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  [ITALIAN] L’uccello che beve lacrime

  This is somewhere no reader has ever ventured. No eyes have seen the city of Hattengraju over which the disquieting Tower of Hearts looms, nor the treacherous forest of Kiboren, where the trees hide the sky. No foot has ever crossed the Border Line between two mutually fearful civilizations. No one has been here because this world did not exist before it was created in The Bird That Drinks Tears by Korean author Lee Youngdo, born in 1972. This writer has shaped a fantasy universe populated by characters of striking originality, producing an ambitious, richly detailed saga that first became a bestseller in its homeland, then in East Asia (China, Japan, and Taiwan), and finally achieved success on the global literary scene.         The first volume was released in Korea in 2003. It took exactly twenty years to arrive in Italy with Feltrinelli’s publication of Il cuore del naga. L’uccello che beve lacrime Vol. 1 in October 2023. Sara Bochicchio’s task in translating from the Korean was challenging, since she had to introduce neologisms to convey certain specificities of the novel, starting with the naga people’s telepathic abilities. Another difficulty was the narrative’s use of register, particularly its epic cadence and lyrical moments, interspersed with suspenseful scenes and even virtual comedic sketches.         Lee’s novel embraces a typical fairy tale frame: a journey of initiation, and a mission uniting various characters who are superficially allied but also carry histories of rivalry. This structure recalls The Lord of the Rings, to which it sometimes seems to pay homage. The overall conception of the story world itself is reminiscent of J.R.R. Tolkien’s masterpiece: a familiar structure for which the Korean writer establishes deep roots in his country’s traditional culture, and onto which he grafts surprising invention. Readers are thus supported by familiar elements, allowing them to enjoy those which are more unexpected. Although the references to Eastern myth may not be immediately clear to all readers, the plot maintains strong momentum and is consistently engaging. The adventure begins with a “rescue mission.” We witness the meeting of a trio assembled on the basis of an old saying: “Three seize one.” This is how a human, Keigon, comes to set out with two unlikely companions: Tinahan, a rekon (a sort of large bird), and Pihyong, a tokkebi (a goblin who in Korean tradition fights against the forces of evil). They must come together to save a naga (a reptile similar to the mythical serpent found in Hindu and Buddhist mythology) who has chosen not to undergo the ritual required of every member of his people: having his heart extracted to acquire a kind of immortality.         One of the most intriguing and remarkable aspects of the novel is the characterization of the naga. Lee occasionally makes use of inspiration from well-known mythological figures to explain the habits and customs of a group he has invented, but more often he appeals to the readers’ imaginations with simple descriptions. Thus we understand that although the naga are anthropomorphic, they are also covered in scales (after all, they are half reptile), but the reader isn’t burdened with an excess of description which would rob them of the pleasure of imagining the world for themselves. The females are portrayed lusting after young males to mate with in order to produce offspring, but Lee also tries to show the fragile psychological balance of a sophisticated society. The fantasy genre heightens its depiction of characters’ sense of belonging or exclusion and intra-species tensions, and this attention to detail is precisely what makes Lee’s story credible: any of us can understand what it feels like to be a naga, because the naga (and the rekon, and the tokkebi, just like the human Keigon) are like us.         Another innovative aspect of the work is Lee’s effective conceptualization of creatures that extend the limitations of biology: gigantic and untamable heavenly cetaceans that carry the ruins of ancient civilizations on their backs, or bodies that fuse and regenerate in deluges of blood, as illustrated in a dramatic fight scene between the protagonists. As in Tolkien or C. S. Lewis’s Narnia series, spiritual aspects are also relevant. The mission decided on in a remote temple and the invitation for different species to join forces are expressions of the sacred. At every latitude, in the East as in the West, fantasy suggests a universal truth: that beyond the individual lies something greater, often taking the form of a long journey.   Marco Del CoronaAuthor, Asiatica (Add, 2021)Deputy Editor, Culture Section, Corriere della Sera

  by Marco Del Corona

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  [SPANISH] Cruzaré el tiempo por ti

  They say no one writes letters anymore. The act of writing one by hand and putting an envelope into a mailbox now seems anachronistic, and for this reason Eunyu, a fifteen-year-old girl, finds her father’s request terribly boring: he wants her to write herself a letter to be delivered in one year. What this teenager doesn’t expect is the response she gets two weeks later. Someone—a girl with the same name as her—receives her letter and writes back to her from the past.         Lee Kkoch-nim’s I’ll Cross Time for You is a young adult epistolary novel with a touch of fantasy. It transports us back to our adolescence, to those years when every feeling was new and complex. On the surface, it’s a simple story about two girls whose letters cross time. But this is just a pretext for discussing loneliness and the need for connection with others. Through forty-one letters, the work introduces us to the main characters: two girls who have nothing in common except that they share the same name and live in the same country, although at different times. Present Eunyu, who lost her mother and has never celebrated her birthday, grapples with a deep sense of abandonment by her father—especially since his decision to remarry. With no friends and no one to confide in about the loneliness that overwhelms her, her only consolation lies in her plan for the future: running away when she turns sixteen and living on her own.         What begins as a form of solace in a difficult situation turns out to be the start of an adventure, as the letters from the other Eunyu become a lifeline for the one in the present. The first ones, full of misunderstandings and a certain childish distrust, also overflow with humor and tenderness. Their initial disbelief and fascination at these magical letters crossing the barrier of time gives way to a growing friendship. As they get to know each other, their bond deepens and the story’s emotional intensity builds until it erupts in an avalanche of emotion. In this sense, Lee demonstrates great ability in guiding readers through the full spectrum of emotions: she is capable of eliciting a broad smile at one moment and a torrent of tears only a few pages later.         While Present Eunyu receives the letters over the course of one year, readers witness the development of Past Eunyu over a longer span of time: she grows from a distrustful girl unfamiliar with the internet into an adolescent struggling in the shadow of her perfect sister, and finally into a young woman determined to help her friend from the future. This friendship through correspondence gives Present Eunyu the hope and fortitude to confront her problems at home: a father who makes her feel invisible by never calling her by her name or looking her in the eye, let alone having a simple conversation with her. He seems to have found happiness with his new partner, which only makes Eunyu feel more excluded. In her letters, Present Eunyu sees in her friend from the past the familial bond she had so yearned for and been denied: a connection to an older sister figure who’d move heaven and Earth to help her. But above all, she finds in her a cure for her loneliness, an outlet for her deepest feelings, and the comfort of knowing that someone is accompanying her through time and space.         Despite its fantasy elements, this story is more than just a young adult or fantasy novel: it is a beautiful elegy to letters and writing as a means of escape; as well as to the emotions of youth and the need for human connection. It reminds us of the importance of correcting mistakes and making amends, but also of how vital it is not to lose time, so as not to strain and sever the ties that bind us together.         While it may be true that people no longer write letters, the nostalgia that lingers after reading this book will certainly make you want to take up paper and pen and begin again. Translated by Lucina Schell   Glady JuriaContent creator specializing in Asian literature 

