accused him of being a reactionary, but in the end only succeeded in turning a frail intellectual into an emotional cripple. Then the other side took that cripple and accused him of being a Red, toying with him, then shooting him and tossing him aside before they retreated. Throughout Park's work runs an urgent rejection of the violence that human beings use in the name of ideolo80

gy. The author's sincerity gives her rejection remarkable appeal Her stories and novels seek to defend humanity against ideological bipolarity, as does all of Korea's "literature of national division" (pundan munhak). Since the 1960s, Korean society has undergone rapid and pervasive change in

Throughout Park's work runs an urgent rejection of the violence that human beings use in the name of ideology. The author's sincerity gives her rejection remarkable appeal. Her stories and novels seek to defend humanity against ideological bipolarity. the form of industrialization and urbanization. In 1965 Korea's per capita GNP was just $100, by 1995 it had increased to $10,000, reflecting the country's remarkable economic growth and rapidly improving living standards. In addition to the painful political and social oppression which restricted citizens' freedom for so many years, there have been tremendous human costs to this development Park's writing is an honest fictional response to the destructive and unjust influences caused by the enormous changes in

Korean society. She offers a subtle portrayal of the decline of human values brought on by industrialization and urbanization, of the corruption of the human spirit caused by the worship of money and materialism, and of the moral decline of society as a whole. Most scholars agree that superior literature can be one of the most valuable resources in the study of social history. Certainly Park Wan-suh's novels are among the most illuminating literary resources for the study of Korean society in the latter half of the 20th century. In her portrayal of life's sadness and tragedy, Park shows her readers that while they may not be able to achieve happiness immediately, salvation is found not in any grand ideology but in the warmth of the human spirit "In the Realm of the Buddha" and "Camera and Workboots" are among Park's earlier works, but in them can be found the archetype for her literary world. Most people would agree that every individual has the stuff of at least one good novel in his or her life. Every life has its ups and downs, its hardships, but rarely does one author's experience fuel such consistent literary creativity. ''In the Realm of the Buddha" poignantly depicts the deep psychological trauma and pain caused by war. This trauma and pain is the fountainhead of Park's literary expression. "Camera and Workboots" demonstrates how persistent this trauma can be and how doggedly memories of the dead can rule the living. The story is about the futility of one family's prayers as they encourage a cherished nephew to choose a university major and then a career solely on the basis of the ideological constraints of their time. In the past people often spoke of ''tearful irony." This depiction of one family's inability to realize their dreams is more than simply a literary accomplishment; it will long be remembered for revealing the thwarted aspirations of the Korean people in the postwar period The story is a subliminal revelation which vividly reminds readers that whereas ideology conceals, art reveals. +

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