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  Interview with Kim Seung-hee: Poetry Through the Power of Paradox

  Your poetry collections Dalgyal sog-ui saeng (Life in an egg) and Huimangi woeropda (Hope is Lonely) were both translated into Arabic. And I know that you met with Egyptian readers in 2019 at the Cairo Literature Festival. I’m sure that this was a special experience for you. What do you remember about it? The Arabic translations of Dalgyal sog-ui saeng and Huimangiwoeropda by Professor Mohmoud Abdul Ghaffar of the Department of Comparative Literature at Cairo University were both published in Cairo. It was fascinating to see my works translated into Arabic, a language I have no knowledge of. That text of translated poetry, written in unfamiliar Arabic letters, looked to me like a book of spells. And when I listened to poetry readings of my works in Arabic, it felt like I was listening to music because I had no idea what it meant.   The Cairo Literature Festival was an enjoyable experience because I met many famous poets from around the world, not just Egypt. It was fascinating to meet Egyptian poets like Ahmed Al-Shahawi, Ibrahim Bagalati, and Mohamad El Kelleni, as well as people like the Malaysian poet Bernice Chauly and the Filipino poet Alfred Yuson—these people really left an impression on me. In particular, the poetry reading of Catalonian poet Mireia Calafell was extreme, dynamic, and memorable.   There were also poetry readings and lectures on literature at Ain Shams University, and a little more than a hundred students attended, most of whom were Korean language majors. They all spoke good Korean, and I got the feeling that they were familiar with, and envious of, Korean culture, perhaps thanks to Hallyu. They said they enjoyed my poems because they often contained objects from the dailylives of women, like eggs, frying pans, refrigerators, washers, clothes lines,brooms, and cutting boards. Actually, I was in a lot of pain back then because of my insomnia. I remember getting up early in the morning after sleepless nights to walk along the Nile, and drinking lots of hot hibiscus tea and pomegranate juice. I want to hear more about your time in Egypt. Their culture has much that is unfamiliar to Koreans, and I’m curious if there are any interesting stories you might have to tell us. Was there anything you saw while in Cairo that left a deep impression on you? Almost all of Egyptian culture is connected to the afterlife. The pyramids and the Great Sphinx of Giza were really powerful sights to behold. I was completely lost for words at their size and mystique. At the time, they were in the process of moving museum artifacts from the old building to the new one, so I got to see a moving line of mummies wrapped in yellowed cloth. They told me that in Egyptian burial culture, the heart of the deceased was removed and stored separately in a jar. They placed the jar with the heart inside next to the corpses of pharaohs in gold masks. The god Osiris, they told me, had scales of alternating hearts and feathers. The terrifying goddess Ammit who had the head of a crocodile would devour a deadperson’s heart if it was too heavy, and people who had their hearts devoured by Ammit would not be given an afterlife. Hearing this, I brought my hand to my chest and realized that mine was heavy. I shuddered with fear. How could a heart possibly be lighter than feathers? When I asked them this, they told me one had to live a life free of wrongdoing.   We passed a commoners’ graveyard while driving in a car once, and the graves were so desolate. It was like a dismal quarry with rocks scattered all over the place. It was in such stark contrast to the tombs of kings. It was terrifying to see this disparity, even in death. I also heard the story of Osiris’s wife, Isis, who traveled far and wide to find the fourteen pieces of his corpse, how she used her wings to fan the fragments of his body and resurrect him. They also told me the story of how Isis conceived achild while weeping next to Osiris’s coffin. Of course, there are many versions of the story.   I get to encounter a lot of unfamiliar culture and myths while abroad. Such foreign things often pique my imagination and allow me to write more original and rich poems. You once wrote that “poems are what people who are in pain but don’t really want to be healed write”—a line that has stuck with me for a long time. I think that poetry and literature is knowing you’re suffering but having no choice but to make that suffering even more painful. If there’s a driving force that has allowed you to continue to not let your pain heal and write poems, what would that be? I think a poet’s passion comes from life’s hardships. I realized while reading Pablo Neruda’s autobiography Memoirs that he often says things like “. . . if X did not exist, I wouldn’t be able to write poems.” For example, he wrote, “Without body-shuddering loneliness, I would be unable to write poetry” and “A mature writer can write nothing without a humanistic sense of comradery and society.” You can tell from such statements that even a great poet like Neruda was terrified of ruin, of being unable to write poetry. The driving force that has kept me writing poetry for fifty years is the power of the paradox described in the quote, “Poets are at once a patient and a doctor.” I have always believed that poetry has the power to heal. I want to talk about your recent poetry collection published last year, Danmujiwabeikeon-ui jinsilhan saram (The truthful human of pickled radish andbacon). In the title piece, the poetic narrator talks of “sincere mind” and“real mind” and says, “I just want to become pickled radish or bacon already.” The way I understood this was that the narrator wanted to become a sincere being with nothing to hide, even if that meant they weren’t complicated or multi-layered. And that was because, as you wrote, “At least pickled radish is yellow to its core and bacon is striped pink and white, front and back.” At the end of the poem, the narrator says, “It has been a long time since yesterday disappeared,” and then goes on to repeatedly ask, “What do I want[?]” I wonder if the narrator’s reason for repeatedly asking this is because they wish there was something to want, another step forward. But perhaps I’m just reading this the way I want to read it. What did you mean by sincere mind and true mind when you wrote this poem? Actually, it would be fair to say that this poem was written in an ironic tone of voice about one poet’s despair about the age of post-truth. In this age, emotion, faith, and partisan politics have more power than truth. No one cares what the truth is anymore. Seeing people who will risk any deception or hypocrisy just for the sake of furthering their own party’s interests, I posed the questions: What is truth? What is a truthful person? I thought of a real mind as desire filled with impulse and libido, and a sincere mind as the pure heart after those desires and impulses have been filtered out.   Pickled radish and bacon are the same front and back, so perhaps they are the only honest things of our time. Pickled radish and bacon might look like pure sincerity, the kind of sincere mind you would have after cutting out all your organs of desire, like the womb and guts, but they are not actually symbolic of truth. Although they might seem to symbolize truth or honesty because they have no deception, in reality, they’re just a symbol of fixed death, because they have no secrets, no change, no dreams. So, I used pickled radish and bacon as a type of satirical allegory for the deceptive hypocrisy of our society. They’re symbols of a dystopia, and in that way, it’s a sad story. In this age of post-truth when people are tired of the politics of deception and hypocrisy, someone expressing their desire to become pickled radish and bacon was meant to be ironic. Irony is a form of talking that makes sincerity double-sided. To be honest, for me to talk about truth this, sincerity that, should clearly feel anachronistic, and so I’m quite lonely in that respect. [Laughs] One of the things that drew my attention in Danmujiwa beikeon-ui jinsilhansaram was when you had scenes of vestiges of pain being replaced with flowers. For example, in “Baekhapkkot-gwaposeuteu-it” (The lily and the Post-it), the narrator says while looking at an ultrasound image of a friend who has Stage IV stomach cancer, that it seems like white lilies are blooming from the mass. And in “Moran-uisigan” (Peony’s time), you write that “The time when alone at night /Spasms lap against my whole body” is the time when only “the peony, is left.” It’s not easy to picture flowers growing from pain. How should one read and understand this transition? Such a transition comes from the imagination of reversal, and with such reversal, poems can make miracles. So why the transformation into a flower? During crises of extinction, I think the type of images that we can lean on most desperately are the most universal, the most archetypal, the most absolute. In fact, our age is not an age of symbolism but an age of allegory, but I feel that I lean on symbols at critical moments. Lilies and peonies are regarded, perhaps subconsciously, as a symbol of absolute beauty and eternity. What those two poems show is precisely that kind of poetic miracle. The imagination to take the crisis of extinction and change it into a symbol of eternity, and to go from extreme pain to extreme beauty, can make poetic miracles. And when you reach that point, even pain, I think, can be extinguished. That’s the healing power of poetry. With each of your poetry collections, I always pay close attention to your serial poems. In Danmujiwa beikeon-ui jinsilhan saram as well, there is a seven-part serial poem that ends with “Poseuteu-it”(Post-it). Support, immortality, hope, change—these are the keywords I wrote down on a Post-it as I read these poems. Recording something on a Post-it, because it’s just a temporary record, is somewhat momentary, but it’s also a memorable type of stamping, like a “momentary eternity” (“Ireum-uiposeuteu-it” Name Post-it). The same can be said for the words I wrote down while reading these seven poems. When you write down one word by itself, it looks so weak, but when you write down several together, it feels like they gain a lot of power. I’m also reminded of the wave of Post-its that passed through Korean society, as shown in the expression “yellow wave” from your poem“Jakbyeor-ui poseuteu-it” (Farewell Post-it). I wonder if this Post-it serial poem isn’t a single work that brings together those various waves onto one large Post-it. What’s the background of these poems? Although the time it takes to write a Post-it is short, there is a powerful energy that shoots out of one’s fingers toward the receiver, the second person. You could call it a “momentary eternity,” an “absent fullness.” I think there are two types of Post-its: the Post-its of closed rooms, and the Post-its of open plazas. And Post-its also have a “time lag of love.” That’s because you either leave Post-its for people you can’t meet, or express belated feelings for someone who’s already left. So, I think that Post-its of closed rooms are filled with confessions of sadness of grief-stricken love constrained by time. And Post-its of open plazas make me think of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. Post-its placed in a plaza of disasters and social injustice are a type of manifesto, a flag of appeal, of rage, of fierce love. And just as you pointed out—support, immortality, hope,change—these are all keywords. After the Sewol ferry disaster, waves of yellow Post-it notes started to circulate in every corner of our society. How do we express those feelings of unfinished lament, of sorrow, of heartbreak? And since the Sewol ferry disaster, we had the murder of a woman in the bathroom at Gangnam Station; the death of Kim Yong-gyun, a subcontract worker who fell into a furnace at a thermoelectric power plant; and the death of parliament member Roh Hoe-chan. Following each of these tragedies, a wave of Post-it notes formed a monument of unfinished lament, grief, and mourning. So, if we combine all the passion from those Post-its that were put on walls across our society—as you so keenly pointed out—we might have one large Post-it, like a large mural to represent an entire generation. It’s impossible not to talk about love when talking about your poetry. In “Sarang-ui jeondang”(Hall of love) you have lines like “Loving [. . .] / Is grand / Like the inside of a sweet potato [. . .].” There are countless metaphors for love, but I think comparing love to the inside of a sweet potato [“Yam” in the translation—Ed.] is something only someone who has written extensively and passionately about love could do—someone like yourself. I want to hear more about this love that’s like “the inside of a sweet potato.” I once saw a flower sprouting from a burlap bag of sweet potatoes I had placed in the dark basement of my home. In disbelief that a sweet potato flower could grow without dirt or water, I opened the burlap bag to find that the sweet potatoes had rotted in the darkness and given birth to a flower in their decaying flesh. Seeing this, I thought to myself that the condition for love is the devotion, pain, and self-deconstruction of decaying bodies. As the art of Frida Kahlo shows us, pain, self-deconstruction, and devotion foster love. I thought your attempt to sense the pain of the Other on the everyday level shines particularly bright in Danmujiwa beikeon-ui jinsilhan saram. Although the poems are filled with everyday words like radish, green onions, garlic, onions, laundry, and hairrollers, the depth of the gaze that holds these things in its sights is never shallow. I’m sure you were inspired by everyday objects around you. Is there any everyday object that catches your eye these days? I’ve been keeping an eye on onions and on my TV these days. [Laughs] I think I’ll write a poem about those two things in the near future. After that, there’s my daughter’s piano which is taking up space in my living room, and a basket of small sun-like oranges. The voices of female agents in your poems have always been quite distinct. In fact, women are mentioned in four poems of Danmujiwa beikeon-ui jinsilhan saram. Of these, the poems about mothers caught my eye. And in “Bunmanedaehayeo” (On childbirth), the poetic narrator is a mother reliving childbirth while at a photo exhibition on childbirth. I want to know the reason for your focusing on female narrators who are mothers, as well as on mothers who cannot help but become the eternal poetic subject of a female narrator. It’s not just me. Probably a lot of female poets have written about mothers. After all, that’s the one subject we know best. In my second poetry collection Woensoneul wihanhyeopjugok (Concerto for the left hand) (1983), I wrote a five-partserial poem “Baekkobeul wihan yeonga” (Love song for a belly button) around the motif of mothers. At the time, having just started raising my newborn baby, I had rediscovered the idea of “mother.” The discoveries I made about my body—my womb, my vagina, my breasts, my milk, my period blood—were all discoveries of a mother.   The belly button is a symbol for separation and severance from the mother, a symbol of an orphan. The moment our belly button forms, we are separated from our mothers, thrown out into a wasteland and left to live a life. My mother was, all at once, a girl who liked literature, a “modern woman” who graduated with a degree in education, and a teacher (before she got married, that is). But when she got married, she had to raise five children. It was sad because it looked like she had thrown away her dreams and was living as a wife to a governor-general [laughs] of patriarchal Confucian culture. And like most Korean mothers, she was very son-centric in her thinking. [Laughs] My generation grew up holding onto modernist ideas about never being like our mothers, but after living a hard life, I came to understand my mother. Through that process, the concept of “mother” itself eventually solidified into my alter ego. The reason why mothers often appear in my poems is because mothers are my sad alter ego, the alter ego puddled in my mirror.   My poems have a multitude of female narrators, and in some ways, all the many females of the world are the alter ego of my poems. Because poets and their poetic narrators are different, I think a female narrator can serve lots of functions if we don’t equate ‘I’ with the author. I think the proposition that poets and their poetic narrators are different gives poets so much freedom. It’s precisely because of this sense of liberation that I write poetry. Earlier, in response to a previous question, when you said, “The discoveries I made about my body . . . were all discoveries of a mother,” I was reminded of “Choeumpasimjangsori” (Ultrasound heartbeat). I think what you said allows a more meaningful reading of the poem. The narrator of the poem can speak to “you,” the person living in her body, through “me.” Because I’ve never experienced pregnancy or childbirth, I naturally read the poem while identifying with the stranger known as “you.” And then, naturally, I am reminded of my mother. I realized that my mother might have had these thoughts; she might have felt the same way while listening to my heartbeat. And because of this, I was able to rediscover my mother as someone connected to “me.” In this way, the poem can evoke not only a sense of identification with the first-person mother, but also an identification with the second-person fetus. In your answer to my last question, you said that you were able to rediscover your mother through yourself. Is it possible for a child to be discovered through the self as well? Our mothers leave with us a piece of their flesh in our belly button—the end of an umbilical cord. The belly button is both the end of our mother and the beginning of ourselves. Because of this, it’s difficult for a mother and child to otherize each other. They exist as vaguely intertangled beings. And the distinction is even harder when the child is a daughter. There’s a mirror-like axis of reflection that exists between a mother and her daughter. Because we project our problems onto our daughters,and because we see the hardship, gender pain, and social discrimination that she must live with, we feel simultaneous feelings of love and pain when we look at our daughter. In the poem titled “Jedo”(System), the line “Kill Mother, lala” also depicts the dream that a child can only be happy when they kill the mother inside them. Older generations often say things like, “Sons are lovers to a mother, and daughters are their mother’s other self.” While sons can become objects of love because they are somewhat apart from their mother’s body, because daughters are like a piece taken from their mother, mothers cannot easily otherize their daughters, and because of this, they feel a complex feeling toward them, the way narcissists might feel both love and hatred toward themselves. Your poem “Jabonjuireultalchulhan bom” (Spring, escaping capitalism) is about a horse that jumps off the racetrack and runs down Gangbyeonbuk-ro highway. In fact, this actually happened last March. I saw a news article about the event, and I just laughed and forgot about it. It just seemed like another crazy story. But when I encountered the horse again, in a poem of yours with the word “capitalism” in the title no less, I realized it wasn’t that funny. It’s almost pointless to distinguish between the seasons in a racetrack for horses because the only thing running the place is capitalism. So it was so sad that when the horse escaped and found an area to frolic and enjoy spring, it wasn’t a wide-open field but a place dominated by capitalism: a concrete road. The horse might have escaped capitalism, but it wasn’t a complete escape. And yet the line “Yes, you can do what you want” comforted me somewhat. I’m curious about what else you thought about that horse on the road, and anything else you couldn’t put into the poem. Oh, you saw that on the news, too? Wasn’t that amazing? When I saw that, it hit really close to home. Spring belongs to people who can enjoy it. And that beautiful spring day belonged completely to that one horse. Horseracing is one of the greatest examples of the logic and greed of capitalism. A racetrack isn’t a place where people make money through their own work; it’s a place with a nonsensical structure that enables you to make money through the exploitation of others, breeding them and forcing them to compete. But on that beautiful spring day, one horse quietly made its escape. “Argh, I’m tired of capitalism . . .” the horse probably said as it fled. So this isn’t just a story about a horse. What’s funny is that the horse stayed in its lane while running down the highway. As you pointed out, the horse escaped from capitalism, but it wasn’t a complete escape. So, it was a contradictory horse of joy and sorrow, and I also felt conflicting feelings of both liberation and sadness. It was from those emotions that I impulsively began writing, composing the poem in one sitting. One of the main words that runs through all your works is the word “sun.” That goes as far back as your first poetry collection Taeyang misa (Massfor the sun). This might be too broad of a question, but what meaning does the word “sun” have for you? I think the sun will be the beginning and end of my literature. Actually, the meaning of the word “sun” is multifaceted,changing depending on the context. I like the line “Love in the light while you have the light.” I live rotating and orbiting around a sun field. The collection of prose Eomeoni-ui eumseonggachi yet aein-uieumseong gachi (Like a mother’s voice, like an old lover’s voice)released last year was a reprint of the work Segye munhakgihaeng (Exploring world literature) published in 1992. That book, I think, is a collection of all your deep knowledge about classical literature across the world. Although they were all works of literature that I was very familiar with, I discovered new things about them through your point of view.Like you said in the author’s note for the revised edition, I discovered the “newness of reading boo ks.” For readers who want to experience that newness, do you have any works of classical literature that you wish to recommend, and could you share your reason for recommending that specific work? To me, a classic is a book that allows for new discoveries every time you read it. Because of this, I think classics reflect our love and hatred. After all, with each generation, good and bad are always changing, and some meanings are lost while other meanings are discovered. Recently, I’ve been reading Nights of Plague by Orhan Pamuk and Memento mori by Lee O-young. Living with COVID-19 for two years, stuck in tight spaces and never being able to escape from daily life, my soul has become two-dimensional and I feel a sense of metaphysical want. As Orhan Pamuk puts it, death makes us think about the metaphysical. For half a century, you have been for readers and writers of poetry, as well as women, a role model for dynamic writing. In the future, is there anything you want to write or feel you must write? I’m not sure. I just write. I’ll go as far as I can manage to hobble. After all, poets don’t have a GPS. [Laughs] I think the one desire of a poet—the hope that today’s poem will be better than yesterday’s—is what sustains the poet each day. Whatever I write, I want to write poems that have beautiful reversal, like that of a caterpillar metamorphosizing into a butterfly. Translated by Sean Lin Halbert

  by So Yu Jeong

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  Interview with Kim Soom: From Girlhood to Old Age, From Seoul to Manchuria to Ussuriysk