  by Glady Juria

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  [CHINESE] 救命稻草

  Consider director Lee Chang-dong’s film Peppermint Candy as the story of a man’s life filled with failures. Countless lives struggling to survive amidst the vicissitudes of an epoch, yet only able to glimpse back at the beliefs, kindness, and goodness they have lost along the way: director Lee provides a portrait of the ruthlessness of the times while questioning the nature of life.         Kim Seong-gon, the protagonist of Won-pyung Sohn’s Tube, is something like a parallel universe version of Peppermint Candy’s Kim Yong-ho, with the difference that Kim Seong-gon is offered a lifeline. People often say success cannot be replicated, since it depends on opportunity, luck, and many factors that can only be recognized retrospectively. Nevertheless, anyone who wants to learn about success must watch where people fall and how they manage to get back up, especially since there’s never any guarantee that escape is possible. Sure, most people can recover from falling into a metaphorical sinkhole in their twenties, but what about in their forties or fifties? No matter how strong you feel mentally and physically, at some point the body starts to falter. You risk getting trapped in a sinkhole for the rest of your existence, like so many others.         Sohn’s novel depicts life like an express train: once aboard, one cannot jump onto the tracks or get off between stations. It begins with the protagonist, Kim Seong-gon, feeling trapped. As we follow the story, we have to learn how to dance with failures while keeping the hope that his life will bounce back from its setbacks. I see this as the heartfelt message the author embodies in Tube.         The novelist Eileen Chang once wrote, “If you knew the me in the past, perhaps you’d forgive the me in the present.” Sohn mirrors this attitude in dissecting Kim’s past self. He is an ordinary man, neither Satan nor saint, jostled forward by the turmoil of life and exhausted by society’s demands. Little by little, he changes until his previous self becomes unrecognizable to him.         Our perception of the present is defined by our senses and deductions. Oftentimes, the meaning of the past only becomes clear in retrospect. In this sense, failures are not entirely meaningless. Nervous breakdowns and anxiety attacks caused by past experiences can be essential parts of self-healing. Things need to be broken before they can be fixed. This novel brings to mind the 2018 tvN drama series, My Mister, which suggests that all the setbacks experienced by the main character should be understood as external forces, outside personal control. To avoid collapsing, one’s internal strength must remain greater than these external forces. After wandering aimlessly for so long, Kim Seong-gon finds answers through a chance encounter with Park Shil-young, who works as a chauffeur: he finally learns that the answers he has searched for have nothing to do with achieving a goal but instead lie in the process of wrestling against the external forces that are always working to destroy us.         However, Tube does more than repackage the inspirational cliché of “starting anew.” It puts this lofty-sounding ideal into everyday practice. Sohn shows us how even the most insignificant parts of our routine matter: tending to our physical appearance, reclaiming the joy of living, making the effort to see the world from a new perspective, and adjusting the boundaries between oneself and others. Any of these can become a first step toward a meaningful personal transformation.         In unassuming and accessible prose, Sohn guides readers through her protagonist’s moments of helplessness and hopelessness, while suspending judgment of him. The narrative explores humanity as a whole, including the ugly corners where greed and evil reside. The unexpected yet logical twists and turns unveil Kim Seong-gon as a human being—his fatal flaws and self-deception rendered both authentic and deeply resonant.         While it is never too late to change oneself, the author understands that the real world may not offer the protagonist a hand in his time of need. Instead, she dissects his seemingly aimless life, allows light to shine through the most unexpected cracks, puts together the scattered fragments of his existence, and guides him to lift himself back up. In this journey, any random encounter has the potential to become Kim Seong-gon’s salvation.         Reading this book feels like a warm, gentle pat on the shoulder, a persuasive reminder that life isn’t simply a smooth sail even for the most luminous people; that true success is never about effortless achievement, but about learning how to dance with failures and walk alongside adversity. Translated by Jianan Qian   KristinAuthor, The Waltz of Light and Shadow(Star East Press, 2021)