  The name Kim Soom brings to mind many keywords—grotesque, family, shipyard workers, history, comfort women, and diligence. I’d like to begin with the last keyword. The year 2022 marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of your literary debut. You’ve lived more than half of your life as a writer, having published a total of twenty-three works, including seven short story collections and sixteen novels (ranging from novels in epistle form, literary retelling to Young Adult, and two written in the form of testimonies that seem to stand somewhere between the boundaries of poems, novels, and interviews).  Your first collection of short stories, Fighting Dog, was published in 2005, eight years after you won your very first literary award for your debut short story. We can roughly calculate that you’ve published at least one book every year since 2005. Last year alone, you’ve published three works: Listening Time, Drifting Land, and A Swallow’s Heart. As a fellow writer living in the same age, your diligence is something I aspire to learn. Twenty-five years is a long time and not all writers are capable of persistently turning out books as you have. I’m curious, what is the source of your strength that has led you to write so tirelessly? I don’t know where that strength comes from, either. And I believe “impulse” would be a better word for it. I’ll see, hear, read or think something and then, like a bolt of lightning flashing across the silent sky, the impulse to write will shoot up from within me. It’s this out-of-the-blue impulse that has led me to write these last twenty-five years. I assume such an impulse will take different forms according to when it visits you. Your early works mainly deal with the absence of communication and the sheer solitude originating from severed relationships and the mood is quite grotesque. We can still find this worldview in your stories today. Can you explain how the words solitude and grotesque have come to define your works? I’ve spent my childhood growing up in the countryside. When I look back on the landscape that used to surround me like a folding screen, such as anything from nature—a reservoir, mountain, rock, or tree—or animals, such as chicken, pigs or goats, or even humans, I think there has always been this strange, eerie aura about them. Nature in its pure form (and even the people who live within it), practically unaffected by civilization, will seem primitive and strange. Everything in it will be in perfect harmony and yet exposed to competition and the struggle to survive at each and every moment. And they’ll exist completely alone, in solitude. Nature’s solitude is so great that the solitude of human beings simply pales in comparison. I believe my emotional development took place in that world, and because of that, the foundation of the world I create cannot help but be grotesque and filled with solitude. You’ve revised your first two short stories, “On Slowness” and “Time in the Middle Ages,” which launched your literary career, and used them to create “The Story of Roots” that went on to win the Yi Sang Literary Award in 2016 (included in the 2019 story collection Will I Be Able to Touch the tree?—Ed.). What thoughts passed your mind as you reworked your two early works for the first time in twenty years? I tried to determine what belonged to me and what didn’t. It wasn’t easy removing or deleting the things that weren’t mine. Going back to my early works that I worked on during the eight years until the publication of my first short story collection was like pushing myself into the hardened ground that has become rock solid and forcing myself to come face-to-face with the roots, that is, the roots of my stories, hidden underneath. It was a gruesome and painful task but I was able to learn that the roots of the stories I write today come from those two early works. I think one of those roots may refer to labor. Your novel Cheol (Iron) minutely details the horrific reality of laborers who are treated as consumables at a huge shipyard. The story deals with realistic issues and at the same time illustrates an absurd situation created by the characters’ blind faith in “iron.” Thirteen years later, in 2021, you published A Swallow’s Heart. I noticed there were fewer descriptions of the absurd but a noticeable increase in poetic language. What sort of change did you feel writing another story based in a shipyard thirteen years later? As I continue to write, I feel my sympathy for my characters deepen. I especially felt that way as I wrote A Swallow’s Heart. It’s a novel I wrote with great satisfaction. I thoroughly enjoyed the writing process, although I had to deal with the painful personal history and sadness of each of the laborers who worked for the shipbuilder’s supply team (that is the so-called ghost workers of a secondary subcontractor, who not only work in the gray areas of safety but who are also stripped of their most basic rights). ©Ozak Another area we cannot overlook when it comes to your novels is history. Your focus used to be on relationships, especially on the pain caused by families and disillusionment about family relationships. However, the focus shifted to history. Is there a special reason behind such change? I don’t consider myself having more interest in history than other writers. And I don’t think of myself as someone who writes historical novels. When I wrote One Left, Drifting Land, and A Swallow’s Heart (they’re all full-length novels and each deals with a specific group of people), I rather felt I was focusing on the individual rather than the whole. What I mean is, I felt as though I was focusing on each and every person. I was treating “everyone” as the main character. Even if a person is completely alone in the world, that person still exists within history—the history of that person’s family and the history of the ethnic group or country that family belongs to. Many would agree One Left (2016) is a milestone work in your literary career. The novel is considered monumental in the area of testimonial literature. And I personally believe publication of this work has provided the best possible consolation to those who have been victimized by history. What were your biggest concerns when writing One Left? I wanted to depict the “typical day” of the main character. I wanted to show how this woman, who survived wartime sexual servitude, endured so many days thereafter and grew old, living her everyday life. I wanted to show how challenging, lonely and great her struggles were to live one day at a time.  And I kept reminding myself, during and after the writing of the story and even today, that my novel should never harm or heroize any of the victims, and that I should never exaggerate the truth. One Left has been translated into several languages and received rave reviews, and even won a translation award for fiction in Taiwan last year. What may be the reason behind the work receiving so much interest from foreign readers even though the story deals with history that is distinctive to Korea?  The Japanese military’s “comfort women” are victims of wartime sexual violence and I think there is a consensus among people that such wartime atrocities are issues that have to do with all of us, regardless of our age or nationality. One Left is a novel that is like a documentary, based on the recollections of the story’s narrator, an unknown survivor of Japan’s wartime sexual crimes, from the day she learns that only one former comfort woman remains alive, whereas Flowing Letter (2018) depicts the appalling reality of a fifteen-year-old girl who lives and works at a comfort station. What led you to write Flowing Letter after writing One Left? After the publication of One Left, I always felt it was an unfinished work. I could picture the girls and the comfort station before my eyes, unlike when I wrote One Left, and that led me to write Flowing Letter. Although I wrote and published One Left first, Flowing Letter is a work that comes before it. I still think One Left is incomplete, and I believe that thought would have become even greater, like an outstanding debt, had I not written Flowing Letter. The stories of the surviving comfort women continue on in your works in present tense. The voices of Kim Bok-dong, who passed away in 2019, and Gil Won-ok, who is currently in ill health, are rendered poetically in Nobleness Lies in Self-Examination (2018), Have You Ever Wished for a Soldier to Be an Angel? (2018), and a supposed prequel to these two works, Listening Time (2021). I caught a glimpse of your struggle to honor the people who testified their experience in Listening Time. I had the impression you were trying to listen to the “unspoken silence” of the surviving victims. I can imagine how close you must have become with them after writing a series of these works. Is there any special story you would like to share on how you came to build a close relationship with the surviving comfort women? My relationship with them first began after I wrote One Left. I think they appreciated the fact that I had written a story about comfort women, and Kim Bok-dong and Gil Won-ok halmeonis (grandmothers) invited me to dinner. It was my first time actually meeting with former comfort women. I sat facing them before a table laid out with food they usually ate, finished my dinner and returned home. There wasn’t much talk. I normally enjoy speaking with the elderly, but I struggled talking with them that day. Even then, I had no idea I’d someday write about them. Several months later, I was given the opportunity to join the halmeonis at their own place and time and listen to their stories in their own voice. While working with them, I found myself thinking about relationships in general and came to the conclusion that relationships occur naturally, that they cannot be forced according to a certain plan. So you were given the chance to share your life with them. I can imagine what a wonderful writing partner you must have been to them. Now, let’s turn to Drifting Land (2020), a novel which won the Dong-in Literary Award. This work introduces to the readers another story from our history, the forced migration of ethnic Koreans in Russia. I was surprised at the minute details you deployed in the train scenes. I’d like to know what caused you to develop an interest in this topic and how you conducted your research. Forced migration of ethnic Koreans was always on my mind and I wanted to write a novel about the migration process even years before I’d written the first draft. I searched for whatever materials I could find and read them until the scenes inside the train and the ethnic Koreans therein came alive. Your most recent work of publication is “The Man Who Touches Waves” [the January 2022 issue of Hyundae Munhak—Ed.]. It’s a story of a totally blind man who works as a special education teacher. The book reads like a monologue or even a long narrative poem. It also borrows some literary forms from plays. What led you to write it and will you continue to write about people with disabilities? I’ve been meeting with four people (individually) who have visual impairments. Since last summer, I’ve been writing stories inspired by the conversations I had with them. The recently published work is the first among such stories. A thought came to me one day that I wanted to write about “someone who cannot see” given the chance “to see.” I was able to write “The Man Who Touches Waves” as I was introduced to someone who is totally blind and works as a special education teacher. I value each and every moment I meet with them. Conversations with them always bring me joy and fulfillment, and I hope it is the same for them as well when they talk with me. I don’t know where my work is currently headed, just as I had no clue before last summer that I’d be given the chance to work with visually impaired people. “The Man Who Touches Waves” seems to mark the beginning of a long project. I look forward to the works that follow. Let me now turn to a personal question. I’ve been told you love animals. In your short stories “The Hole” and “My First Goat,” you illustrate horrifying scenes of pigs being buried alive after the outbreak of foot and mouth disease and other forms of animal cruelty. I’m curious about your thoughts on animals. I pray for my dogs that have passed away after being at my side for more than ten years. I pray almost every day, asking for forgiveness for failing to do my best in looking after them while they were with me. It is now 2022. What are your writing plans for this year and what kind of stories would you like to write from now on? The revised edition of Noodles will come out soon. It’s a collection of short stories, including “The Hole,” published eight years ago. I began the first day of the New Year revising the stories in the collection and found myself really looking into the lives of my characters (even more so than when I first wrote them). It was a meaningful experience as I gained deeper understanding of their pain and sadness. Translated by Juyeon Lee

  by Cho Hae-jin

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  Interview with Bak Solmay: A Moment Allowing Other Moments to Pass By

  You’ve been writing fiction for a long time, and recently, Minumsa publishers re-issued your first collection of stories, Then What Shall We Sing? How do you feel you’ve changed since publishing your first collection, and what have you been focusing on in your recent works compared to the past? I’ve only been writing for a little over ten years now, so I wouldn’t necessarily call that “a long time.” Early this year, I became conscious of how I’ve been feeling a little lighter, of how I’ve been moving in a way that was different from how I moved in the past. It was a very liberating feeling. I felt I could accomplish many different things. I came to the realization that it’s meaningless to distinguish between what I’m supposed to be doing versus what I shouldn’t do because it would be unlike me to do so. I’m not quite sure what kind of bearing this realization will have on my fiction, but earlier this year, I definitely felt caught in a particularly strong moment. The feelings from that moment have mostly faded away, but I would still like to hold on to that moment somehow.  I find it difficult to focus when I’m asked questions about my earlier works or when I’m put in a situation where I have to think about my past works. The old me and my old works are still contained within me, and I can summon them if I have to; but I simply don’t feel compelled to do so when asked (as I’m being asked now). Besides, my earlier works and my current works are ultimately similar to one another; I feel any distinctions between them are largely meaningless. Since early on in your career, you have consistently confronted macro and historical issues, such as the May 18 Gwangju Uprising, nuclear power plants, and most recently in Future Walking Rehearsals, the arson attack on the American Cultural Service building in Busan, while at the same time managing to maintain your own perspectives and pace instead of becoming overwhelmed by the weight of such issues. What are some of the things you consider when approaching historic events in your fiction? One of the things that came to my mind while writing some of my novels is that there is no one who isn’t related to particular historic events. But if I were to assume that there are some people with little to no connection to an event in history, how would that person be swayed by that history? I don’t know if “swayed” would be the right expression here. Perhaps “influenced” would be the better word. This might sound like a strange assumption, but the deeper belief that underlies this assumption is that there isn’t anyone who isn’t affected by historic events. With that in mind, I start focusing on how someone, who may not be directly connected to a historic event, is nevertheless brought into its sphere of influence and made to interact with the repercussions of the event. But again, this is different from stating that everyone somehow has a relationship to history and that we all impact history as it impacts us.  The title, Future Walking Rehearsals, seems to represent the key themes that you explore in your fiction—the future, the act of walking, and rehearsing. What comes to your mind when you hear these three words? Walking makes the future and rehearsal possible. Simply by sitting in your seat and thinking about going for a walk can carry you to new inspirations. When we think of your fiction, one of the first things that comes to mind is food and the activity of eating. Many of your characters seem to approach their contexts and even the strangers in their lives through the medium of food. For instance, in “On My Way to Eat Meat,” you list various chicken recipes, the names of which sound endearing, but there was also a slight tension in those descriptions. Can you tell us more about this tension that seems to come with the act of eating? It’s interesting to hear that you felt a sense of tension. I happen to love to eat, so I try to create food-related moments that are sweet and as you say, endearing. I find joy in sharing a meal with others. But the act of eating can also be ruthless; for instance, when I’m starving for something to eat, I reach out and grab anything that I can shove down my throat. It’s perhaps that merciless aspect of eating that gives rise to the tension that you’ve felt. ©Ozak Since we’re on the topic, I have to ask, do you watch any of the mukbang [eating show] content that’s on YouTube? I did in the past, but I have trouble concentrating on long YouTube videos. These days I typically watch shorter videos of cats eating random stuff. Along with eating, another charming aspect in your novels is the attention given to sleep and the act of sleeping. Recently, you began releasing a series of works under the theme “hibernation series.” Traditionally, literature has paid much attention to dreams. But in your fiction, you seem to be less interested in dreams than you are in the physical act of sleeping. For some reason, when you write about sleep in your fiction, it seems irrelevant to dreams, whereas when your characters are wide awake and moving about in their realities, it seems as if they are living in a dreamworld. Is there a difference in your approach to dreams and sleep, as represented in your fiction?  I’m not sure. I love to eat and I love to sleep, which is why I visit them often in my writing. This might sound repetitive, but I feel that when a character in a story falls asleep, then another, similar character is somewhere doing something else, in a slightly different yet very similar context. So if a person A is sleeping in a place B, then A’ would be working at a place called B’. Sleep is our way of getting rest, but it also represents a small gap in our lives and a moment that allows other moments to pass by. ©Ozak Reading your recent “The Extremely High-Spec Machine That Only Works in This Room,” I got the impression it contains moments of very direct, very immediate connections although the characters couldn’t physically meet or see each other in person. What are your thoughts on the concept of “directness”? I find this to be an interesting question, since I’ve never given it any thought. At the same time, I feel that your description accurately captures the essence of the story. Whenever I’m writing fiction, even if it’s not this particular story that you mentioned, I have the sense that I’m chasing something that exists far away and only vaguely. At the same time, though, the existences feel very clear and real to me. Ideally, I would like to capture both sensations and write about them persuasively enough in my works. I’m struggling to provide a clear definition of “directness” but it might have something to do with my attempt not to lose any tension when I’m writing fiction. Your works have a characteristic aura of fantasy surrounding them. But this aura is peculiar in that the fantasy is not presented as something that is completely separate from reality, but rather as an element that is situated inside (or perhaps placed on top of) a very real and ordinary—and simultaneously historic—space. For instance, in “With the Twelve, Already-Dead Women,” you incorporate ghost stories, yet they don’t necessarily seem to have a worldview that is different from our own realities. What are your thoughts on the relationship between reality and fantasy? That’s is a difficult question. I’m afraid I don’t know. When I’m writing, I try to concentrate on where I’ve been, where I want to be, the places I’ve seen, and the places I want to see. Sometimes, the world I write about can be similar to our world now, but strictly speaking, it can also be a place we’ve never seen before. You mentioned in another interview that you’d like to try your hand at writing detective fiction or mystery novels. You also told the story of the detective cat Chami in Silence Animal. Do you still want to write mystery fiction, and if so, what is it about mysteries that appeal to you most?  I do like mystery fiction, but I’m drawn to a particular type of detective stories. I wrote a review of Ryo Hara’s Sore made no ashita in the magazine Littor (Issue 30), and I’d like to quote from the text: “I remember reading somewhere, although I forget where, that people find themselves fascinated by the profession of detectives because they feel that detectives exist somewhere in a halfway zone, in a no man’s land. Detectives prowl darkly lit, dangerous alleyways, yet they aren’t criminals. They solve problems and help their clients, but they aren’t members of law enforcement. Each time, they do things that neither the police nor criminals can do.” One other thing that appeals to me about detective fiction is that the stories are almost always set in the context of big cities. These stories inevitably offer up a close reveal of the cities. If we move past the genre of fiction and look at writing as a whole, what are some of the strengths and appealing elements of writing that you can’t find elsewhere in other media, say in videos or music? Well, I may not write or think about fiction every single day, but to me, writing is so much a part of my life now that it’s difficult to provide a straight answer regarding its strengths and power, especially when compared against something else. Rather than comparing writing to other media, I would say that anything—whether it be music or videos or writing—that can help me enter a whole new world is what brings me joy. Are there any books you would like to read or any interests you would like to research for your next book or maybe even a personal project?  I would like to devote more time to studying modern and contemporary Korean history. I would also like to learn more about some of the detailed footnotes in our history, for instance, how religion was first accepted in Korea and how movie theaters and hospitals were built and then demolished. I would also like to find out more about the film industry. I’m curious to know more about the people who worked in the theaters, who perhaps had as much of a contribution to filmmaking as the film directors and actors, and I would also like to know more about the theater industry. I’d also like to ask you about translation. You like to play around with the register in your narrative structures and make liberal use of suffixes and other word endings in a rather unique way. Have you given any thought as to the implications your narrative structure might have on the translations of your works?  I often hear that my works would not be easy to translate, for the same reasons you gave. When I think about translation though, I still hold out vague hope that somehow the translations will magically fall into place and work themselves out. But of course, I say that from the perspective of the author of the original work. From the reader’s perspective, it’s a great thing to be able to have access to many more translated versions than before. For translators, however, I feel that their working environment and their treatment are still far below what they are entitled to. I would like to end the interview on a light note. The illustration on the front cover of The Dog I Love is that of a dog, while the cover of Silence Animal features an illustration of a cat. Are you a dog person or a cat person? I recently saw the film The Tsugua Diaries at the Busan International Film Festival. There are about four dogs that appear in the movie, and when I saw them on the screen, I felt my heart leap with joy. But then I thought that if the movie had featured cats instead of dogs, then maybe the theater would have erupted in cheers. (In reality, the audience was very quiet.) I can’t choose which I like better, and so I want them both, but I don’t have either a cat or a dog, yet I still want them both, but then . . . I guess . . . a cat? Interviewed by Bo-Won Kang Translated by Amber Hyun Jung Kim   Bo-Won Kang writes poetry and literary criticism. His poetry collections include The Perfect Set of Poems to Congratulate a New Business and the co-authored work, Gathering of over Three Persons. 

  by Bo-Won Kang

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  Interview with Kim Bo-Young: Why the Stars Shine in Earth’s Sky

  Your short story “How Alike Are We” (2017) can’t be excluded from any discussion regarding Korean literature’s achievements in the 2010s whether one is a fan of science fiction or not. The story keenly observes the changes Korean society is yearning for in the wake of tumultuous events, from the Sewol ferry disaster in 2014 through the so-called “AlphaGo shock” in 2016 to the feminism reboot ongoing from 2015. I imagine the story must have undergone countless revisions and rewrites. I’m very curious what that process was like. The message of a completed story can turn out quite differently from what you intended to write. My original plan had been to invert the “human in a mechanical body” trope in science fiction and write about an “AI in a human body.” But as I wrote, I struggled with the question “Why did this AI want to become human?” Maybe because humans can easily do what machines can’t, I supposed, but failing to pinpoint an answer, I stopped writing and put the story aside for a long time.   [For anyone who hasn’t read the story, please skip the bracketed paragraphs below as they contain spoilers. The English translation is available online in full at the Clarkesworld magazine website.—Ed.]   [The answer came to me while I was watching The Masked Singer with my older brother. My brother, who has a mild developmental disability, wanted to know whether the masked singer was female or male, while the rest of us watching tried to guess their name or age or profession. It occurred to me then that our ability to instantly tell someone’s gender relies on the countless stereotypes and biases we hold about it. Short means female, deep-voiced means male, and so on. My brother was having trouble perceiving gender because he doesn’t stereotype. I reasoned that an AI would have precisely the same difficulty. This is a logical conclusion. AIs don’t reproduce sexually, so they have no gender, so they have no reason to distinguish between genders. Whereas humans immediately assign a binary gender to even an AI who explicitly says they don’t have one, that they are, so to speak, agender.] Once I found the answer, the story developed quickly. Then a publisher approached me for a solar system-themed anthology, where I decided to include this story that had been brewing for a long time. But right around the story’s due date, Korean Gamergate occurred. [In 2016 a video game voice actress tweeted an image of a T-shirt reading “Girls Do Not Need A Prince.” The tweet prompted a backlash among male gamers and resulted in the voice actress losing her job.—Ed.] There was an outpouring of complaints by gamers insisting “I don’t want to see work by a feminist in my games” and demanding such work be removed. Their definition of a feminist was loose at best. Anyone who said, “That’s no reason to remove someone’s work” was branded a feminist and attacked. The worst hit were game illustrators, many of whom were women and part-time subcontractors unprotected by labor laws, so a number of companies took down their illustrations in an attempt to defuse the uproar. But a series of all-too-successful complaints only fueled the frenzy, which spread to other creative industries and to Korean society at large with repercussions felt to this day. Game narrative design being my main source of income at the time rather than fiction writing, I suddenly had to stop everything I was working on. Amidst that madness, the story I’d been writing felt too superficial. I told my publisher that I just couldn’t publish the story as it was, and pinched for time, I sent the revised story to my editor chapter by chapter, daily serial style. That’s how my bafflement at the hate and madness that can suddenly spread in a restricted environment ended up in the story. On the flip side, Gamergate prompted the Korean publishing industry to take a deep interest in feminism. And it didn’t take long for the industry to realize that most feminist utopian and dystopian fiction was in fact science fiction. Existing Korean SF writers were reexamined, a slew of general fiction readers—the majority of whom were women—consequently crossed over to the genre, and new SF writers also shot up in number. Paradoxically, 2016 was a breakout year for the Korean SF market.   ©Ozak    “I’m Waiting for You” and “On My Way to You” are  two linked epistolary stories about a man and woman whose unsynchronized timelines bar them from reuniting for their interstellar wedding. Compared to “On My Way to You,” which is told from the woman’s point of view, the man’s telling of “I’m Waiting for You” feels a lot more condensed. Why did you choose the letter format? From the outset, “I’m Waiting for You” was written not to be read, but to be heard when the person who had commissioned the story proposed to his girlfriend. The story’s first version was a cassette tape recorded by the groom. My first draft had music cues. Since the story would be narrated to a romantic partner, I chose the letter form for its conversational tone, and since it wouldn’t do for the girlfriend to get bored and leave mid-reading, I omitted and condensed a lot. The man would narrate the whole work himself, so the woman wasn’t featured in the story. Everything in this story was written with a single goal: that she might, as she listened, be moved to accept his proposal. Except—I feel a little apologetic toward the couple for saying this—when I was writing “I’m Waiting for You,” my thoughts kept turning to the parents waiting for their children aboard the Sewol. There was no special reason for the association. It’s just that there was little else I could think about that year. I’m also sorry to say that the person I had in my thoughts while writing “On My Way to You” was my mother, who had passed the previous year. There was little else I could think about that year, too. Sewol parents would miss their children even if the world should end. As I would miss my mother even at the world’s end. Love isn’t so complicated.   ©Ozak    In both “How Alike Are We” and “On My Way to You,” an AI, a technological being, acts as the arbitrator and problem solver of a catastrophe that has befallen human society. The AIs in both works follow a strictly mathematical and logical algorithm. Yet the conclusion they draw is to stand on the side of good, not evil. I found this interesting. What is artificial intelligence to you? My answer may not be what you expect. Artificial intelligence is the way I understand my family, and how I understand my life with my family. My brother has a mild developmental disability that can be categorized as Asperger’s. When I was young, there was poor awareness of disabilities and it wasn’t easy to find professionals and professional services. My parents had me believe that my brother was normal and I grew up believing so. As with many children with older siblings, my brother was my first friend, my first window into society. But as I grew older, the problem that the world neither understood my closest and most familiar friend nor noticed his existence—yet had so many people like him—became one of my life’s major preoccupations. The logical reasoning of artificial intelligence is not unlike the way someone with Asperger’s thinks. My brother does not judge, whereas a neurotypical person will judge even when they say they do not and thus has no idea what it feels like to never judge. I project such qualities onto my AI characters. So for me, imagining the personality of an AI is easy, comfortable, and fun. The gaze of my machines reflects my brother’s lifelong struggles, as well as my own feelings of disconnect with this world that come from having been socialized through my brother growing up. I don’t think the AIs I portray are ethical. They are simply logical in a way that humans aren’t. This just appears ethical to the human eye at times.   Important themes in your work like “the evolution of ethics” must have required careful consideration in storytelling. Does your concern with ethics ever restrain your imagination? Or have your efforts to stay true to principles helped renew your imagination in unexpected ways? Imagination can’t be restrained. It’s boundless. Every night I watch the images cooked up by my imagination until I fall asleep. It just takes time for me to convert those imaginings into a form people can understand, and to research what I need to realize them. That’s why storytelling can realize only tiny snippets of my imagination. Realism still dominates Korean publishing and many readers find even the most common SF tropes strange or difficult. Writing stories that don’t bore me or my SF readers but are still legible to the uninitiated has thus been a key concern throughout my writing career. It’s like having to satisfy two requirements that are impossible to satisfy at once, every time. This restraint is great enough that I haven’t had the chance to worry about any others.   A Plagued Sea (2020), a story about the outbreak of “East Sea Disease,” was published in the midst of COVID-19. I wonder how the pandemic has affected your brainstorming and writing process. A Plagued Sea was written as an homage to H.P. Lovecraft’s The Shadow Over Innsmouth. The disease in my story, I decided, should cause changes to one’s physical appearance, so the references I had in mind while brainstorming were the plague and leprosy. But then COVID-19 broke out while I was writing. Obviously, I couldn’t ignore what was happening and it made its way into the story. My stories always contain my present. Even if it weren’t for the coronavirus, the world’s changes would be mirrored in my work. That said, I live in a remote South Korean countryside, in the mountains with hardly any houses around. Most of my work is done online, there hasn’t been a lockdown yet in South Korea, and my region hasn’t imposed very strict pandemic controls, so for the most part, my everyday life remains unchanged. What I feel more acutely from here is climate change. The vegetation is shifting rapidly as is the crop cycle. Both have been triggered by similar causes, and soon we will face many problems that none of our existing methods can solve. The thought that everything can end in an instant does weigh heavier on me now. All the more reason to live this day and moment preciously.   “Scripter” is about distinguishing an AI from a human in the game world—a kind of Turing test. Though published back in 2008, the story is still interesting in today’s world where the metaverse is the next big thing. What would you say are the similarities and differences between imagining games and imagining science fiction? I was a game developer before becoming a writer, and until as recently as 2016, I supplemented my income with narrative design consulting gigs. “Scripter” reflects a lot of my experience as a developer. “Science fiction” is a subject-matter-based classification so you cannot really compare it to games. If I were to instead compare “fiction” with games, I would say they are completely different fields requiring completely different talents and skill sets. A game script acts as a docent who guides user behavior. You calculate distances that users will travel and the time and effort it will take them to navigate the story, planting signs at the right places so they don’t get lost. Since the rewards in a game are simpler and more straightforward than those in reality, where you position the rewards determines whether users fight or cooperate. In fact, a game offers the developer a chance to build a utopia according to their philosophy, but the CEO’s or investors’ desire to make money ends up interfering.   Finally, a short question on translation. Is there anything you’re concerned about or particularly wish for when your work gets translated into English? My translators are the ones who have their work cut out for them, so who am I to worry! All I can say is that, as more Korean literature crosses borders, the absence of masculine and feminine nouns in Korean will probably be something translators will have to tackle with increasingly. As Korean isn’t inflected for gender, you can delay revealing a character’s gender or not reveal it at all and leave it open. Many internet-based writers also choose not to disclose their gender.   Interviewed by Lim Taehun Translated by Sung Ryu   Lim Taehun is a literary critic and assistant professor at Chosun University. His research interests include literature and technology, and SF culture and soundscape art.

  by Lim Taehun

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  Interview with Yoon Sung-hee: Like Rolling Snowballs to Make a Snowman