  by Kristin

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  [ENGLISH] The Proposal

  Though it confounds our earthbound instincts, physics tells us that time and space are not separate properties of reality, but aspects of a single composite called “spacetime.” Within spacetime, perspective depends on one’s frame of reference, making observations possible and meaningful—yet subjective rather than universal. As in spacetime, so in life: though perspectives can be communicated, no two are identical, and powerful invisible forces shape not only what we perceive and think but also the trajectories of our lives. These oddly parallel truths shimmer at the heart of the latest of Bae Myung-hoon’s novels to be translated into English.         The Proposal tells the story of an officer on a spaceship fighting in what seems to be an interstellar war against an enigmatic foe. The tale is set far enough in the future that the military fleet is manned by a large space-born population, among whom a book of prophecies about the space war has somehow attained widespread religious significance. Bae’s story, however, focuses on one soldier’s experience on the frontlines of the war—his work and professional struggles, and the challenges he faces maintaining a romantic relationship with an Earthborn sweetheart back home.         Space war is an evergreen and familiar (though still fertile) territory within the SF genre. This presents a challenge for SF authors, who must find ways to distinguish their takes in a unique, compelling manner. Bae manages this task with cheerful aplomb and insight, rejecting cinematic models for a more thoughtful approach. His space battles, for example, are no densely crowded Hollywood spectacle, but instead reflect serious (though not ponderous) consideration of how the practicalities of physics and movement in zero gravity would impact military tactics and strategy. The fleet is a diffuse scattering of distantly separated warships, their hulls dwarfed by vast telescopes, their crews grinding away at technical solutions to a single problem: the fact that their mysterious enemy seems constantly one step ahead of them. As the tale progresses, several scientific concepts—such as the phenomenon of gravity lensing—are explained in ways that prove highly accessible and vividly compelling, even for readers unfamiliar with them.         As is often the case with Bae’s work, the tale is rich in humor, from amusing interactions between the protagonist and assorted commanding officers to the bizarre provenance of the name of the “Buggler Maneuver” used by the fleet’s ships to foil their foes’ weapons targeting systems. Especially noteworthy is Bae’s light touch with characterization, complemented by his sure hand: even when they only appear for a few lines at a time, the protagonist’s superiors spring vividly to life through incisive first-person observation that makes them leap off the page. Such amusements are the brighter elements of the novel’s chiaroscuro, contrasting the more alarming enigmas that emerge about the identity and true motivations of the fleet’s enemy—enigmas that hinge upon an as-yet undiscovered aspect of the properties of spacetime.         However, the story really shines in Bae’s deft intertwining of his protagonist’s romantic struggles with his professional responsibilities as a military officer, as he simultaneously targets his distant opponents and his faraway Earthborn lover’s heart. Likewise, the loneliness of separation from his lover parallels his isolation within a fleet where the next closest ship lies the full width of a planet away. Then there are the things left unsaid—or which are inexpressible—between the spacebound soldier and his lover, mirrored by the silences in the fleet’s communications. These resonances between the two storylines lend this short book a surprising and disarming depth that intensifies as the parallels crescendo toward the paradoxical conclusion of the story, which is less a resolution than the articulation of a potent question. In the weeks since I finished reading The Proposal, it has continued reverberating in my mind.         Regarding the translation, I sensed that translator Stella Kim was particularly faithful to the original text, down to the sentence level. While those unfamiliar with Korean might need some time to get used to this approach, it shapes the narrator’s speaking voice while carrying the character’s rhetorical style into English in a way that offers unfamiliar readers a glimpse of the unique rhythms and flow of the Korean language.   Gordon A. SellarWriter and translator

  by Gordon A. Sellar

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  [ENGLISH] Snowglobe

  In the West, the book-marketing label “young adult” has evolved into a genre of fiction in its own right, now often simply referred to as “YA.” As its target demographic has become increasingly refined, so too has its typical protagonist, reflecting that readership’s idealized self-conception. One major YA subgenre stars a young woman of unremarkable origins but strong, somewhat unconventional, and largely concealed ambitions. Through no particular action (or even inclination) of her own, she’s all of a sudden thrust into the spotlight, and, in coming to grips with this new reality—which entails wealth, celebrity, and some sort of high-stakes competition—she can rely on nothing but her internal resources and a few sympathetic fellow outsiders or quasi-outsiders encountered along the way. Though not without its appeal, this newfound adulation and esteem turns out to conceal more sinister machinations, usually orchestrated by a character our reluctant heroine once naïvely believed she could trust.         This is very much the case with Jeon Chobahm, the teenage protagonist of Soyoung Park’s Snowglobe. Chobahm lives in a dystopia—a kind of setting that, while not strictly necessary to YA, has become ever more common, especially in the expansive wake of Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games series. Chobahm has been born and raised in what’s called “the open world,” the impoverished frozen expanse covering much of Earth after a series of wars and climate disasters, and dreams of one day moving to the titular paradise, a climate-controlled dome populated almost entirely by reality-television performers. She aims to do so not by becoming an actress—a common and, for most, hopeless desire—but by going to film school and studying to be a director, one of the auteurs behind the shows that entertain the open-worlders who spend their days generating electricity by walking on what amount to giant hamster wheels. One day, Chobahm’s life in the frigid wastes is interrupted by an offer from Snowglobe: would she consider deferring her film-school dream to replace Goh Haeri, “the world’s sweetheart,” for just one year? Since birth, Goh Haeri has starred in Goh Around, a popular Truman Show-style program documenting her innocent young life. (Its title, at one point also translated as Goh For It, raises questions about whether there was a struggle with a pun that sounded more elegant in Korean.) The teenage Haeri has committed suicide—a seriously inconvenient turn for this lighthearted production. At least that’s how the show’s director, an ice queen named Cha Seol, flippantly explains it to Chobahm, who happens to not only share Haeri’s birthday but her appearance as well. After a little makeup, a wig, and a new wardrobe—plus a few hints at savage plot twists to come—Chobahm has been removed from her old life in the open world and installed in Haeri’s place on television, not just as a reality star, but also as what’s called a “weathercaster,” charged with regularly drawing the conditions to be generated by Snowglobe’s artificial-climate systems the following day.         This sudden personal and professional transformation puts Chobahm into the wholly alien orbit of the Yibonns. For all intents and purposes a royal family, they control not just Snowglobe, but also the Yibonn Media Group, producer of all the entertainment broadcast to the open world. This should be enough to give any reader the beginning of a sense of satire of modern South Korea, the parallels between the various Yibonn holdings and the all-encompassing nature of the major Korean family-owned chaebol (or conglomerates) being too obvious to ignore. So, too, the divide between Seoul and the rest of the country—or for that matter, the parts of Gangnam where the chaebol-connected live and the rest of Seoul—comes to mind when considering the stark contrast between the relative luxury of Snowglobe and the near-moonscape of the open world. None of this may sound particularly nuanced, but then, YA has never been a particularly nuanced form, neither in its Western version, nor in its Korean one: “K-YA,” as it seems likely to be labeled should more of its novels make it into English.         Soyoung Park is Korean, but whether she’s set Snowglobe in Korea is a more open question than it may seem at first. On one hand, the cultural background often seems unambiguous: every major character has a Korean name, and in her narration Chobahm makes reference to such Korean things as the card game go-stop, a meal of kimbap, and—in the case of one highly un-sober figure introduced late in the novel—numerous bottles of soju. (More darkly, the theme of a celebrity’s suicide was already relevant in Korea when the book came out in 2020, and has only become more so since.) But among the current and former Snowglobe-resident celebrities who figure secondarily into the story are several conspicuously, almost extravagantly foreign names: Priya Maravan, Tyrr Schwarkel, Cooper Raffaeli. How they ended up in a domed, post-apocalyptic caricature of twenty-first-century South Korean society goes unexplained, at least in this volume, but it may be addressed in part two of the Snowglobe duology, a notice of whose scheduled publication in the spring of 2025 is announced immediately after the main text of this first installment.         That no book stands alone is another tenet of YA, whose most successful franchises expand into not just multi-volume sagas published over years or even decades, but also other media, including major motion pictures and television series. In fact, Snowglobe’s expository conversations, wham-bam action scenes, and underscored ironies read as if composed for expedient transition to the screen; even its profanity, in Joungmin Lee Comfort’s translation, sounds pre-emptively watered down for network-drama adaptation. A visual medium could do well by Park’s vision of a both broadly futuristic and technologically stunted dystopia, where characters use teleportation mirrors but also VHS tapes and rotary phones. The question of whether the outwardly complacent but privately dissatisfied young Yibonn scion eventually awakens to our heroine’s spirited charms is left unresolved in this first book, but many readers will end it feeling confident about the answer.   Colin MarshallAuthor, No Summarizing Korea (Across, 2024)Writer and broadcaster on cities and culture 