  Congratulations on the release of your latest anthology, Every Day is April Fool’s. What is a day in the life like for you? It’s always the same: working when I can on a novel I’m supposed to be writing and otherwise lazing about at home. I let my mind wander as I lie on the sofa, watch TV, or have a read through one of the three or four books I have on hand.   Has the COVID-19 pandemic affected your work? And what is your personal and professional perspective on the pandemic? The pandemic has had little effect on my work, probably because writing is such a solitary job. Once the pandemic hit Korea, I started trying harder to stick to my routine so that I could endure through my daily life. I made it a personal rule to write three hours a day, walk one hour a day, and cook for myself rather than order out for delivery. I haven’t been perfect, of course. I tend to be lenient with myself so I’m not so great with rules. But staying put at home did help me to write quite a few short stories last year.   Counting from your debut in 1999, this is the twenty-second year that you’ve been a writer. Who were some writers who influenced your decision to take this career path? I must have been twenty-four or twenty-five when I fell head over heels for Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. Of course, I’d been inspired by other works to try and reach their heights, but never so much as with Vonnegut’s work. Slaughterhouse-Five taught me to practice writing with the speed and rhythm of the prose in mind.   So that’s where your concise yet packed writing style comes from. Now let’s talk about your debut work, “A House Made of LEGOs” (1999). The motif of LEGOs is key to the story—what is your take on games and play? Your characters, whether children or elders, seem to discover something in the process of playing. Many of my stories feature seniors, and when they play, it’s with a sense of understanding that they can never go back to the past. But I try not to use games and play as a device for evoking nostalgia, because then my stories would veer into excessive sentimentality. My intention is that the idea of play acts as a sort of cord fastening optimism, acceptance, and sadness together. Take one character from my recent short story “Every Day is April Fool’s.” The narrator’s younger brother gets into a traffic accident and is taken unconscious to the emergency room. He briefly becomes a disembodied spirit, looking down at his own body in the hospital bed. Later, he discusses the experience with his family, saying, “When I woke up, it occurred to me that no matter what happens, I should try to live a fun life. And that’s why I didn’t study.” That’s the kind of attitude my characters tend to have about life.   What a fascinating glimpse into the evolution of your career as a storyteller. Your early works tended to be rather dark, until at some point humor became a defining trait in your writing. Where do you get the strength to endure and rise above grief? It all started from a simple change. When I was writing the short stories that would be published in my first anthology after my debut, I felt a sense of frustration toward my characters. So I gave myself a challenge: to make sure that in every short story I wrote, there was at least one scene where the main character laughed. That changed the way I conceptualized my stories. I ask myself, When was the last time this protagonist laughed? It’s a probing question that helps me to untangle difficult sections of my stories. The challenge led to a gradual but real change. And on a personal level, I always loved absurd stories, even as a child. I really wanted to write stories where freak coincidences popped up in the narrative. I’ve gotten less self-conscious about it, too, as I set about making my characters laugh. All this has put me closer to the path of coincidences, miracles, and humor in the world of fiction.   ©Ozak    The themes of humor and consolation are also major keywords in Every Day is April Fool’s. The entire collection has a notable emphasis on and love for the stories of older women. What drew you to the lives of elderly women? I took some time to think about elderly people. They walk slowly, eat slowly, and often fall into their thoughts. I thought that was a great fit for my fiction. From the moment I decided I wanted my characters to laugh, I wanted to write about many wise but adorable old people. In “Every Day is April Fool’s,” the aunt tells her nephew and niece, “Loneliness makes a person crabby. And if I ever become a crabby old woman, don’t even bother visiting me, all right?” This is actually something I’d wanted to tell the old ladies in my story, not necessarily the readers.   Loneliness tends to stem from events that happened in a character’s past. When your stories look into the past, they seem to address the issue of forgiveness, whether of others or of oneself. What does going back to the past mean to you? One of my short stories is actually titled “Boomerang,” and it means that your actions in the past will come hurtling back towards you. It’s a recurring theme of sorts in my stories. I think about what moments in the present will trigger the return of a past misdeed, and let myself think deeply about the possibilities. The opposite is true, too. When in the present might a person be visited by a painful event they’d wanted to forget? For me, the past and present  don’t exist in vacuums of their own; they must overlap. And in that overlap, I look for and unearth forgiveness.   ©Ozak    That’s a great segue into your Kim Seungok Literary Prize-winning short story “One Night,” which happens to be in this very issue of KLN and features the relationships between an elderly woman and her parents, her husband, and her daughter. In a game of freeze tag, a frozen person can only be unfrozen by another person. In your story, the person unfreezing the elderly woman is a young man. What was the inspiration or the reason you created this dynamic? Actually, I had a bit of writer’s block while working on that story. I stopped at the part where the old woman falls, and I couldn’t write anything after that for days. That was when I saw neighborhood children playing freeze tag. Suddenly it came to me—that my character also needed someone to come and unfreeze her. I made this character a young man because I wanted to emphasize to people of his generation that it’s okay not to be working, that just doing nothing can be difficult enough. The reason he’s a man is because the old lady is a woman. She resents her husband, but still thinks back often to the good old days when he was still young. That’s why I wanted her to meet this kind, sweet young man.   On that note, concerning the elderly woman’s past with her husband, what is family to you? You’ve dealt with more than just spousal or mother-daughter relationships. Your stories feature relationships with one’s grandfather, grandmother, aunt, or uncle. When I craft a protagonist, I think of everything the protagonist is not. This is why I focus so much on the people around my main character. And when I try to build my character in that space I’ve created with the other characters, I oftentimes end up with a family. That’s why I tend to go into the life stories of my characters. I love thinking about complicated family relationships involving multiple generations. I still feel like being talkative about this framework, as if I still haven’t said everything I need to say. And although I don’t necessarily want to leave this frame, I do want to expand out into other areas of life—but right now, I’m not completely convinced I should. I don’t think I can write my next full-length novel until I’ve come to grips with this.   Your answer makes me wonder how your stories are created. There’s no big secret. For me, writing is like making a snowman. I start with a little snowball, roll it around in my head, and once I think it’s big enough, I write it down. Once I’ve done that, I roll it around again to form sentences. Eventually these little snowballs grow into the snowman’s body and head. That’s how it works for me.   That’s a very apt image, I think, because your stories, in which the nameless people of this world are beautifully connected, are also like a snowman made by rolling together individual snowballs. Growing up, I always imagined that there were people similar to me living somewhere I didn’t know. I didn’t read much as a child because I didn’t have access to many books. I loved reading, though, whether it was fiction or otherwise. I also loved listening in on adults’ conversations. I even read through the little instructions written on medication packages. We had a lot of live-in tenants when I was younger. When someone new moved in, I would ask them where they lived before and try to find the place on a map. I’ve lived almost fifty years in my hometown, and the radius of my life is rather limited. But I often dream about living in another city. I think these life experiences are what shape the stories I write today.   That reminds me of your first full-length novel, Spectators. It even features characters who travel around the world, and I was fascinated by the way the roots of the story are connected to the sheer distance spanned by their travels. How does traveling inspire you? Or what is traveling to you as a writer? I’m very much a homebody, but I also enjoy getting out of the house. The one thing I love more than traveling, I would say, is making the itinerary before I leave and picturing my upcoming journey. Sometimes I wonder if I really do enjoy traveling, or if I’m simply in love with the planning process. Anyway, traveling for me is to see beautiful things and eat delicious food with the people I love. Spectators features children who travel around the world and parents who have never gone traveling. The parents spent their entire lives running a restaurant, where they get to listen in on diners’ conversations and hear even more about the world than their children—who are physically moving between countries—get to see. For me, both of these things constitute travel, whether you spend your whole life manning a restaurant counter or wandering the globe in search of answers.   How do you feel about the international publication of Spectators? I had the chance to attend the Guadalajara International Book Fair when Spectators was published in Spanish [as Espectadores (Bonobos, 2016)—Ed.]. It was my first time participating at a book fair, and I wondered what sort of people would come to listen to me. I still remember the sparkling eyes of the students at the event. As I walked out of the venue at the end, I felt like the “me on the other side of the world” I dreamed about as a child was standing there. They were the people who attended the event. The moment is still a cherished memory that gives me great courage as I continue to write.   I’m sure the students who attended the session felt the same. Now, one final question for courage as we cross borders in the name of literature: your literary universe is sometimes called the “Yoon Sung-hee World” for the unique characteristics of your works. Out of your works, which seven short stories would you choose to define this label? I would pick “The Responsibility of Loneliness,” “Take Care, See You Again,” “The Hole,” “The Slow Ball, the Slower Ball, the Very Slow Ball,” “Resting on a Pillow,” “Daytime Drinking,” and “Remaining Memories.” This is actually really hard. Those particular stories were a joy to write, but didn’t get much public attention when I published them. I do have a special attachment to my first anthology, but I didn’t count any stories from it because it was published before I established the Yoon Sung-hee World. I made sure to pick one or two stories from each of my other five books.   Interviewed by Cha Mi-Ryeong Translated by Slin Jung   Cha Mi-Ryeong is a literary critic. She has authored a collection of reviews titled A World of Abandoned Possibilities (2016). She has served on the editorial boards of Munhak Dongne and KLN. She currently teaches modern Korean fiction at Gwangju Institute of Science and Technology.  

  by Cha Mi-ryeong

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  Interview with Kim Hye-jin: A New Kind of “Togetherness”

  Your novel Concerning My Daughter begins with a house and ends with a home, one could say. In that sense, I think the story is about forming a family as an economic unit and expanding it into an emotional support unit. The story considers new possibilities and forms of family by bringing together families that don’t meet society’s approval, families that have been torn apart, and families that have been lost. I wonder whether you had set out to write a family narrative different from pre-existing ones when you wrote it. I didn’t start out wanting to write a family narrative. All I knew was that I wanted to write about a mother and daughter. In any case, the daughter moves in with the mother in the beginning of the story and brings her same-sex partner with her, and in the end the mother brings home an old patient named Jen she had been looking after in the convalescent home. It wasn’t until the characters were living under one roof that I realized that this novel could be read as a narrative about a new family. In the initial draft, Jen does not move in with the mother character. I had only written up to the scene where the mother goes looking for Jen when Jen is forced out of the convalescent home. It didn’t occur to me that the mother could bring Jen home with her.   ©Ozak    The novel is also a portrayal of women of different generations. Many people read the story as a portrait of women’s solidarity, and I wonder what the solidarity could mean for them, what possibilities it opens up going forward in their lives. Any feelings or thoughts on this? The most powerful unit of solidarity in Korean society is the family. When I was writing this novel, I thought it didn’t necessarily require blood relations to form a family. Then, as now, this is not a very radical idea in Korea. It has gained substantial social approval. But I do think that compared to people’s perceptions, the laws and institutions are more conservative. I think that once the laws and institutions become more flexible, family and solidarity will perhaps take much more diverse forms.   It was interesting to see that the climax of Concerning My Daughter was different for different readers. For me, it was the scene where the mother couldn’t say her daughter’s cell phone number at the protest scene. Some say it’s when they eat together at Jen’s funeral, while others say it’s where everyone gathers in one house. I wonder what the climax of this work is for you. Or maybe there was an image that inspired this novel? In the second half of the novel, there’s a scene where the mother goes to the hospital to see her daughter who was injured at a protest. There, the mother meets up with her and her daughter’s partner and takes them to the cafeteria. Watching the two of them eat, the mother finally sees that these two are out there in a ruthless world. She realizes that they’re struggling to live their reality, not pursuing an illusion or a daydream. I thought this scene was the climax of this novel. This is also the scene where the change in the mother is most palpable.   I think the notion of change is at the core of the novel. The change that happens to the characters is especially important. I imagine you must have given a great deal of thought to how much change the mother can afford. For me, I liked the fact that the change in the mother’s attitude toward the daughter was not shown directly through her own relationship with her daughter, but through her relationship with Jen and through the daughter’s relationship with her partner. The difficulty of understanding a person is revealed very slowly through the changes in her own relationships. I thought the mother was looking at her daughter’s future through Jen. There is also a part of her that understands her daughter a little better through her partner. How should I put it? I think in order to understand a person, you must understand the person’s relationships and circumstances, and your own relationships and circumstances in turn work closely to give you insight. I also think that understanding a person starts with facing and getting to know the external things that surround a person.   ©Ozak    The novel is being translated into several foreign languages. Some have already been published, and some are forthcoming. Do you have any translation releases you are especially looking forward to? I’m looking forward to the English translation. I think it’s because English is the only foreign language I can read a little at a time.   Concerning My Daughter has already been published in Japan. Have you been following the response since then? What was it like to see the Japanese translation? You also spoke at a book event hosted by the publisher of Eobi, your first short story collection. It is always fascinating to see books in Japanese because the text runs top to bottom and right to left. All translations, not just the Japanese ones, feel like strangers to me because they come in different languages and different covers, too. It’s as if they aren’t mine. I haven’t been following the response of Japanese readers, but I’m curious.   What was the reaction or review from a reader or critic on Concerning My Daughter that you most appreciated as the author? I remember when a critic said, “This novel is a novel about words.” I had never thought of it that way, because the mother isn’t able to fully articulate herself in the novel. But at some point, she verbalizes her thoughts. And she is astonished to find these words within herself. So the view that this is about a person finding her words stuck with me.   How would you say Concerning My Daughter impacted your later works? Several more books have come out since Concerning My Daughter. I can’t say I felt a distinct sense of change each time. However, there is one thing: when I was writing Concerning My Daughter I thought I had to pour more into in the novel. That I had to put more into it and create something richer. But now I think it’s okay to have only one very small but very pure emotion in the novel, and that it’s enough to contain just one very clear thing in the story.   You started your career in 2012 with the short story “Chicken Run.” You have had a prolific career for the past nine years, receiving both critical and popular acclaim. What were some changes that occurred in terms of your views for value regarding fiction over the course of your career, if any? I used to think that the narrative was the most important thing in a novel. Now, I think a scene, an interaction, or a sentence can carry greater meaning than a narrative. I guess you could say that my idea of what a novel is has become more flexible.   ©Ozak    The homeless characters in your first novel, Central Station, and the characters at the protests in some of your short stories are examples of people in the streets who often appear in your works. They come off as having no choice but to go out into the streets, rather than being those who are unable to find a place for themselves. What would you say this instability in your characters represents in your works? I think that a novel is the story of an individual and embodies the process of an individual living life. In that light, I think I consider life itself to be a great instability. I don’t know if instability is representative of something in my works, but I would say that the individuals I am examining live unstable lives. Maybe I want to keep asking through my stories how people are living their lives, and with what thoughts in their minds?   You chose the excerpt from Concerning My Daughter that appears alongside this interview. Can you tell us about why you chose this particular scene? I think the scene best reveals the heart of this novel. It is the clearest portrayal of the conflict between the mother and daughter, and an honest depiction of the mother’s character.   The theater adaptation of Concerning My Daughter was staged last year. What was that like for you, seeing the sentences you wrote performed through actors’ bodies and watching it in person? People experience the same novel in different ways perhaps because we each have such different lives and experiences. Maybe that’s why we sometimes get the feeling that we are seeing ourselves in the novels we read. Watching Concerning My Daughter on the stage felt like that for me. It was exciting to see scenes from the novel I wrote performed live, but the emotions and scene progressions that the director and actors discovered in my story were astonishing. It was a meaningful experience to reflect on why the stage adaptation took notice of those aspects and scenes.   Preparations for the screen adaptation of Concerning My Daughter are underway. I am curious if you ever imagined what the book would look like on the screen. Are there any scenes that you are especially looking forward to watching? Any casting hopes for the mother, daughter, and daughter’s partner roles you have in mind? I get asked about the film adaptation a lot, but I honestly have a hard time picturing what it will look like. Or which actors would be good for the parts. There aren’t many incidents in the story, so I do hope that the everyday scenes of daily routines are portrayed well, but I truly think it’s all up to the director and the actors. One thing I’m curious about is what soundtrack will be used for which scenes.   This year marks the tenth year since you debuted as a novelist. How has your perception or attitude toward fiction changed in the last decade? My perception of fiction has changed significantly since long ago when I first made up my mind to become a novelist. Back then, fiction was a story that was separate and distant from me, and that was enough. I must have believed that it was possible to maintain that distance between my life and the novels I write. But I think my stories are bound to come into contact and overlap with my life at a certain point. This is unavoidable. Another change is that I find myself often wondering what it means to be a novelist in this age where personal narratives are increasing exponentially. Why should we read novels today when the stories of individuals are special and important? The standard of art in general, including fiction, is changing, and I wonder if we are living in an age where the value of a work of art is actively and quickly re-established by the audience and readers. I don’t have any good answers to these questions, but I certainly do wonder about more questions and take more things into consideration when I write than I ever did before.   Translated by Jamie Chang

  by Park Hye-jin

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  Interview with Gu Byeong-mo: The Rejection of Stereotypes

  Your work moves fluidly among many topics and genres, from fantasy to realism. Where do you get inspiration for your stories? Because my characters and fictional worlds involve an elderly woman assassin, a wizard’s bakery, a fish-human, bird-humans, and AI robots, many people think I come up with topics in a variety of ways. To be honest, that’s sort of an illusion, owing to the fact that I wrote a number of books over a short period of twelve years. My interests generally span many areas and topics and I don’t do anything special to find something to write about. I might be inspired by something small I come across in my day-to-day life, or I might be reading a poem and get sucked in by a single word that then expands into an imaginary world that has nothing to do with the poem itself. It could be that my ability to find things to write about in ordinary day-to-day life is a little more honed, but it’s not something that comes with practice; I had an active imagination as a child and it just became a part of me. I don’t think that subject matter is the most important element in fiction. Students who begin to write often worry about “what” to write, but in my view the “how” is more critical than the “what.”   ©Ozak    Your works have unique titles, with Pagwa deriving from Chinese characters, Bird Strike from English, and other novels from Korean. In the US, Pagwa is being published as The Old Woman with the Knife. How do you come up with your titles? I mull them over until the perfect title, the most symbolic and meaningful, the most beautiful, comes to me. There’s no one way I come up with a title. I decide on the title once I have a rough outline of a novel, before I begin writing. Some writers start with a working title and change it later, but for me it’s hard to write if I don’t definitively decide on one from the beginning, so I tend to think about it for a long time. So it’s exceedingly rare for a title to change during the editing process for publication. The title for the American edition of Pagwa was changed into something more intuitive and intriguing, but the original title has an ambiguity to it—it’s a Chinese homonym that means “bruised fruit” and “peak of youth” or “the flower of life.”   Your characters’ names are also unique. How do you come up with names in your fiction? My characters have names that aren’t too hard to say in Korean, and which also reflect their personalities and temperaments. Depending on the atmosphere of the novel, sometimes they don’t have names at all and are only referred to by pronouns, or in my more realistic novels, they have names you could easily find in contemporary Korean society, while in worlds that contain imaginary elements, as in Pagwa, I try to find names that are comparatively rare. In an entirely fantastical world like in Bird Strike, I try to come up with ambiguous names that aren’t familiar in Korean but aren’t English either, names that don’t point to any specific country. For all novels I use a Hanja [Sino-Korean] dictionary, which I find very useful when naming characters, since a single pronunciation can contain multiple meanings.   In Pagwa (The Old Woman with the Knife), the main character, Jogak (Hornclaw in the English version), is a woman in her sixties, and weaponizes the invisibility of her age and gender to carry out her work as an assassin. How did you land on that premise? Around 2010, I was planning out several stories, and I vaguely thought that I wanted to write about a killer for one of them. But there are so many movies and novels and comics about killers so I kept it in the back of my mind, knowing that a misstep could make the book feel tired and clichéd. One day, I found rotten peaches in the crisper when I was cleaning out my fridge; I’d received them as a gift and forgotten about them. I wiped up the mess and thought, That’s going to be me soon. That was when the story came to me—of someone who’s become like those peaches, of an over-the-hill senior citizen assassin. Around that time an excellent novel had been published in Korea: Kim Un-su’s The Plotters. The main character in that work is a young man who’s smart, cynical, and strong, and I thought I would take an entirely different path. Seniors are considered weak and burdensome in our society, people who should be quickly pushed aside, and older women are particularly mistreated. And so I thought a mature woman, someone who nobody considers important or even notices, should pick up a weapon.   ©Ozak    For the English edition, you requested that Haeu (Worryfixer in the English version) use non-binary pronouns. Of course, in Korean, gender is often less obvious due to the language structure. Why was that important to you? In 2013, when the book was first published in Korea, Haeu was written as a woman. This character has a small but clear role in the novel, and she’s a bit of a trickster. With the revised edition coming out in 2018, I thought, Isn’t it a stereotype that someone who wears large earrings and likes jewelry has to be a woman? So I didn’t refer to Haeu as “her.” I asked you to use non-binary pronouns for the English translation, but I’m not sure that this was reflected in all foreign-language editions. Some might think that depicting a man who wears earrings and is fond of jewelry could be prejudicial toward certain groups, but I wanted to acknowledge to myself that someone’s preferences have nothing to do with their gender.   Your work has been translated into many languages. Do you have a favorite and least favorite part about the process of translation? With English-language readers being exposed to fewer works in translation than the rest of the world, have there been different challenges with the translation process into English? It’s hard to offer examples, but I’m sure there are Korea-specific emotions, habits, relationships, family lines, objects, and more that I write without thinking twice about and that other Koreans intuitively understand. There might be some parts that are harder for English readers to comprehend, but I think most of these issues would have been solved by your work and mediation during the translation process. And I think this is something that often happens when literature crosses borders, regardless of countries; there are many cases where a book translated into Korean includes a translator’s note since there are, for example, medieval customs or jokes or characteristics specific to that culture that Korean readers may not fully get.   I’m especially excited about introducing a prickly, multilayered woman to an English-language readership. In many cultures, elderly women are rarely depicted as having three dimensionality, much less as people with ambition and dedication to craft. In the US, Asian women in particular are even more rarely seen that way. Can you talk about what you had in mind as you were developing the character of Hornclaw? It never occurred to me when I was writing this novel that it would go to the US, and I’m not that familiar with how Americans perceive older Asian women. But regardless of country or culture, assuming that older women are looked down upon and discriminated against in general, I think the only difference would be their relative social standing and economic power. As you mention, it does seem that older Asian women are seen that way by non-Asian people. It could be that those views unconsciously impacted me, as the older woman assassin I created is a small, shabby, easily forgettable person.   There is only a brief mention of a baby that Hornclaw sends away for adoption. Hornclaw is matter of fact about maternal roles and that experience doesn’t define her. Our culture defines women so much by motherhood that this felt fresh and groundbreaking. When you were writing about Hornclaw, were you including criticism of the roles or expectations of women? It wasn’t my intention to critique when I was writing the book; rather, I intuitively thought that these attitudes and feelings would make sense for this character. I wrote certain parts without precisely mapping out each and every intention and behavior, instead writing in ways that felt right, and this is an example of that. But afterward, I did think that I wrote it with the intention you mention. There’s a time gap between the act of writing a sentence and the act of interpreting its meaning. In other words, what I wrote reflects my own thoughts about maternal love. Maternal love isn’t essential or innate to women, but our society stipulates that it is and pressures women, and that would be especially so for a woman old enough to be considered a grandmother. I think I was revealing my rejection of that stereotype, my rejection of those types of demands on women, without necessarily being cognizant of it.   ©Ozak    There is warmth and kindness in your work, in that each character, no matter how flawed or unlikeable, is seen in their full humanity. Can you talk about your affinity for outsiders who populate works like Wizard Bakery, Pagwa, Agami (Gills), and Bird Strike? I don’t believe that literature needs to shine a spotlight on people who are appreciated in society and live nice lives, though of course they have their own challenges. There are also writers who truly dedicate themselves to illuminating the shadows, examining poor and disadvantaged communities, and depicting abjection, the rejected, and the precariat, so I don’t think it’s quite right to say that I write specifically about outsiders that frequently.   While Hornclaw sees her declining physical ability and growing empathy to be weaknesses, it could be said that she’s growing as a person. Many people believe that there is tension between objective excellence and developing and maturing as a well-rounded person. What kind of commentary did you want to make about aging? I was thirty-six when I completed this novel. I wasn’t acutely feeling what it was like to age, and you could say I was at the peak of my youth, especially by today’s standards. I understood old age only intellectually, so I do think that the details of aging as I wrote them are not as accurate. While it can be desirable as a human being to sympathize with others, to be compassionate, and to actively intervene and help others, those qualities remind me of the virtues of care work that are often only demanded of women. That’s why for Hornclaw they are signs of weakness and why she feels disinclined toward them. This novel doesn’t promote an idea of what people become as they age or what people should be like as they grow older. It merely shows what it’s like to be old. It shows that when a thousand young people get old, each of those thousand people grows old differently. If someone reads this novel and thinks, This doesn’t make any sense, there’s nobody like this in the world, I would say that I’m not telling a story about all “typical” old people in the world (or what people want to believe is typical), but about this specific old person, this one woman.   Translated and Interviewed by Chi-Young Kim    

  by Chi-Young Kim

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  Interview with Choi Jin-young: Treating Precious Things Preciously

  When I first read To the Warm Horizon in summer 2017, I had no idea my English translation of it would be published in spring 2021, past the one-year mark of the COVID-19 outbreak. You predicted a virus spreading throughout the world—were you surprised? It must feel very different to discuss your novel now. I was frightened that a situation similar to what I’d written in my novel happened in real life. I’m still very frightened. I wrote Horizon against the backdrop of a disaster caused by a virus, but I had only imagined it. I never thought something I’d imagined would become reality. At the time, I hadn’t experienced a global pandemic like COVID-19. That’s probably why I was able to imagine such a thing. The book would be harder to write now because the real experience would curb my imagination. I had thought that an infectious disease would discriminate less on the basis of race and nation than war or natural disaster. I hope this pandemic won’t escalate like it does in my novel. I hope we can navigate this situation well. I wish for us to treat our precious lives preciously. I wish for us not to lose loved ones.   There’s another big difference. While we’re each in our own homes, the characters leave their homes, neighborhoods, country. I read that you used Google Earth while composing the novel. Could you tell us more about that process? That’s right. In the novel, borders crumble, when in reality, there are national lockdowns and travel restrictions. Through COVID-19, I realized just how important each nation’s role is in the face of a global disaster. While writing Horizon, I had a world map on my wall and often marvelled at the enormous size of Russia. I wanted my characters to leave Korea and speed across a very vast land . . . but I’ve never been to Russia myself. I didn’t have the time or money to go there for research. So I turned to Google Earth. Exploring Russia through satellite images, I imagined the characters’ routes and lives there. Perhaps I was able to imagine more freely while traveling via Google Earth.   The novel doesn’t indicate which city each of the characters lived in prior to the disaster, but Dori and Joy start their escape from Incheon Port. Is that why the novelist Kim Sehee interviewed you there? It’s a little embarrassing, but that was my first time at Incheon Port. My publishers wanted me to do the interview in a place that was meaningful for me while writing Horizon. But as I revealed just now, I sat in my room, turned on Google Earth, and wrote facing my wall. It was my publishers who thought of Incheon Port. On the day of the interview, the air was thick with fine dust. I remember we talked about the view looking very apocalyptic. In my first reading of Horizon, the crowd at Incheon Port overlapped with the refugees caused by the Korean War. It was striking to me that even in a sci-fi novel set in the near future, the Korean Peninsula is still divided and South Koreans have to reach Russia through China. I intentionally did not mention reunification in the novel. I assumed they could reach Russia via North Korea or China. The novel doesn’t elaborate on how Jina’s family reached Russia in their box trucks or how Ryu’s family begins to evacuate from Vladivostok. I think they could have passed through North Korea. Whether Korea is reunified or not, I wanted to leave it to the reader’s imagination. Reunification is an extremely difficult yet dear task for Koreans. Instead of “reunification” I want to say “peace.” Reunification seems like a narrower concept. After peace, reunification will be possible as well. Whether the Koreas become one country or not, I wish for the hostility to cease as soon as possible. I wish for the end of the armistice. I wish for the people of South and North Korea to freely travel throughout the Korean Peninsula and connect.   You’ve said Horizon started with your desire “to write an entire novel centered around a lesbian couple.” Did you come up with the characters Dori and Jina first? How did the post-apocalyptic setting come in? Indeed, I wrote Horizon for the love between Dori and Jina. I plotted the apocalypse to show their love more clearly. I could have depicted an ordinary lesbian couple, but to write about the daily lives and love of a Korean lesbian couple, I couldn’t not include the prejudice, hatred, denial, and ignorance around homosexuality . . .  I felt trapped. If it were set in reality, everyone in the novel except Dori and Jina would lead peaceful lives, while the lesbian couple would suffer. I didn’t want to write that kind of novel. So I decided to throw the whole world in a difficult situation, amid a disaster where survival is the only goal. I wanted to show how Dori and Jina’s love shines in such a situation.   I really love the novel’s title and wanted to recreate it well in English. A literal translation would be “To the Place Where the Sun Sets,” but that’s too long and stiff; “To the Sunset” gives off somewhat of a cowboy movie vibe. To preserve the novel’s unique warmth, I decided on To the Warm Horizon. On a surface level, it means to go toward summer, to that warm horizon, because this winter in Russia is too cold—but I also wanted to evoke queer theorist Jose Esteban Muñoz in his assertion that there will always be another horizon, a there and then that looks better than the here and now. That “we can feel [queerness] as the warm illumination of a horizon imbued with potentiality.” Our correspondence in the early stages of translating encouraged me greatly. You told me recently that there’s a Russian translator working on this novel. I’m very curious as to how they will translate the title! Thank you so much for coming up with a great English title. I think To the Warm Horizon is a beautifully poetic title. I’m also very curious about how they translated the title into Russian. I wonder how Russian readers will respond to my novel set in Russia; I hope they don’t feel that their country is misrepresented. I did exchange some messages with the Russian translator, but I didn’t ask any questions. Not about the title either. I don’t want the translator to feel pressured by my questions. I believe in the aesthetic sense and interpretation of translators. As soon as I saw the title of your novel Ijeya eonni-ege published last year, I thought it would be extremely difficult to translate, and I still don’t know how to translate it. But I have to translate this interview, so I truly brought this upon myself. [laughs] You explained the protagonist’s name Yi Jeya as not only as a pun on the Korean adverb ijeya meaning “finally” or “at last,” but also as her parents’ intention to name her after the noun jeya meaning “New Year’s Eve,” which is also her birthday. She also shares a syllable with her sister Jenny, and there’s even an “Unni” in the title . . . Do you tend to come up with names first? How do you decide? I sketch the character first, then decide on their name. I don’t spend much time deliberating. I choose the name that comes to mind intuitively. The longer I write with that name, the more the name and character coal esce. As someone who doesn’t know anything about translation, I might suggest writing the name Jeya in English and including a footnote? It might be nice for non-Korean readers to call Jeya as Jeya. I think the characters in the translated books I read use their original names as well . . . But translation is much more complicated than this, I’m sure.    Yes, character names are very rarely changed. But I did change the name of a character I really adore in Horizon. As you know, the Korean name Miso (meaning “smile”) is symbolic in a post-apocalyptic novel with characters who have “left our jokes and laughter behind in our hometown.” Since a simple transliteration would lose its meaning and remind most readers of Japanese miso soup, I boldly changed her name to Joy. In this way, your double meanings are renewed: “As Dad died, he asked me to look after Joy,” “I hid Joy behind my back and took out my jackknife,” “I felt like I’d grow farther from Joy whichever way I went.” The sorrow and charm of translation is that I had to change the name because it’s so apt. I also like Joy very much. I hesitated a lot as I wrote the ending. Joy is Deaf. In Korean, miso means “to grin without a sound.” A smile you can’t hear but only see. I sympathize with your concerns and appreciate them. I think Joy is an excellent choice. Translation seems like a very difficult task, but the rewards must be just as great.   Speaking of Joy, you seem to value adolescent perspectives. Young characters who like burgers and undergo difficult situations often appear in your novels. I lived half of my life as a child and a teenager. Whenever I see an adult disrespecting a child, I think, Don’t they remember they were once a child? If one must understand another to create a harmonious world, I think adults should understand children. Because we were all children once. With many curiosities and things we couldn’t understand. Who learned by making mistakes, who needed adult protection. But I find many adults in this world who don’t respect children and treat them only as immature beings. It enrages me to see adults treating children in coercive and violent ways.   To the Warm Horizon was adapted for the stage in 2020! I was touched just by seeing the teaser photos of Jina and Dori wearing puffer jackets in a field. Did you get a chance to see the play? Yes. The theater students at Dankook University staged it as their graduation project last winter and invited me. Even then, the audience wore masks because of COVID. It was a very beautiful, elegant, heartwarming play. And I got to meet Dori, Jina, Joy, and Ryu who had existed only in my head. The stage director won a theater grant for their adaptation, and a few days ago, I found the crowdfunding page for another run this year. I donated with great pleasure. A movie would be great as well . . .I wish for Dori and Jina to reach many more people through various ways. You’ve said, “Once a book is published, it’s no longer mine. It starts a new life as readers pick it up.” I read this as an invitation for fan works, whether it be interpretations or adaptations. I think the more diverse the interpretations and points of appreciation, the greater the novel’s potential and possibilities become. I enjoy empathizing with readers in that way, as well as finding differences between our experiences. Those who read Horizon can collect their own impressions and memories, after which it’s no longer my book. I’d like for more people to be inspired to write as they read.   You’ve also mentioned a possible sequel to Horizon! But you said, “I’ll try when I run out of material someday”—doesn’t that mean we’ll have to wait for a very long time? For now at least, I think writing a completely new story is more meaningful to me than writing a sequel. Plus, new stories feel freer and more fun. But I do sometimes imagine sequels, prequels, spin-offs, etc. to the novels I’ve written, and feel motivated. Thinking about characters I miss, I feel even more motivated. So my answer as to a Horizon sequel . . . I’ll leave as an open ending. [laughs]   You’ve been so prolific that it’s difficult to list all the titles, but you describe yourself as “subtly hard-working.” I wouldn’t say you’re subtle—your work ethic is totally obvious! [laughs] Which must be why last year, fifteen years into your career, you won the Manhae Literature Award for the aforementioned novel Dear Yi Jeya (this translation will do for now) and the Baek Shin-ae Literature Award for your short story collection Winter Break. You said in another interview, “My life is a life where I can think about novels all day.” How do you look after your health? I read that you live according to a very regular routine. Every day, I feel gratitude for being able to write like this. On days I have to run an errand in Seoul or do something other than writing, I get a little anxious. I feel like I should get through the day and return to writing. My days are simple when I write. I clean the house and do laundry in the morning and write from noon to 5 or 6 p.m. In the evening, I take a walk for an hour to two, then come home to drink beer and fall asleep. This routine grounds me. If I have a dream, it’s to continue to live like this. I don’t do anything special for my health. Walks are my only form of exercise. But I’m starting to feel the need for something else. My lower back, neck, and shoulders hurt . . . Would yoga help?   From translating your novel actually, I learned how physically taxing novels are. Since then I’ve been trying to take care of my body and mind with the belief that I can’t write without my health. In your interviews you come across as an icon of self-sufficiency, but also discuss loneliness quite often. How do you relieve your loneliness? Do you have any advice for readers who have grown weary from a year of social distancing? I’m relieved when I’m adequately lonely. From a young age I spent a lot of time alone and didn’t have many friends either. Perhaps that’s why I started writing fiction. There was, of course, a time I used to hate loneliness. I was sick and tired of it. The more I hated myself for being alone, the lower my self-esteem became. I grew distrustful of others and looked at the world with great hostility. After that difficult time, I found tranquility. I came to accept loneliness as I accepted my personality. I’m not one to give advice, but . . . we’re all lonely beings. I don’t think loneliness is something that can be “solved” by people or life events. Loneliness will be beside us forever. It allows us to live a little slower and think about others. Feelings such as joy and happiness can be felt more clearly because of it. Then isn’t loneliness very precious? I think it’d be nice if we didn’t hate ourselves for feeling lonely but appreciate our understanding of it.   You expressed interest in writing something set in space, a horror story, and a story involving exorcism—which do you think you’ll try next? Yes, there’s a lot I’d like to write. But I think there’s a limit to the stories I can write right now. To write what I want to write, I need to read many more books, study the world more actively, and imagine more boldly. Luckily, I love reading and imagining, so someday I might achieve my goals. Without forgetting what I want to write later, I want to focus on what I can write right now.   Interviewer · Translator Soje Soje is the translator of Choi Jin-young’s To the Warm Horizon (Honford Star, 2021), Lee Soho’s Catcalling (Open Letter Books, 2021), and Lee Hyemi’s Unexpected Vanilla (Tilted Axis Press, 2020). They also make chogwa, a quarterly e-zine featuring one Korean poem and multiple English translations. Choi Jin-young (b. 1981) was born on a snowy day in Seoul and moved around often during her childhood. She made her literary debut in 2006 by winning the Silcheon Munhak New Writer’s Award and has since won various awards, including the 2010 Hankyoreh Literary Award, the 2014 Shin Dong-yup Literary Prize, the 2020 Baek Shin-ae Literature Award, and the 2020 Manhae Prize for Literature. She has authored the novels The Name of the Girl Who Brushed Past You Is . . ., The Never-Ending Song, Why Did I Not Die, The Proof of Ku, To the Warm Horizon, and Dear Yi Jeya; the novella A Dream of Becoming Me; and the short-story collections A Spinning Top and Winter Break. The English translation of To the Warm Horizon is forthcoming from Honford Star in May, 2021.   