  by Colin Marshall

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  [RUSSIAN] Killing Evil with a Toy Sword

  Chung Serang, who studied history and literature at university, began her creative journey in 2010, focusing on the genres of fantasy and science fiction. Her works, which have earned her the 2013 Changbi Prize in Fiction and the 2017 Hankook Ilbo Literary Award, have been translated into many languages. Chung’s fantasy novel School Nurse Ahn Eun-young, originally written in 2015 and published in Russian in 2021, provides an excellent introduction to her work.        Chung states that she takes inspiration from writers such as Ray Bradbury, Haruki Murakami, and Donna Tartt while also drawing upon the “real-life experiences” of her friends. It is perhaps the combination of recognizable topics with unusual storylines that makes her works original, engaging, and relatable to a wide audience.        In School Nurse Ahn Eun-young, the fantasy plot unfolds within the real-world setting of an ordinary school. The sincerity of the characters’ emotions elicits empathy, while the battles against supernatural forces make the story dynamic and gripping.        Chung has a rather distinctive approach to writing. She strives to communicate the idea that good literature doesn’t necessarily have to be serious. “You know, even long, serious novels can be compressed into one-line jokes when they are widely read and loved,” she remarked in a 2020 interview with KLN. Chung’s writing is characterized by a simple, light, and fresh style. “I don’t think that people who read books accept the misery of reality and feel content with the way things are, so it’s important that we keep coming together and dreaming of a better world, and that we do it in the most enjoyable way.” This philosophy is reflected in School Nurse Ahn Eun-young—a book that can be read in just a day or two but still addresses meaningful personal and social issues.        The protagonist, Ahn Eun-young, is a young woman and, as the title suggests, she works as a school nurse. But that’s not all. She also possesses a unique talent: she can sense the thoughts and emotions of both the living and the dead, and perceive evil spirits. The students and teachers have no idea that she can delve into their minds and souls. She can even see manifestations of their erotic fantasies and deep romantic feelings. When evil spirits begin harming those around her, Eun-young leaps into action. Her methods are unconventional—she combats evil with children’s toys. Unfortunately, the author does not explain why she possesses these extraordinary abilities or whether her mission is limited to helping specific people and battling certain spirits, leaving readers to speculate.        The book comprises numerous mini-stories with unpredictable endings. Most of the plotlines are unconnected to each other. While this structure might feel unusual to those who prefer linear narratives, it ensures that the reading experience is never dull. Throughout the book, Eun-young is supported by her loyal yet reserved friend, Hong In-pyo, a classical Chinese teacher. Initially unaware that he has a strong protective aura shielding him from spirits, In-pyo starts to willingly share his energy with Eun-young, making her supernatural battles even more effective.        Ahn Eun-young and Hong In-pyo are the only constant characters in the novel. The quirky nurse and the reclusive, melancholic teacher seem destined to become friends—or perhaps something more? Fans of “slow burn relationships” will enjoy reading about their interactions. Other characters come and go throughout the book. This variety allows Chung to explore a wide range of topics, both common and less so, including bullying, unrequited love, and kleptomania. The cast of characters is diverse, including a talented fortune-teller, a national rock star, and an adoptee. The blend of disparate plotlines captivates readers and surprises with its originality.        It’s no surprise that this book caught the attention of filmmakers. In 2020, the novel was adapted into a Netflix series, The School Nurse Files. Many viewers noted that the series was a breath of fresh air compared to traditional K-dramas with their flawless characters. The use of computer graphics effectively visualized the supernatural creatures, while the cinematography and the talented acting conveyed the book’s energy and vibrancy.        In conclusion, School Nurse Ahn Eun-young is more than just a struggle between good and evil; it also delves into human challenges, emotions, and the hope for a better world. It is a light, captivating read that provides an escape from everyday life while subtly raising important questions.  Maria V. SoldatovaAssociate Professor, Russian State University for the Humanities

  by Maria V. Soldatova

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  [GERMAN] Close to the Moon, on the Margin of Society

  Cho Nam-joo gained worldwide attention with her feminist novel Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982. Published in 2016, the book is often regarded as inspiring the #MeToo movement in Korea and was subsequently translated into over twenty languages, including German (Kim Jiyoung, geboren 1982, tr. Ki-Hyang Lee, 2021). The work sparked debates on the pay gap, glass ceiling, care work exploitation, and other forms of gender discrimination. Miss Kim Knows and Other Stories, a collection of short stories about women of various generations, deepened and diversified Cho’s critique of institutional sexism (Miss Kim weiß Bescheid, tr. Inwon Park, 2023). Her latest publication in Germany puts the focus on another universal social issue: classism.        Go Mani, the protagonist of Wo ich wohne, ist der Mond ganz nah (“Where I live the moon is very close,” originally published in 2016), is no less representative of contemporary Korea than globally relatable everywoman Kim Jiyoung. Mani is an only child who lives with her family in a run-down home in one of Seoul’s so-called dal-dongne. Literally meaning “moon-town,” these low-income neighborhoods are often located on steep hillsides, far away from glitzy department stores or comfortable apartment complexes. They are “close to the moon”—hence the novel’s title. Here, winding alleyways tightly intermingle with one- or two-floor buildings stacked upon one another. However, despite what the title suggests, this book is less about the neighborhood itself and more about Mani’s  reflections on her history of poverty. The novel begins with Mani at the age of thirty-six, about to leave the dal-dongne behind. When cleaning out her desk drawers, she discovers long-lost hair ribbons and once fashionable make-up, which prompts a trip down memory lane. The following episodes, organized in nine chapters of various lengths, go back to her early teens and are only loosely connected by her aspirations and failures.        Mani’s dream of becoming a professional gymnast runs like a red thread through most of the book despite many time jumps and associative leaps. In 1988, inspired by the Seoul Olympics, eight-year-old Mani and her friends start to practice balancing acts. But while the others soon give up, Mani continues to take aerobics lessons and later attends a private gymnastics high school. Her plan is cut short, though, perhaps because her talent is not enough but, more significantly, because of her lack of self-confidence and her family’s financial situation. Even though Mani is determined to a fault and her mother tries everything to provide for the necessary extra fees, the long commute, recurring health problems, and the other students’ seemingly superior skills prove to be obstacles too big  to overcome. Mani finally gives up and returns to her old school in the neighborhood. While society changes at maximum speed, Mani’s life seems to stall, interrupted only by occasional abrupt turns, sometimes for the better but mostly for the worse, leaving her even further behind.        Other plot points similarly avoid dramatic or entirely satisfying resolutions, but the meandering narrative and the jump-cuts shed light on the systemic—and often intersectional—contradictions Mani and her family endure. For instance, when a shopping center opens nearby, Mani’s father has to downscale his grocery store and ends up selling snacks to high school students. He still enjoys his work, even though the meager income makes his daughter, now in her thirties and stuck as an assistant manager in a small architecture firm, the sole breadwinner in the family. Without any apparent reason, she is fired after ten years and falls into a deep depression. She only leaves the house when her mother insists that she has to vote on upcoming redevelopments plans. Her presence, however, turns out to be unnecessary, as each household is granted only one vote. At least she gets a bowl of hot chicken stew out of the trip, provided by one of the competing building companies in an attempt to rig the election that ultimately proves futile—redevelopment is postponed, again.        Without delving deeply into politics or historical events, Wo ich wohne, ist der Mond ganz nah depicts late twentieth and early twenty-first century South Korean society through Mani’s perspective. Her blunt, down-to-earth voice—convincingly translated into German by Jan Henrik Dirks—makes the book a refreshing read, even though various casual references to contemporary songs and TV shows, as well as minor current affairs and urban legends, may puzzle readers. Thankfully, the translator provides numerous helpful explanations, sometimes in endnotes. Anyone whose interest in Korea goes beyond the glamor of Gangnam will not regret reading this book.  Jan CreutzenbergAssistant Professor, Ewha Womans University

  by Jan Creutzenberg

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  [JAPANESE] Modern Korean History Through the Lives of Two Women