  by Soje

• 

  Interview with Keum Suk Gendry-Kim: Imagining the Collective Memory of History

  Your graphic novel Grass was published in English in 2019 by Drawn & Quarterly. The press had asked me to write a blurb, so I was fortunate to read it pre-publication. I was honored to recommend such a powerful book. I’m so happy we can speak through this interview. It’s great to meet you. I read the Korean translation of your collection, A Cruelty Special to Our Species, and would like to offer my sincere congratulations on the Korean launch. It’s my honor to have received a blurb from you for the English version of Grass, and I would like to take this opportunity to express my sincere thanks. I’m glad that our connection has extended to this, and that we can converse through this correspondence.   As the whole world is suffering from the COVID-19 pandemic, I want to ask first how you’re doing. How does the pandemic affect your creative process? What do you do to take care of the weary body and mind? Due to the nature of my work, I spend a lot of time alone. Before COVID-19, I would freely visit relevant sites and gather materials for my project. After the book is published, I would then have author events at libraries, schools, and bookstores, and hold exhibitions as well. Now that traveling and meeting people is limited due to COVID-19, it’s difficult to visit sites and collect materials. Book signings and exhibitions in Korea have been canceled or postponed; the same goes for events overseas. Other than that, my daily life hasn’t really changed since I spend most of my time in my studio, working. As for how the pandemic has affected my process—since fieldwork isn’t feasible, I’m writing scenarios based on my own experiences. I locate some universal elements within them and work with those. To care for myself, I take my dogs (Carrot, Potato, and Choco) out for a walk once a day. Whether it’s cold, hot, rainy, or snowy, we go for a walk. Even when I’m tired and want to rest, I have to take them out. It’s a lot of responsibility, but it makes me happy to see them enjoying themselves.   You majored in painting as an undergraduate, then went to France to study sculpture. What prompted you to work with a different medium, in a different language? As a university student, drawing on a flat surface, I felt hemmed in. I was twenty at the time, young and very energetic. I had a lot of complaints about the world and society I was living in. Maybe that’s why I found drawing on a flat surface restricting. I wanted to work in 3D; not with a small canvas, but with something large. So I moved on to sculpture, installation, and spatial work. Even in the early 1990s, it wasn’t easy to live as a female artist in Korean society. Elders would tell me that since I graduated from university, the next step for me was to get married, have children, do housework, and support my husband. I wanted to be recognized as an artist, confident, living my own life. I wanted to leave the patriarchal society of Korea, go to a completely unfamiliar country, and cultivate my life and art. France was a country of art, a country I had looked up to since I was a child. Plus, tuition was almost free. So, I chose to go to France. I’m curious about the process of switching from sculpture to the graphic novel. A single sculpture or painting can hold many stories as well, but did you always have a curiosity or yearning for a genre that can express long, sustained narratives, such as the graphic novel? Also, when I look at your drawing style, I notice engraving- and ink-and-wash-painting-like qualities, which makes me wonder how your various cultural experiences and artistic techniques must have come together to manifest as your current style. My major was Arts at the Ecole Supérieure des Arts-Décoratifs de Strasbourg. I graduated in 1998, but stayed another year to continue my studies. During that year, I worked as a teaching assistant and helped Korean transfer students, and completed my post-diplôme in the Relure (book binding) section. Then, I moved to Paris to live as an artist. At first, I did some exhibits and residencies overseas, but struggled financially. So I started a part-time job translating Korean graphic novels into French, and was surprised to discover the creative potential in the genre. Before I began translating, I wasn’t that interested in the graphic novel. Back in Korea, people treated graphic novels as if they were only books kids read when they were bored. When I was younger, most of the Korean graphic novels were inspired by the Japanese ones and were romance stories or targeted young boys. I translated around a hundred graphic novels. There were more bad ones than good ones. But having translated so much, I learned and realized a lot of things. A creative work represents the artist’s perspective about the world, you know. I felt that through the medium of the graphic novel, I too could express the stories I wanted to convey. Three-dimensional pieces not only require a studio and material fees, but also an exhibition space for viewers. The graphic novel needs a minimum of materials—paper and pencil—and can reach a lot of people through those. This has great potential and power. I thought, This is the best artistic medium. That’s how I began writing and drawing graphic novels myself. I never formally learned how to write and draw for the graphic novel. I just freely express the stories I want to share. I use the brush and ink to draw because these tools suit me best. My father liked to sing pansori (not that he was a professional), and so I also learned pansori. I worked hard at it for about five years and gave up; now I’m satisfied to remain a happy listener. The brush and ink remind me of the pansori singing method. You put weight on the tip of the brush and release, hit, retreat . . . like water flowing, the brushstroke glides, clumps together, pauses, and bounces off. Placing the energy of both the body and the spirit into the brush tip, I draw as if I’m breathing, dancing on the page, sometimes roughly, sometimes softly—as if I’m singing  pansori. As you also probably know, when you live in two cultures, experiencing different cultures is a tremendous blessing and power for the artist. The cultural and life experiences from my seventeen years in France have influenced my work and always will. Seeing and experiencing various cultures expands both your vision and thought.   It’s very interesting that the rhythm of pansori is immersed in your drawing style. It seems that even when one is creating art in a context that seems detached from the environment one grew up in, old memories or linguistic and cultural backgrounds somehow manage to infuse the work with a distinct hue. I mostly work in English/the United States, but I often wonder if my ability to speak Korean actually makes my poetry possible. I believe that the gap between Korean and English is not an absence, but a space rich with poetic imagination, and that because I spoke Korean first, I became sensitive to diction and modes of expression through processes of self-translation. I think I was drawn to poetry because it is a boundless linguistic space. Its lawlessness, in which no type or speech act is wrong, gave me an immense sense of freedom and pleasure. I digress but say all of this because I wonder if you went through a similar emotional process to land on the medium of the graphic novel. Going from canvas to 3D, from home to abroad, and through all of these movements to the graphic novel, seems like you were making motions to fly into a more boundless space. I think that language equals culture. My French is not the best, but reading a text in its original language, not in Korean translation, stirs me in a distinct way. When it is difficult to find a book in its original language, I buy the translated version, but it’s an uncomfortable reading experience when I can see that only the language has been transferred, bereft of cultural knowledge. I think the best translation is when the reader cannot tell it is a translation. Recently, I read an interview with Janet Hong, who translated Grass into English, and saw that she shared that same thought. Since I feel very moved reading a text in its original language, I wish that I knew many languages so I could read books all in their original languages. That would make me so happy. I think that memories from childhood as well as linguistic and cultural background are very important to the artist. I lived in a rural area when I was little. There, I enjoyed the four seasons in nature and ran and played as much as I wanted. I believe that the joyful memories from those times fuel me through my creative endeavors. Going from canvas to 3D, from spatial work to the graphic novel’s panels, are all one within me, albeit in different forms. That is, even though the materials, creative methods and process(and consequently their effects) may differ, the person drawing on the canvas, working with 3D, and making graphic novels, are all me. The essential question is, what story do I want to tell through my work? Of course, as an artist, if I select the most fitting medium and succeed in expressing the story, that is very riveting. Compared to the text-based novel, what do you think are the particular strengths and limits of the graphic novel in telling a story that is significant for you, especially when considering that the story revolves around the sensitive and uncomfortable history of the “comfort women”? * When the text-based novel is reborn as a graphic novel, I examine ways to turn the text into image, since image is also language. In terms of particular strengths, I think that when an image delivers the meaning well without text, the impact is huge. The impact continues to reverberate in the mind. For instance, a lot of readers told me about a specific scene in Grass—that the scene remained with them even after they closed the book. I believe that the symbolic image plays a large role and has power especially in sensitive and uncomfortable stories. As for limits—the novel uses the details in text to allow the reader to imagine, but the graphic novel has to show the details through image, thereby presenting the author’s imagination to the reader. In that way, the graphic novel is similar to film. Let’s say a novel has the sentence “The protagonist’s nose is round and the eyes are those of a lion”; readers would read it and then paint a picture in their minds, and the character would look a little different for each reader.   Since my poetry collection also centers on the history of the “comfort women” of the Japanese Empire, I want to talk more about Grass. Could you explain the significance of the title? Grass symbolizes the powerless, common people in history, who keep rising up despite the forces that beat them down. Among these people, the daughters are the key figures that resemble grass in this book. Many people compare women to flowers. For instance, they might tease unattractive women by calling them “pumpkin flowers” or use the flower as a metaphor for women’s “purity” or virginity. These comparisons are formed by male perspectives. I did not want to tell the story of women as flowers who must be “pure” and chaste and be tended to so that they might stay beautiful; I wanted to tell of women who rose and survived, despite all the agony and hardships. That is why I titled the book Grass.   Last October, Grass won in the Best International Book category of the Harvey Awards, which is known as the “Oscars” of the comic book industry. I’m touched thinking that the recognition can lead to more awareness about the history of “comfort women” among more readers. Though I know every work is dear, it must be a special joy to receive an award for a book that contains not only one woman’s voice and testimony but also a crucial part of women’s history in Asia. After finishing Grass and publishing it in Korea, so much happened. I did not expect that the book would be translated into many languages, and I was deeply grateful that people from around the world connected with it. What’s more, the book received accolades. Even from the initial planning stages, I thought, this story is one Korean woman’s story, certainly, but not a woman’s story from colonial-era Korea in a narrow sense. This story speaks to a problem of humanity. It’s a fact that the Japanese military during this time turned many women of Southeast Asia and even the Netherlands into sex slaves and stripped them of their human rights. Even after the war, these women and their families suffered greatly in silence and trauma. I hope that Grass can uplift the voices of oppressed women, even if by just a little.   You created Grass based on your interviews with Lee Ok-sun, a former “comfort woman.” That must have been a harrowing experience; it hurts to just listen to stories from that painful history, but you had to visualize and render them again. Could you tell us more about the process behind the making of this book? Though you probably could not include every detail you heard, you must have added your imagination sometimes; on each page, there must have been various tough ethical and creative decisions to make. I’m also curious if Lee Ok-sun read the book. I had to revise the storyline many times. In the first storyline, I added the story of Sarah “Saartjie” Baartman (1789–1815). However, as I made progress in my interview with Lee Ok-sun and the writing of the scenario, I deleted that part. Since the stories of women who were forced into sexual slavery in the Japanese military are so distressing, I wanted to convey the stories more calmly. So before I started working on the book, I had to think hard and ask myself a lot of questions. Of course, the questions and concerns continued even as I worked on the book. It is less that the work was painful to me; I hoped that these women would be able to find solace. I thought about how I wanted them to be happy. Using the testimonies as background knowledge, I looked up historical documents and filled in the gaps with my imagination. I pondered deeply about how to represent the violence through images, but not too directly; how to symbolically show the violence without articulating it through language. See, when I was little, I was afraid of ghosts, even though I had never seen them. Even when I grew up, I was afraid of the night. You know how in a dark room, shadows of clothes can look like ghosts? That’s a fear generated through the imagination. I wanted to produce that effect in Grass—have the reader imagine the violence. When Grass was published in Korea, I was in France. Someone from the press took the book to Lee Ok-sun. I also visited her as soon as I returned to Korea. She was truly happy to see the book. The cover has an image of a young woman with a braid, and she cried, saying that the braid looks like how her father would do her hair. I don’t know if she read the book. Not long ago, she said that she lost the book, so I signed and sent another copy to her. I learned that it takes courage to share works that contain other people’s narratives. I was scared when I was writing my book, and scared when it got published. I didn’t know how readers would react since the “comfort women” history is such a sensitive issue, especially in Korea and Japan. When my book was published in Korea last summer, I saw some news articles about the publication on the internet and a few comments that said things like “I’m tired of this story,” or “Stop trying to benefit off the women.” Despite these sentiments in some people, I believe that as people who will live beyond the survivors’ lives, we have a responsibility to continue to “witness,” narrate, and extend their stories. What was your resolve or state of mind when you published Grass? There are certain considerations that go into sharing work that contains others’ narratives, and they are different from considerations for autobiographical works. If it’s my own story, I can add to it or transform it however I want, and I’m only responsible for myself. But the question of whether I can tell another’s story is accompanied by many internal conflicts. I have to be more careful and responsible. I think the people who say they are tired of this story are those who do not know it well. They say that after just looking at it on the surface. I do think readers’ opinions are important, but I don’t pay any mind to those kinds of internet comments. Of course, I don’t think that the people who make those comments all necessarily lack empathy or are bad people. Society as a whole is responsible for not having protected the victims of Japanese sexual slavery. Since it was difficult working on this book from beginning to end, I was relieved when it was published. Rather than the reader response, I was thinking about how I hope that the book doesn’t end up hurting Lee Ok-sun or other victims. I thought that Grass would make its own path, true to its namesake. Before I started working on Grass, and as I worked on it, I asked myself if I’d reflected enough, and just focused on doing the best that I could in my position.   What do you feel is gained or unavoidably lost in the process of rendering a historical truth into artistic language? *  I’m an artist, not a researcher. Thus, I don’t represent historical truth as is; I describe and convey it through my own lens. For example, even when I listen to a testimony, I do not put it wholly into my work. With the testimony as the basis, I look up the historical background and resources, but not to verify it. Even within the testimony itself, there are parts I select and parts I leave out. Sometimes I insert authorial imagination. Though, yes, there are many things I need to be careful about when using my imagination for a work that is based on a historical truth. I would say that in my work, I try to approach an issue from a human standpoint, and make the work about the people themselves; that is how my work is different from a research paper. I would say there’s a “difference,” not “loss.” Your most recent publication is The Waiting, which was published last September and tells the story of a family separated during the Korean War. I know that you developed and wrote this story over a long time, and that it is based on your mother’s experience. Could you tell us about the process of making a graphic novel based on a more personal, familystory? *   The Waiting is actually based on many people’s lives and experiences. Though my mother was separated from her family, I have to be cautious about telling only about her life, since that would reveal a lot about her and my family’s history. That’s why this book is a work of fiction, not nonfiction. In 2018, I met two people in a family who had been separated during the war and then reunited. Based on their testimonies and the long interviews I had with my mother, in addition to other books and resources, I wrote the storyline for the book. The reason I turned it into fiction is because I wanted to avoid hurting people. The Waiting is similar to Grass in that it allows one to recognize a bigger history by looking at a story at its most personal. The Waiting challenges one to consider how many historical events transform and scar an innumerable number of individuals’ lives, and how we, as people living through this era, should continue to live. I came up with the idea for The Waiting in 1999, so it has been more than twenty years in the making. Back then, I wasn’t planning to turn it into a graphic novel; I had simply started tape-recording and writing. Then the Korean publication came out last year, and it will soon be published in English, French, Portuguese, Italian, and Arabic in 2021.   Thank you for concretizing into image and story another piece of Korean history that is disappearing from collective memory. I want to end the interview with: what are your plans for 2021? My plan for this year is to publish a graphic novel that I’m working on, which is about the relationship between dogs and humans. An old but previously unpublished work will also be released this year. Grass, Jun, The Naked Tree, and The Waiting will also be published in some other countries. I was invited to exhibits, lectures, and signings in various countries, but due to COVID, it seems like I will have to move events from the first half of this year to next year. Other than that, my plan for this year is to “spend each precious day creating with joy and loving to the fullest.”   * This question was posed to the author by KLN.—Ed.   Interviewer · Translator Emily Jungmin Yoon Emily Jungmin Yoon is the author of A Cruelty Special to Our Species (Ecco, 2018). She is the poetry editor at the Asian American Writers’ Workshop and a PhD candidate in Korean literature at the University of Chicago. Keum Suk Gendry-Kim (b. 1971) was born in Goheung in Jeolla Province, a county famous for its beautiful mountains and shores. She has written and illustrated the graphic novels Grass, The Waiting, Jiseul, Jun, The Naked Tree, and Alexandra Kim, a Woman of Siberia; the autobiographical comic The Song of My Father; the three-volume children’s comic Kkokkaengi; the picture books The Baby Hanyeo Okrang Goes to Dokdo and A Day with My Grandpa; and the children’s book My Mother Kang Geumsun. Grass (Drawn & Quarterly, 2019) appeared on Best of the Year lists from the New York Times and the Guardian, and received the Cartoonist Studio Prize for Best Print Comic of the Year and the Big Other Book Award for Best Graphic Novel in 2019, and the Harvey Award for Best International Book and the Krause Essay Prize in 2020. The Waiting, her second book to appear in English translation, is forthcoming from Drawn & Quarterly in September 2021.  