  In her masterful novel Can’t I Go Instead, Lee Geum-yi reveals a century of modern Korean history, deeply drawing readers into its complex folds as they follow the tumultuous lives of the characters. In its questioning of human weakness and strength, however, the work manages to transcend time, ensuring it appeals to readers of all generations.        This weighty epic novel begins with a twist: two elderly women who both claim to be Yun Chaeryeong—the daughter of a powerful Korean man named Hyeongman who became a viscount during the Japanese colonial occupation of Korea. The great axis of history hidden within their stories is gradually revealed. The book depicts the ups and downs in the lives of the Yun family, which achieved its fortune through collaboration with Japan.        Hyeongman, a wealthy Korean landowner who made his fortune through mining, purchases seven-year-old Kim Sunam for a large sum, presenting her as a maidservant to his daughter Chaeryeong as a birthday gift. In fact, Sunam ends up in the Yun’s household by chance, when the original girl to be sold resists being trafficked. Sunam steps forward, offering to go in her place, saying, “Can’t I go instead?” Sunam’s reaction testifies to her bold character, as she utters these same words on numerous occasions throughout her turbulent life. Instead of serving as Chaeryeong’s maid, however, Sunam is treated more like her plaything. The two young girls from different classes grow up with complex feelings of both recrimination and affection.        The novel takes us to Japan, China, the United States, and Russia. It is the story of people forced to continuously move, facing many known and unknown dangers of continental travel at the time. As these two women embark on their journeys, they strive to love freely, suffering losses and encountering challenges, but somehow managing to forge their own paths while maintaining curiosity and hope. Sunam excels at languages and cannot give up her desire to study. She yearns for the romantic world of novelist Yi Gwangsu’s The Heartless.        Layers of oppression, discrimination, and violence pervade the whole book: male chauvinism, rigid patriarchy and class structures, colonial rule, and contempt for Asians. These themes ring true even in the present. Page after page, readers will experience how individuals can be swept up in the waves of history. These unassuming words “Can’t I go instead?” reveal their true power, transcending both place and time.        Lee Geum-yi’s precise and unwavering style captures the malice and desires of humans which can surface at a moment’s notice. She is constantly aware of the multifaceted nature of human existence while carefully relativizing and universalizing it at the same time. No character is flawless. As Chaeryeong’s half-brother Ganghwi, who has dedicated himself to the Korean independence movement, states:        “When people gather, anything can happen. We have disappointments and doubts, as well as setbacks, but these are all natural, because we are human.” The depiction of the hardships experienced by Korean comfort women under the Japanese military casts a darker shadow over the story. It should be noted that the book also includes scenes from internment camps of Japanese Americans in the United States.        Like the author’s other work The Picture Bride, which follows the journey of a group of young women who, in the early 1900s, leave their homes and cross the ocean to Hawai’i to become the wives of Korean migrant workers, Can’t I Go Instead is a story of sisterhood. It is this solidarity that empowers these resilient women to overcome national borders to escape poverty, societal conventions, and colonial rule. The author’s meticulous research and unflinching human observations cannot suppress the hope that arises from these richly woven narratives.        This work is certainly a must-read within the current Korean literature boom. Translated by Meri Joyce  Hideyuki TanabeReporter, The Mainichi Newspaper

  by Hideyuki Tanabe

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  [KOREAN] A Precious Realization to Carry into the New Year

  I love listening to a musician’s debut album. It contains an innocent kind of joy that vanishes in their later works. They’ve yet to make a name for themselves and the future lies wide open, allowing them to take a leap of faith and release melodies into the world that they’d previously kept all to themselves. Sadly, many artists fade away after their first album, and those who do succeed often lose the spark that made them special as they try to replicate their initial success. But here is one artist who, after years of winning hearts, is celebrating the tenth anniversary of her debut—the writer Sou Linne Baik. A revised edition of her debut short story collection Falling in Paul has just been released in 2024.        The nine stories in this collection are bursting with life. Some are firmly rooted in reality, some feel more dreamlike, and some blur the boundaries between fantasy and reality. Baik herself had doubts about these stories, and initially had no intention of turning them into one cohesive book. Instead, she simply indulged in the joy of exploring each narrative world on its own terms. After reading all nine, however, I noticed two threads that tie them together.        First, the protagonists in each story are all grappling with mental struggles or with circumstances that evoke empathy from the reader. For instance, “Lying Practice” centers around a woman who lives apart from her unfaithful husband and goes abroad to study. In “Falling in Paul,” a woman in her mid-thirties narrates her secret, one-sided love. In “Potato Gone Missing,” the narrator discovers that what they had firmly believed to be a potato was actually seen by everyone else as a dog, a revelation which strips them of their ability to speak. The characters in each of these stories reveal a shared sense of inevitability in their emotions and futures.        “That was when I first realized how easily someone else’s life could be reduced to a cliché in just a few sentences,” writes the author in “Lying Practice.”        However, Baik herself resists such reductionism, ensuring that no character is ever confined to a stereotype. She gives detailed portrayals that not only explain the protagonist’s emotions, but also vividly describe their surroundings to make her depictions come to life. She doesn’t attempt to justify her characters’ actions or existence, instead relying on nuanced portrayals that allow readers to feel her profound empathy for humanity and the world, which has become a signature of her writing.        Secondly, her characters often find themselves in unfamiliar situations that leave them at a loss for words. Again in “Lying Practice,” Baik writes that “In reality, none of us thought we fully understood what the other person was trying to say. We never deluded ourselves into thinking our words were getting across perfectly. Yet, despite this, we continued talking.”        Baik’s writing subtly captures non-verbal cues that seem indescribable. We often forget that communication is not limited to spoken words, but also includes non-verbal elements. At first glance, her characters’ conversations might appear disjointed, yet through Baik’s lens, they unfold just as they were intended. Fiction plays a vital role in helping us understand others in a world that often doesn’t make sense. By stepping into the lives of fictional characters, we enhance our capacity to empathize and connect with others. While there will always be people and forms of communication we cannot fully grasp, simply acknowledging their existence makes us better equipped to listen—whether we are conscious of it or not. In this sense, reading fiction, which is a non-verbal act in itself, becomes an attempt to connect with others.        At first, I thought the enjoyment I felt came from reading someone’s “first” work, but by the time I turned the final page, I realized that I was making a conscious effort to connect with others. Starting the new year with this realization feels even more meaningful, as it offers hope for building connections with new and unfamiliar people. It feels like a nudge of encouragement to continue reading fiction and to never stop seeking connection with others—a precious gift to carry into the year ahead. Translated by Léo-Thomas Brylowski  Son Jeong SeungWriter, Anyway, Drums (Hugo Books, 2022),The Words of Jeolla (UU Press, 2024)