  by Emily Jungmin Yoon

• 

  The Correspondence — Janet Hong & Ha Seong-nan

        1. from:                 Janet Hong to:                      Ha Seong-nan date:                  Tue, Mar 27, 2007, 4:26 AM subject:             안녕하세요   Dear Ha Seong-nan seonsaeng-nim, Please excuse me—I’m not very good at writing in Korean. I’m sorry it took me so long to reach out to you, but thank you for being so kind on the phone. I started speaking abruptly without even properly introducing myself, didn’t I? I thought you might feel more comfortable if you knew something about the person translating your book. I was born in Incheon in 1980 but have lived in Seattle, USA, and Vancouver, Canada, since the age of two. I moved back to Korea for a bit when I was in the first grade, but then immigrated to Vancouver in the middle of the second grade. I lived in Korea for about four years in total. I studied English literature and fine art history at the University of British Columbia. I first read your work in my sophomore year. I’d taken Dr. Ross King’s Korean class to improve my Korean, and the final project was to translate a Korean short story. The story Dr. King assigned to me wasn’t any fun. (I can’t even remember the author. -.-) At the time, my mother was reading your book 《옆집여자》 (The Woman Next Door) and enjoying it a lot. She said I should try my hand at translating the title story and so I did, with the professor’s blessings. He then recommended that I submit my manuscript to a translation competition held by the Korea Times. I didn’t even know such a contest existed! And, to my shock, I ended up winning the grand prize. Since then, I’ve wanted to translate more of your stories because I feel your writing and style fit mine. I applied to LTI Korea and received a grant to translate five stories from the collection: 〈옆집여자〉 (“The Woman Next Door”), 〈곰팡이꽃〉 (“Flowers of Mold”), 〈깃발〉 (“Flag”), 〈올콩〉 (“Early Beans”), and 〈촛농날개〉 (“Waxen Wings”). I’m so happy to meet you this way. I’ve dreamed of becoming a writer since I was a child. Translating your stories while I write my own is proving to be very helpful. I’m a bit particular so I don’t tend to do things halfway. I work through the translation line by line, going over it again and again. Maybe that’s why even when I write in English, my sentences sometimes sound like yours. Isn’t that funny? If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep translating you for as long as I can. 감사합니다! Janet Hong (홍지명) PS: Please let me know if you couldn’t understand any parts of this email because of my Korean. I’ll write in English next time. :)   2. From:                Ha Seong-nan To:                    Janet Hong Date:                Thu, Mar 29, 2007, 8:32 PM Subject:            하성란입니다   It’s been a long time since we’ve had a bright sunny day in Seoul like today. A few days back, though, the sky turned dark in the middle of the day and hail started pouring down. I went to pick up my daughter from school because she’d left her umbrella at home, but I ended up missing her. While I was scrambling to find her, she was on her way home, getting soaked in the rain... I’d wanted to see her smile when I showed up at her school with an umbrella. I walked so briskly that day that my legs were sore for two days. The thing is, I just had a baby. He’s a little over 40 days old now. This is one of the reasons I’ve been slow with everything, including replying to your email. I received two emails from you so far. I was worried, because my Yahoo mail’s been acting up, but the email you sent to my Hanmail address showed up fine. I’ll read through your emails and respond next week. I’ll write if I have any questions. It’s been only a few times, but it’s always nice to hear from you. Talk soon. Best, Ha Seong-nan           3. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Fri, Sep 14, 2007, 4:27 AM subject:            하성란입니다   Hello, Janet. Fall has come to Seoul, and there’s a cool breeze in the mornings and evenings. Today, I put on some music by Buena Vista Social Club and was in a melancholic mood. Fall is quite strange, isn’t it? How is fall over there? Do you have fall there? I met Dr. Lee Young-jun this Wednesday. He gave me the inaugural issue of Azalea. It was launch party for the magazine, you see. I wish you’d been there as well. Dr. Lee likes your translation of 〈곰팡이꽃〉 (“Flowers of Mold”) a lot. My English isn’t great, but I’m slowly making my way through your translation. It doesn’t feel like my story anymore but something I co-wrote with you. I really hope to meet you one day. Please contact me when you’re in Seoul. It would be nice if it’s fall then, too. 그럼 총총. Ha Seong-nan     4. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sep 14, 2007, 5:23 PM subject:             Re: 하성란입니다   Dear Ha Seong-nan seonsaeng-nim, How are you? I was just thinking of emailing you when your email came in. I’m so happy to hear you received your copy! I haven’t received mine yet. I’m sure you do countless revisions of your manuscript. I also agonize over every word as I translate. To be honest, it takes me so long because I try to convey every line faithfully in English. It’s all the more difficult because your writing has so many levels of meanings. I think I know all your stories by heart now. But I mean to pick up my pace. I don’t know if you remember but I once told you that having read so much of your writing, my own writing is starting to resemble yours. Strange, isn’t it? I hope to find a good publisher for the book. I’ll do my best. I really want to meet you! Janet Hong (홍지명) PS: The more I translate your writing, the more I admire you. I want to translate you forever!     5. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Fri, Sep 26, 2008, 11:21 AM subject:             Re: 〈당신의 백미러〉 (question)   하성란 선생님, 안녕하세요. 잘 지내셨어요? It’s been a while since we last talked. I’m sorry for not writing more often to update you. Actually, I recently got married during the summer and we moved across Canada to Toronto from Vancouver. So I’ve been very busy! Currently, I’m translating your short story 〈당신의 백미러〉 for LTI Korea to be included in their anthology. I had a question I wanted to ask you. 미라보 (mirabo): Since there are several references to this name and the story ends with this word, I feel that this word is very important. But what is the significance of this name? Right now, I translated this as “Mirabeau.” Is this right? I’ve researched the name and there are various entries for it: a figure in the French revolution, a French economist, the name of a French bridge, etc. Could you explain why you chose this name? Maybe I’m not getting something... Sincerely, Janet Hong     6. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sun, Sep 28, 2008, 9:28 PM subject:            하성란입니다   First of all, congratulations on your marriage. Marriage is a new beginning. I’m cheering you on from afar. In Korea, motels are sometimes named after places or bridges in other countries. In this story, Mirabeau is the name of a bridge. But it also alludes to revolution. The word Mirabeau is mentioned only in reference to the motel name. I sent you a copy of my book Wafers. Did you get it? I’m currently serializing a novel. I’ll send you a copy when it comes out in book form… Ha Seong-nan           7. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Aug 8, 2011, 12:29 PM subject:             Daesan Foundation Translation grant   Dear Ms. Ha, Hello! I hope you’re having a nice summer so far. I heard from the Daesan Foundation a few days ago and I’m happy to tell you that I received the grant! :) So for the upcoming year, I’ll be focusing my energies on translating Bluebeard’s First Wife. Thank you for sending in the consent form and I’m excited about translating more of your work! I hope to meet with you in person in the near future! Janet     8. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Aug 9, 2011, 7:02 PM subject:            Re: Daesan Foundation Translation grant   Congratulations on winning the grant! I was happy all day as if I’d won it myself. Summer in Seoul started off with rain, and it’s still raining sporadically. Wellington boots have become the must-have item for women this summer. Everywhere, you can see the letters HUNTER flashing from women’s legs. I think we’ll be able to meet in the near future. The schedule hasn’t been finalized yet, but as you know, I may visit Canada through the support of the Korea Foundation. One of the reasons I agreed to the bilingual reading tour is so that I’d get to meet you. I’m trying to wrap up my novel A so I can give it to you when we meet, but I’m not sure if the book will be ready by then. The theme of “disaster” keeps cropping up in Korean novels these days. I’ve been reflecting on life after witnessing and experiencing many different things. I’m also feeling grateful for this life. I wish you good health and happiness. In anticipation that we’ll meet soon, Ha Seong-nan           9. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Oct 15, 2011, 6:24 PM subject:             하성란입니다   It’s been a long time since we’ve had autumn rain in Seoul. We had thunder and lightning all afternoon yesterday, and it was dark even during the day. I got your email on the weekend. I was planning to write back after work on Monday once I’d read it carefully, but here I am, writing an email to you, sitting in the living room this Sunday morning while everyone is still asleep. I’m already excited at the thought of meeting you. All the more because we’ve only exchanged emails and never met in person. I’ll be away from home for almost two weeks. I’m worried about my youngest, but if I think about Dr. Fulton’s passion and efforts, I want to go and do a good job. Because of my laziness, the revised version of my novel A hasn’t come out yet. I should have finished it sooner, but I kept getting distracted for various reasons. I’ll bring you a copy of the original. There are some things I’m not entirely happy with, but I’d be glad if you read it. I’ve finished serializing the story 〈여우여자〉 online. The book version will come out sometime next year. I’ll send you a copy when it does.^^ I’ve decided to write slowly, earnestly, and without greed. Have a restful weekend. See you in November. Ha Seong-nan     10. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Dec 6, 2011, 8:11 AM subject:             Re: Question about 〈푸른수염의 첫번째 아내〉   Hello! How are you? :) I trust that you returned home safely. I’m sure you’ve been busy catching up to your work and getting settled back into the rhythm of things. I had a quick question. I’m in the process of getting the “Bluebeard’s First Wife” story ready to submit to a translation contest. I was wondering how I should change the measurements for the 오동나무. How tall does an 오동나무 grow, if it’s been growing for about 30 years? I’m also considering applying for a small translation grant for your novel A. I’ll use the first chapter of the novel as a sample. Are there any changes I should be aware of or can I just translate the chapter as it appears in the novel? Hope this finds you well and it was so nice to meet you after all these years! Janet         11. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Wed, Dec 7, 2011, 10:31 PM subject:            하성란입니다   How are you, Janet? I still haven’t finished my short story, and I have a bad habit of postponing long responses until I finish the work in front of me. That’s why I kept putting off replying to your email. It took me a while to get back to my daily routine after returning to Korea. The many different time zones and the busy schedule must have had something to do with it, but I think I was feeling tense. Still, I felt a little empty when the thing that felt like would never end actually came to an end. I see your face in the photo the university sent me. A bright, strong face. In it I see the future of Korean literature in translation.^^ 잘 부탁드립니다. I started reading Alice Munro’s book. I can see why you like her and why you say you see similarities in my writing. I’ll write you again about 오동나무 once I finish my story. I’ll keep you and your baby in my prayers. Talk soon, Ha Seong-nan         12. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Feb 16, 2012, 12:26 PM subject:             〈오, 아버지〉   안녕하세요 하성란 선생님! Hello, how are you? I’m guessing you are keeping very busy as usual. :) I’m trying to finish the translation of Bluebeard before the baby comes at the end of June. There’s not much time left! I’m working on 〈오, 아버지〉 right now, and I had a quick question: In the second paragraph of the first page, when you write “The only complex I have was because of my father,” what exactly is the “only complex”? (For example, does she fear that she is not as smart/pretty/talented as 진이? Is that her deepest fear?) Thank you!! Janet     13. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Fri, Feb 17, 2012, 5:02 PM subject:             Re: 〈오, 아버지〉    So your baby is due at the end of June… I was born at the end of June too. I don’t know about the weather in Canada around that time, but in Seoul it starts getting hot around then. I’ll pray for the baby and you. As the delivery Date: nears, Korean mothers are advised to eat a lot of meat-based protein. What do they recommend in Canada?^^ 〈오, 아버지〉 is largely autobiographical. It was published as part of an “autobiographical stories” series in a journal. The story doesn’t specify what the “only complex” is. (To keep the reader curious.) It’s not explained anywhere in the story. How about adding a sentence to the effect that the narrator hasn’t told anybody about the complex? A new short story collection will come out at the end of April or early May. A story called 〈오후, 가로지르다〉 is included in it. I’ll send you a copy along with my first novel 《루빈의 술잔》. It’s quite a boring book. As far as I know, it’s gone out of print now. I’ll talk to you soon. I sometimes think of your dark eyes, Jeemyung sshi. Ha Seong-nan             14. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, May 20, 2013, 6:31 PM subject:             하성란입니다^^   It’s been so long. I’ve been curious how you were getting on and I’ve been thinking about you. She must have had the baby by now. The baby must have started walking by now. Still, I couldn’t write you. The past year for me has gone by so quickly. I’ll tell you the reason when we meet next time. Baby S looks so cute in the picture you sent me. I pictured your fiancé’s face whom I’ve met only once. And your face as you chase S around. A smile came to my lips automatically. Do you remember the wallet you gave me in the States? It’s become an essential item for me. Is it too much if I say it makes me feel like you’re with me? ㅎㅎ Your work pace must have slowed down because of the baby. But I’m sure you’re cherishing this time. I’ll pray for your family’s peace and happiness. See you soon, Ha Seong-nan         15. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Apr 7, 2014, 6:36 PM subject:            하성란입니다   Ah... I’m so sad to hear what happened. I wish I had the proper words to comfort you. I realized it’s been a while since we spoke. I’m sorry for not keeping in touch more regularly. I can imagine how busy you must be translating Han Yujoo’s book. Writers in Korea say this at such times: 건강 건필! Janet sshi, good health and good writing!!! Ha Seong-nan     16. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Apr 8, 2014, 3:26 PM subject:             Re: 하성란입니다           Dear 선생님, Thank you for your kind words. I know you mentioned a few times that 《루빈의 술잔》 is no longer in print, but I would still love to read it! :) I’ve only heard GREAT things about your first collection. Whenever I like a writer, I always read their first works to see how they began. I’ve attached my revised translation of “The Star-shaped Stain.” Because I needed to bring down the word count, I had to abridge it. I hope you don’t mind. Now it’s sitting at under 6000 words, which is short enough to submit to a journal I had in mind. (The max word count was 6000 words). I cut the beginning and started a few pages into the story. Instead of adding any new sentences, I basically played around with your sentences and placed some of the sentences I had removed to later parts of the story in order to build context. If you have any questions or concerns about what I have done, please let me know and I can explain or change it. By the way, have you read more of Alice Munro? I was so very happy when she won the Nobel Prize, but at the same time, it was a little sad, because she was always MY special writer and now I feel like I have to share her with everyone else. Yours, Janet           17. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Thu, Nov 19, 2015, 6:18 PM subject:             하성란입니다   Dear Janet whom I miss so much... I see lots of congratulations are in order. Congratulations on getting a pretty little baby daughter. How lucky you are to have both a son and daughter. How you must dote on her. It’ll be her first birthday soon. I’m curious who she resembles. Send me a picture.^^ If I read your email correctly, you’re writing a novel, am I right? I know you dream of becoming a writer. Reading a full-length book in English will be a lot harder than reading short emails, but I really want to read your novel. Just like you read mine with such affection. I look forward to a great book!!! I’m really looking forward to it. Oh and congrats on the publication of 〈기쁘다 구주 오셨네〉. My next book, 《여우여자》, is set to be published next summer. There are so many things to celebrate… Translating and writing with two babies. I can guess what sort of time the past year has been for you. Time will pass more and more quickly. I’ll write you more often. Peace and love to you and yours... Ha Seong-nan         18. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                  Sat, Oct 22, 2016, 5:00 PM sub:                    Re: 선생님                                          I’m so glad to hear that you’re writing. And to think Madeleine Thien is helping you. (I really hope she wins the Man Booker Prize!!!^^) It was your dream to write a novel, even more than translating, right? Still, I hope you’ll keep on translating good books and make them widely known. :) I’ve started serializing a novel, but I’m struggling and am at a loss. I think I need to straighten myself out and prepare for the next ten years. I’m not good at time management. I’ve realized too late that it won’t do to keep working like this. I can’t wait to read your story about the haenyeo. It sounds like a fresh unconventional story. A close friend of mine has moved to Canada with her two children. Now it’s Janet’s Canada and her Canada. Maybe Canada isn’t that far away after all. I’d like to fly there and meet you and your two children. 건강, 건필이에요!!! 재닛!!! Good health and good writing to you!! XOXO Ha Seong-nan     19. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                  Sun, Oct 23, 2016, 10:17 PM subject:             Re: Re: 선생님                                         선생님, It is SO good to hear from you. And not to worry—I plan to continue translating for as long as I’m writing. I feel that translation makes me a better writer, so I would never give this up. And I plan to translate YOU for as long as possible—you were my first love in Korean literature—the reason why I got into translating in the first place—so I don’t plan to stop translating you. As I’ve told you numerous times, I am your biggest fan. :) Yes, I remember you telling me that you had started a serial novel recently. I know you have the answer inside you—I’m sure it’ll just come to you as you’re showering or brushing your teeth. :) You can do it!! I believe in you!! In your story 〈오, 아버지〉, I love especially the ending. The fact that it is SHE (the narrator) who manages to find where her father has been leading his double life, even how she stands there blocking the source of light that’s flowing into the house... it’s a subtle yet wonderful statement of her power, that moment when she realizes the power that she carries... and also of her standing her ground, laying claim to what she feels is rightfully hers. This image of her standing in the doorway (= threshold) is so symbolic, it’s something that can get unpacked more and more, just like the rest of the story. It’s really amazing all the complexities the story speaks on about the sense of ownership we feel over the people we love... I love it! Keep writing and don’t despair! Warmest, Janet     20. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Wed, Jan 18, 2017, 3:06 PM subject:             저 푸른 초원 위에   선생님! How are you? I just wanted to let you know that today, I took out your story again and read 〈저 푸른 초원 위에〉. What an incredible, chilling piece of work! I remember I had liked it when I’d read it before, but for some reason, I don’t remember it being this sinister, cruel and menacing. It made such a deep impression on me today that it’s hard to shake it off. Maybe I wasn’t ready for it before and had a lot of growing up to do! I think I’m going to translate this next, but I had a few questions (mostly out of curiosity, just for me): 1. Why isn’t the child in school? The story says that the child is seven years old - then shouldn’t he be in elementary school? 2. I know the ending is open-ended, but in your mind, what happens to the child? Who is this 누나/woman with the curly hair? (Of course I won’t put this in the translation, but I’m just so curious!) After this I think I will work on 〈개망초〉 and 〈고요한 밤〉. 선생님께 늘 미안한 마음이에요. Translator 잘 만났으면 선생님의 글을 이미 널리 알렸을텐데... I’m sorry! But I’ll try my best this year. In awe of your work, Janet     21. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sun, Jan 22, 2017, 9:52 PM subject:             Re: 저 푸른 초원 위에                It’s snowing here in Korea, and the temperature has dipped below minus 10 degrees Celsius for the past few days. I read 저 푸른 초원 위에 again after a long time. I don’t think I can write like that anymore.