  by Son Jeong Seung

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  [ENGLISH] Grace Notes

  Years ago, an American song came out with lyrics that seemed so trite, people assumed that they had to be ironic. In “I Will Buy You a New Life,” Art Alexakis, the lead singer for the band Everclear, sang about wanting to buy his girlfriend a new car and a big house. He was subsequently forced to explain in numerous interviews that he had not intended the song to be a satire of consumerist culture, but instead the expression of an earnest wish and a straightforward message: money can help.        That song is stylistically miles away from Chung Han-ah’s nuanced, tough-minded novella, Last Night, in My Dream, but both pieces seem to raise the same questions. Can money help us make amends, heal the past? Is life—are we—that simple?        The story, which Chung has described as being about disease, money, and grace, begins with the last item in vanishingly short supply. We meet three generations of women—a grandmother, mother, and granddaughter, who’s also the story’s narrator—each unwilling to give any of the others a single inch. For example, after the narrator’s mother leaves her abusive husband, her grandmother lobs some shockingly cruel words, and the narrator vows to “never forgive Grandma”—and also, to never forgive her mother if she forgives. Years later, she ruefully acknowledges that she need not have worried: the women spend decades locked in a grudge-match over the “infernal past.”        That past truly is infernal. It begins with the grandmother’s diagnosis of Hansen’s disease, which prompts her husband to try and murder her, forcing her to abandon her young daughter. When the grandmother later gives birth to another daughter—the narrator’s mother—she places the child in an orphanage. The narrator’s mother is a neglectful parent, only taking an interest in her daughter when trying to break up her adult relationship. For these women, abandonment and pain are what they know best; they not only endure such pain but also inflict it, often in “venomous words.”        And yet, near the story’s conclusion, we see all three together, celebrating a new addition to the family. “We clapped our hands and laughed out loud.” What helps the brittle nesting dolls we first met enter into this state of grace?        Money. After a lengthy legal battle with a man who defrauded a Hansen’s disease community, the grandmother wins quite a sizable sum. She gives it to the mother, who awkwardly (but insistently) passes it on to her own daughter, the narrator. Both mother and daughter seem at a loss for words; only the daughter’s partner, Incheol, can speak to the magnitude of this gift: “I’m thinking about what dream I must have had last night to deserve such a fortune.”        The money buys the struggling couple better food, a larger apartment, and more time for both art and love. When the daughter accepts Incheol’s second marriage proposal (the first having been made when they were still poor), she sheepishly admits to herself that her heart must have changed “because of that money.”        More surprising, however, is the money’s deeper impact. With each monthly payment, so clearly tied to “an old woman who paid the price,” the narrator is compelled to understand more viscerally her grandmother’s painful, stigmatized life, which she had previously dismissed as something like “a story you might come across in an American TV show with an eerie vibe.” (The grandmother’s story also powerfully impacts the playwright Incheol, who incorporates it into a play dismissed as “trite” by one competition judge, but staged in Seoul’s largest theater by another.)        And yet, money alone cannot bring about these changes, as we witness in the descriptions of the mother’s teenage years—reunited with her family and amply provided for, but feeling little warmth. Nor can it be found in the uncle’s joyless, relentless accumulation and disposal of things.        What is needed, it seems, is grace. Where do the women find it? First, in the money itself. As critic Kim Bokyung points out in the Afterword, each of the women attributes a meaning to money that enables reconciliation. Passed from hand to hand, the money embodies whatever they need: an apology for abandonment and neglect, a blessing on a romantic relationship. The decision to see the money in this soft light is a kind of grace, allowing forgiveness to grow.        “Inscrutable grace,” as the narrator calls the monthly sum, also describes the poignant moments that begin to accrue between the three: the mother’s soft insistence—“Take it, still”—after the narrator tries to refuse the first offer out of pride; the narrator naming her own daughter after the grandmother’s lost child; the women’s interlude of quiet happiness on Jeju Island.There are no flights of lyrical fancy in those moments; Chung Han-ah’s vision is determinedly earthbound, the translation by Stella Kim is plainspoken, and the grace the women show each other is distinctly ungraceful , at least in manner. After passing along the money, the narrator’s mother beats a hasty retreat, saying, “Since I gave you what I came to give you, I’m going to go now.” The grandmother responds to her great-granddaughter’s naming with “her typical aloof look.”        There are few words of tenderness spoken, perhaps because language has too often before been wielded as an instrument of harm. But there is the narrator’s private wish for her mother’s boyfriend to be “a good man,” and her lingering glance in the story’s penultimate scene: Mom sat by the window and waved at me. With the scarf around her neck, she looked so much like Grandma that it took my breath away for a second. The understated, deep emotion echoes like the faint piano the narrator hears being played by an “untrained musician” in the story’s final paragraph. Before the music lapses into silence, there is time to be grateful that it has come into the world at all.  Nadia KalmanAuthor, The Cosmopolitans(Livingston Press, 2010)

  by Nadia Kalman

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  [SPANISH] New Families

  As in her novel Concerning My Daughter, for which author Kim Hye-jin is best known not only in Korea but in several countries thanks to multiple translations, her 2022 novel Counsel Culture also places the theme of care at the center of the conversation. In Concerning My Daughter, one of the protagonists is a caretaker for the elderly. In Counsel Culture, the protagonist has worked as a psychotherapist for ten years. In principle, their common task is to help and—to some extent—protect. Nevertheless, for different reasons, both fail and the terrible ostracization that results disrupts their previously stable lives.      Besides working at a therapy center, Im Haesu, the protagonist of Counsel Culture, is a consultant on a television program where she gives her professional opinion on a variety of topics. One day, Haesu thoughtlessly repeats a talking point that the screenwriters have given her about an actor while on air. Her comment is just one of the many already in circulation about this actor’s chaotic behavior on set and his strained relations with his co-stars. But to her surprise, her opinion becomes the final blow to his online public crucifixion. The actor commits suicide and the shoal of digital commentators line up against Haesu to destroy her reputation and career. The words carelessly spoken on air return to Haesu like a boomerang, leaving her perplexed. “She learned that a few words or one line was enough to stab a person in the heart. In the days following the incident, she died hundreds, thousands of times looking at her phone and her computer screen.”       Her husband, her best friend, her neighbors, her boss, her colleagues—everyone distances themselves from her. The author masterfully reveals all of this very slowly, through the letters the protagonist writes day after day. Letters that never reach their conclusion much less the mailbox. Letters in which       Haesu strenuously tries—but fails—to explain her behavior to her closest relations nor manages to confront those who have done her harm.      Haesu wanders through her neighborhood at night, using the darkness to avoid being recognized. On one of her errant walks, she meets a girl and shortly after, the two of them join efforts to save a stray cat which, like Haesu, wanders through the streets scared and hurt. Here is where another of Kim’s recurring themes appears. The woman, the solitary girl, and the sick and hungry cat quickly form an unconventional family, even more so than the one in Concerning My Daughter. And it’s the girl who becomes the head of this quite unusual family. She makes suggestions and gives guidance in coordinating the rescue project, despite living a solitary life at home and being excluded at school. It is she who names the cat “Turnip.” Not long after, an enormous ginkgo tree on the edge of the neighborhood becomes home for the three of them where  they gather in the afternoons. In this tree, they set a trap to catch the cat and take it to the vet. “The ginkgo tree becomes something of a place of worship to Haesu. The time she spends there waiting for Turnip brings her calm. She does not know where this calm and peace are coming from. Sometimes she stays past sundown, until darkness settles in.” The waiting in this green sanctuary cures her, to the point she finally decides to meet the wife of the deceased actor. Their meeting teaches Haesu how powerful words can be, something she had not fully grasped in her previous life as a therapist.       Kim Hye-jin’s novels move on a scale that some might consider minor. Even her transparent writing, transmitted with serenity and efficacy by her translators, can give the false impression of lightness. There is no epic catharsis, nor lessons. Rather, her book deals with a discovery of themes that concern us today—the nature of care, the reach of language in the age of social media, the intangibility of forgiveness—through ordinary fumblings in the dark and new ideas of family. Kim tells us that if we give these factors sufficient attention, perhaps we can find the path of return. Translated by Lucina Schell  Andrés Felipe SolanoWriter, Gloria (Counterpoint, 2025)

  by Andrés Felipe Solano

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  [TURKISH] Exploring Technological Frontiers and Human Fragility

  Djuna’s Counterweight, translated into Turkish by Derya Çelik, immerses readers in a speculative narrative where corporate ambition, technological innovation, and personal reflection intersect. Known for their philosophical science fiction works, Djuna uses the futuristic setting of Patusan, an island transformed by a space elevator project, to explore identity, memory, and ethical dilemmas by asking whether humanity can retain compassion in a world increasingly driven by technological progress.      The novel opens with a child who receives her mother’s ashes but rejects them, saying, “That’s not my mom. It’s just ashes.” The ashes later become part of a firework display, accompanying a digital simulation of the mother created through augmented reality. The story also combines existential and technological themes, exploring what it means to be human in a world where reality and simulation blur: What happens to memory and identity in a digitized world? Can technology bridge emotional gaps or does it only accentuate the isolation inherent in human relationships?       The first-person story is driven by the narrator’s relationship with Choi Gangwu, a seemingly ordinary technician who serves as the central character. Initially suspected of supporting the Patusan Liberation Front due to his love of butterflies, Gangwu complicates expectations by showing how bureaucracies whittle people down to mere numbers. Djuna’s signature thoughtful pacing fosters reflection on these tensions, inviting readers to slow down and engage deeply with the characters’ choices.      The construction of the space elevator on Patusan displaces locals, rendering them as a marginalized minority within the new system. Djuna cleverly turns the space elevator into a metaphor, representing both the promise and burden of progress. The protagonist’s interactions with Gangwu reflect this tension, as the latter oscillates between his beloved butterflies and his navigation of corporate hierarchies. The fragmented monologues provide insight into the private lives of central characters, allowing the exploration of their regrets, decisions, and epiphanies. Gangwu, for example, contemplates his dual identity as both a rebel and a corporate employee, embodying the tension between individual freedom and institutional constraints. The butterflies symbolize a yearning for simplicity in a world overtaken by corporate agendas.      The novel’s translation by Derya Çelik preserves Djuna’s poetic prose, balancing philosophical inquiry with narrative tension. Çelik’s skillful rendering captures the subtle nuances of Djuna’s world-building, making the story accessible to Turkish readers without compromising its depth. Through detailed descriptions of both physical and emotional landscapes, Çelik brings out the tension between the vastness of Patusan and the characters’ internal struggles. Djuna challenges readers to engage with the text on multiple levels—emotional, philosophical, and intellectual.      The novel also challenges the established social order. Gangwu struggles with indecision and societal expectations despite his technical skills, while the protagonist displays resilience in navigating personal and corporate dilemmas. Djuna subtly critiques how societal structures often limit individuals, trapping them within predefined roles, much like the space elevator confines the movement of bodies and materials. Gangwu’s journey reveals that survival in a hyper-technological world demands not only technical skills but also emotional adaptability.      The big reveal comes when Gangwu meets Neberu O’Shaughnessy, a spy disguised as an ally. O’Shaughnessy is shot and killed before he can extract Gangwu’s implanted data using a “Worm extractor.” O’Shaughnessy’s death raises questions: Was Gangwu manipulated all along, or did he unknowingly harbor critical information? The novel concludes ambiguously, implying that if there are ghosts that influence us, perhaps we, too, can learn to haunt them in return. This leaves readers a faint glint of hope amid the darkness that even in tyrannical regimes, resistance might still be possible.      Beneath the surface focus on the space elevator and the geopolitical conflicts it creates, Djuna’s real concern is directed at the human and moral quandaries brought on by technological development. By following Gangwu’s journey, the novel stresses that even in the age of corporate capitalism and technological innovation, love, curiosity, and compassion are paramount. The story offers a glimmer of hope that humanity can build authentic bonds under the weight of so much change.      Djuna’s Counterweight invites readers to consider the consequences of unchecked ambition while celebrating the quiet, human moments that persist in the shadows of progress.   Sümeyra Buran Writer and Professor 

  by Sümeyra Buran