^^ To answer you questions: 1. We calculate age a little differently in Korea. Seven years in Korea would mean six in western age. You have to be eight in Korean age to enter elementary school. 2. The nuna the child talks about is a mysterious character. At first, the mother thinks she’s just an imaginary friend, but she discovers the woman’s face in her son’s picture only after he goes missing and realizes she’s the one he called nuna. The story stops right there… I’ll wait for your novel. I’ll work hard on my writing too so that I can send you a good book. Good health and good writing to us both!!!           22. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 May 10, 2017, 2:57 PM sub:                    Open Letter        선생님! How are you? I just heard from Open Letter today and they tell me that they are planning to make an offer for the 《옆집 여자》 collection. If the Korean publisher and you find this situation agreeable, 《옆집 여자》 will finally be published in the US!!! If you have any questions about this, please feel free to contact me. You can have the publisher contact me as well. Anyway, this is great news! I’m so happy that this is finally happening!!! Warmest, Janet     23. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 May 10, 2017, 5:15 PM sub:                    Re: Open Letter   Janet!!! Congratulations!!! I read your email before going to work and got a little excited. I’m not the type to easily get excited, but most of all, I was moved when I thought that all your hard work is finally bearing fruit. I don’t have an agent, so I’ll do what you suggest for the English edition. That is, as long as the Korean publisher is okay with it. And now I’m feeling a little greedy. I’m wondering if English readers might like my novel A, which I’m currently revising. As I already mentioned, I’m planning to have a new edition come out with a different publisher next year once the current contract ends. If you’re interested, I’ll send you the manuscript once I finish revising it. Once again, congratulations and thanks for everything.^^ Seong-nan         24. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sat, Sep 23, 2017, 4:42 AM subject:            하성란입니다   Janet, Korea is going through a big change right now. The situation isn’t that unstable, but certain media outlets are trying to create an atmosphere of anxiety, but the majority of the people are calm. A few days ago Korean Literature Now magazine sought permission to carry an excerpt from “Early Beans,” so I reread the story again after a really long time. As I read it, I could feel how dated it was. But I have no worries since it’ll appear in your translation. I’ve realized again that it’s not easy to take an interest in Korean literature and to translate it. We’ve waited a long time, but now that the book is set to come out, the publication date feels too far away! Not only that, you’re fighting a lone battle to have another book of mine published. I want to convey my gratitude to you again. When the book comes out, let’s celebrate! Wishing you peace like a river... Ha Seong-nan     25. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Fri, Sep 29, 2017, 5:20 AM subject:            하성란입니다   Janet, I got your letter this evening. Was it back in 2001? I can’t believe it!!! How old were you then? How old was I? I’m so happy that we’re able to have such a great outcome after a long wait. You said you were sorry, but it isn’t your fault. It’s the pain of not speaking a mainstream language. In that long stretch of time, thanks to your efforts, as well as the efforts of other translators, Korean literature is gradually becoming known. This is all because of you and your unwavering interest in my writing. I’m reading your words closely. Will we be able to meet soon? I’m looking forward to that day. We’re set to start a long ten-day vacation for Chuseok. A big full moon rises on Chuseok. Do you remember the full moon in Korea? I hope you and your loved ones will be able to enjoy the days of full moon... Ha Seong-nan     26. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                  Fri, Sep 29, 2017, 5:28 AM subject:            하성란입니다   Oh, I was so thrilled to receive your letter that I forgot to thank you for the gift. I like Moleskine. Whenever a thought strikes me, I’ll jot it down in the notebook. Thank you.^^ I still haven’t used the handmade notebook you gave me a while back. It’s too precious.^^ Ha Seong-nan     27. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                      Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Oct 16, 2017, 9:42 PM subject:             “울콩”   Janet!!! Yesterday, I received a copy of the Korean Literature Now magazine with your translation of “Early Beans.” The magazine has an excerpt from the story and the full text can be viewed on their website.^^ It felt strange to read a story that I wrote a long time ago. ㅎㅎ You did a great job. I heard from the Korean publisher that Open Letter sent them the advance. I guess we’ll be able to see the book soon. Have you received your translation fee? That’s what I’m most curious about, since you did most of the work. I wish you peaceful days together with your kids. I miss you a lot. I hope I can see your face again soon. Seong-nan...     28. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Nov 20, 2017, 3:36 PM subject:             Korea   선생님! How are you? I hope you’ve been well. I wanted to share that I will be in Korea in December to attend a translation award ceremony. I know you’re busy, but I would LOVE to meet with you while I’m there—for dinner, drinks, anything! 선생님하고 많은 얘기를 나누고 싶어요! What’s your schedule like? I’m flying into Korea earlier, but will be spending some time with family, so I’m available Dec 9-13, except the 11th. I plan to go to 우도 after the 13th for a few days to do research for my 해녀 novel and I leave Korea on the 18th. Do you know anyone in Udo by any chance? Do you want to join me? ㅋㅋㅋ I haven’t been to Korea in nearly 20 years, so I’m a little scared... but 우도 직접 가고 싶었는데, I thought this would be a good opportunity to go. Warmest, Janet     29. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Nov 20, 2017, 5:52 PM subject:             Re: Korea   Congratulations!!! I’ll leave December 9th to 13th free for you. Let’s meet whenever you have time. I want to go to Udo Island with you, but I will start serializing a piece from mid-December. It doesn’t have to be very long, but I’m feeling a little nervous. I’m looking forward to your story about the haenyeo. Korea has changed a lot but you’ll be fine. Let’s meet and talk till the cows come home.^^ I’m so happy you’ve won an award—you’ve worked so hard. Seong-nan     30. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sun Dec 31, 2017, 03:54:42초 +0900 subject:             Happy New Year!   선생님, Happy New Year! 새해 복 많이 받으세요! It was so nice to see you in Korea. Thank you for dinner - I felt bad. I should have been the one to treat you... you must let me treat you next time! Ever since I came back, I’ve been working on your 《옆집 여자》 collection, since I’ll need to submit the complete manuscript to Open Letter in April. I translated many of the stories a long time ago, so I’m re-editing everything again. Ah, 선생님. I love your work!! I’m also planning to finish the Bluebeard collection in 2018. And please send me your new novels when you can! Here’s to all things good in the New Year! Wishing you and your family much favour and happiness in 2018! Warmest, Janet     31. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sun, Dec 31, 2017, 5:42 AM subject:             Re: Happy New Year!   You must be tired because of jet lag. I’m curious how your research on Udo went. I’m looking forward to your sad and beautiful novel. Reading your ambitious New Year’s plans makes me feel like I shouldn’t be idle either. I’ll try to write better books. I hope we get to see each other more often now. I pray for the most important thing in the coming year, health and peace for you, your husband and two children. And then for your novel. And once you come out with your next book, and next book... then you can stop translating me.^^ Here’s to our good health and good writing!!! Wishing you a great year ahead!!! Seong-nan     32. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sat, Mar 17, 2018, 10:39 PM subject:             Questions            선생님, 바쁘신데 계속 연락해서 죄송해요! 다른게 아니고 제가 〈푸른 수염의 첫번째 아내”의 소개 글을 써야 되는데요... I had some questions I wanted to ask you that would help me greatly. I remember you told me a long time ago that you had never been to New Zealand, but you wrote the whole story from research, which I still find so surprising. :) 1. What inspired you to write this story? Was there an incident or piece of news that sparked the idea for this story? 2. Why did you choose the Bluebeard folktale to tell your story? (왜 Bluebeard 이야기 대에서 호감을 갖았어요?) 3. Why did you choose New Zealand as your setting? 4. Why did you choose to bring in a homosexual aspect to the story? 5. I feel there’s a special reason why this particular story was chosen as the 책 제목. Why? It’s not an interview—I’d just like some background information on the story, that’s all. Warmest, Janet     33. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Mar 19, 2018, 6:59 PM subject:            Re: Questions   1. I’ve been fascinated with Charles Perrault’s “Bluebeard” since childhood. Bluebeard’s wives are killed for failing to keep their promise with him—the promise that they will never open the door to a particular room. The wives should have kept their promise, but they give in to their curiosity and open the door. I thought I would put my own spin on this story one day. 2. So I couldn’t help but have these questions. The bodies of Bluebeard’s wives were hung in the forbidden room, but why did his first wife have to die? Was there another secret to the room? If the first wife ignored Bluebeard’s warning and entered the room, what would she have witnessed there? I thought my story would start from here. 3. At the time when I wrote this story, New Zealand was a popular tourist destination among Koreans and many Koreans also went to study there. New Zealand and Korea have opposite seasonal cycles, so when it was winter here, it was summer there. It was a place that I was familiar with but had never been to. It was fun to spread open a map of New Zealand and imagine this street and that. Due to the story setting, I had to keep the female protagonist relatively far from Korea, and New Zealand came to mind quite naturally. (And yet I made a mistake with the time difference. I think you caught the mistake, right?) 4. I was very interested in queer issues. I’ve covered them in another story titled 〈당신의 백미러〉. When I wrote “Bluebeard’s First Wife” the prejudice against LGBT people was much more severe than it is now. The character Jason in the story isn’t accept even by his own family. Jason’s parents are afraid of what other people will say, so they force Jason into a sham marriage. I wanted to write about the fears of those who can’t be open about their sexual orientation and about the social prejudice against them. 5. The book title is often not decided by the author. The editors must have thought it was a title that would draw the interest of readers. Come to think of it, compared to my other collections, the stories in this collection are more experimental. In the end, I think the question that “Bluebeard’s First Wife” asks—what is a story and how is it sparked—is a theme that runs through the entire collection.     34. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 11:35 AM subject:             “악몽”   선생님, I have some good news - I will be receiving the LTI Korea Translation Award this year, so I’ll be in Korea in the beginning of December. If you have time, I would love to see you and it’s my turn to treat you! I’ll let you know when I finalize my travel plans. We’re currently doing the final edits for the 《옆집 여자》 manuscript, and I had a question about 〈악몽〉. On P78, it says: “싸움을 말리는 사람은 없었다. 가끔 술 취한 사람들이 가게에서 나와 여종업원의 어깨에 팔을 두르고 어두운 골목으로 사라졌다.” I was a little confused about this part. Are the 여종업원 here the same female workers who are fighting outside on the street? If so, are the men putting their arms around them and then disappearing with them into an alley? OR are these 여종업원 different female workers that the drunk men came out with? It’s a minor detail, but I was a little confused. Thank you, 선생님! Love, Janet     35. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 5:53 PM subject:            Re: 〈악몽〉   Janet!!! Congratulations. ㅎㅎㅎ It’s a different award from the one your received last year, right? Your hard work through the years are bearing fruit now. I won’t make any plans for the month of December and will leave my schedule open for you. I’m fine with any day. Congratulations once again. 여종업원 is a polite expression for the women who work at the bar. Two of them are fighting over customers. I think it’ll be better to change “drunk people” to “drunk men.” There are a lot of bars, and drunk men come out with their arms around the shoulders of other waitresses and they disappear into the dark alleys. They’re all different waitresses. My novel 《여우여자》 will be published next summer. I have to submit the manuscript to the publisher by April 30. I’ll send it to you once it’s edited. It’s the story of a 500-year-old gumiho set in the present age.     36. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 8:29 PM subject:             Re: Re: 〈악몽〉                Thank you, 선생님! 예, 다른 상이에요. :) I understand about the 여종업원. Thank you! - 한가지 질문 더 있어요! P85-86: “여자는 침대 아래에 숨겨두었던 삽자루로 사내의 머리를 내리쳤다.” Is this 삽자루 big or small? Is it like a trowel or more like a spade/shovel? Thank you for everything and talk soon? Warmest, Janet     37. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 9:19 PM subject:            Re: Re: Re: 〈악몽〉   It’s a 삽 used for digging. The dictionary has it as “spade” or “shovel” but I don’t know the exact difference between the two. It’s something you use to dig holes in a storeroom and is small enough to be used by one person.     38. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 9:27 PM subject:             Re: Re: Re: Re: 〈악몽〉               I see! There are so many kinds of shovel/spade in English that are big and small, so I wanted to make sure. Thank you!     39. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Jan 7, 2019, 4:28 AM subject:             Re   Happy New Year, Janet! The cover of Flowers of Mold is gorgeous.^^ I think the English spelling of my name should be Ha Seong-nan, like you said. In Korea, there’s no universal style for English names. I think it’ll be nice if we can systemize it gradually. Thanks for all your hard work, Janet.^^ Talk soon. May your home be peaceful and happy in the New Year. Seong-nan...     40. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Feb 4, 2019, 10:41 AM subject:            New York Times sneak preview   선생님, Flowers of Mold (옆집 여자) is included in the New York Times sneak preview of books coming out in 2019 from around the world!!! (Click on ASIA to see.) https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/01/19/books/new-books-international.html Also, the back cover has blurbs by Susan Choi (Korean-American writer), Brain Evenson, and Nazanine Hozar (my friend!!). Madeleine Thien might write one for the press release, too, if she can read in time. How’s your novel going?? XO, Janet     41. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Fri, Feb 8, 2019, 5:31 PM subject:             Re: New York Times sneak preview   Yay!!! ㅎㅎㅎ This amazing news is all thanks to you, Janet. I think your translation is even better than my novel!!! Thank you!!! Have a nice warm day.^^ Seong-nan     42. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Wed, Sep 25, 2019, 4:13 PM subject:            FOM on bestseller list!   선생님, FOM is on the Powells bookstore bestseller list!!!       43. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Wed, Sep 25, 2019, 5:05 PM subject:             Re: FOM on bestseller list!   Janet, it’s been a while since my book has been displayed like this. The last time was probably when 《삿뽀로 여인숙》 came out. See you soon in Seoul. I want to see your children too.^^     44. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Wed, Oct 2, 2019, 10:01 AM subject:            Visiting Korea   선생님! How are you?? I hope you’ve been well! I’ll be arriving in Korea on Oct 7. :) I plan to attend a few SIWF events that week, one featuring Han Yujoo and one featuring Bae Suah, which Ms. Kang Young-sook will be moderating. Are you planning to attend any events? If so, maybe we could meet there? As for our proper meeting, are you available on Monday, Oct 14 early evening? Would it be all right if we meet together with Ms. Kang? Somewhere around my hotel would be nice - maybe we could walk over to 익선동? I’m easy - whatever you choose is good for me :) Ms. Kang also told me about a class you’re teaching at 문지문화원 사이. I hope it won’t make you feel uncomfortable, but would it be okay if I “audit” your creative writing workshop on Oct 17 @7 @ 문지문화원 사이? You can just pretend I’m not there. I’ve never sat in on a creative writing workshop taught in Korean and I would love to just sit and listen. I’ve been busy trying to finish some last-minute things before I leave—getting excited to see you!! XO, Janet     45. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Thu, Oct 3, 2019, 7:52 PM subject:            Re: Visiting Korea   Janet, October 14 sounds good. Please bring out your family. I’ll book a restaurant with food the children can enjoy as well. Ikseon-dong is a very trendy place. They have clusters of small hanok there. Let’s meet together with Kang Young-sook.^^ Have a safe flight. Seong-nan     46. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Thu, Oct 3, 2019, 10:55 PM subject:            Re: Re: Visiting Korea                           Janet, please be sure to bring your kids! I want to say hello to your husband, too. We met before, a long time ago. As for the workshop, I recommend that you attend Kang Young-sook’s workshop, rather than mine! My workshop is too long and there are a lot of people, so it’s a bit chaotic. But more than that, I feel a little shy.^^;;;         47. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Nov 7, 2019, 10:46 AM subject:             Questions about 〈파리〉               Hello 선생님, I have a few small questions from 〈파리〉. 대충 대답 하셔도 되요, since they’re just for me. ^^ p. 70: “한낮에도 거리는 텅 비어 있었다. 가끔 찻잔과 보온병을 싼 보자기를 든 여종업원들이 느릿느릿 걸어다녔다 ... 사내가 세들어 살고 있는 청봉 부락에서 지서까지의 길도 자갈밭이었다 ... 하루이틀 지나면서 자갈밭을 걷는 것도 이력이 났다. 종아리에 근력이 붙었다.” 1. 이 텅 빈 “거리”와 자갈길이 똑같은 길이에요? 2. 이 수많은 자갈들이 뭘 상징해요? If you could send along these answers with the “Bluebeard” ones, that would be great. Thank you, 선생님! Talk to you soon! Warmest, Janet     48. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Nov 7, 2019, 8:41 PM subject:             Questions about 〈파리〉               선생님, 죄송해요. I have one more question about 〈파리〉. On page 72, the main character is walking to the station and he bumps into the young woman for the first time. 그리고 여자(=the young woman’s older sister)하고 같이 있는 임순경이 근무 해야할 차래라고 page 74에 나와요. So does that mean on page 72, when the main character is walking to the station, he is in the middle of doing a patrol (순찰하는 도중인가요)? 집에서 지서로 가는게 아니라요? Sorry for these tedious questions...I just want to be absolutely sure. Janet     49. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Nov 19, 2019, 1:28 AM subject:             Library Journal!!!!   선생님!! Your book has been chosen as one of Library Journal’s Best World Literature of 2019!!!! https://www.libraryjournal.com/?detailStory=best-world-literature-2019-best-books Congratulations!!         50. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Nov 22, 2019, 10:27 PM subject:            Re: Questions about 〈파리〉   Janet, then let’s keep it the same as the original. 12자 장롱 wardrobes are considered the best in Korea. It would be nice if foreign readers knew this, but there’s no need to explain with a footnote, is there? Regarding the edit a few days ago, let’s correct the dimensions of the wardrobe. I’ve changed it from 8자 or 10자 to 9자 on pages 40 and 60. Cheongsong Village in 〈파리〉 should be Cheongbong Village. I never caught the mistake.^^;;; When I read the story again it felt like I was reading somebody’s else writing. It’s so embarrassing. I noticed the timestamp of your email. It looks you’re hardly sleeping at all. Janet, don’t overwork yourself. Thank you.^^     51. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Dec 12, 2019, 8:33 PM subject:             PEN Translation Prize    선생님!!!!!! We’ve been nominated for the 2020 PEN Translation Prize! It’s just the longlist now (10 books - see bottom) and in January they will announce the shortlist (5 books). Fingers crossed!!! Please don’t share the news until tomorrow 10am New York time. 황석영 선생님의 책, translated by Sora, has also been nominated, along with Nobel prize winner Olga Tolkarczuk, Naja Marie Aidt and so many brilliant writers and translators! Congrats, 선생님!!! Thank you for writing this incredible book!!! XOXO, Janet     52. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sat, Jan 11, 2020, 1:02 PM subject:             The Paris Review   선생님!!! Happy New Year!! Your book is one of the staff picks at THE PARIS REVIEW!!!!! And look, your picture!!! AHHHH!! https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2020/01/10/staff-picks-sex-stand-up-and-south-korea/ Also, Bluebeard’s First Wife has been sent off to the printer!!! We’re all very excited to see this come out!! When will 《여우 여자》 be ready??? Love, Janet     53. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Jan 13, 2020, 3:39 PM subject:             Harvard bookstore’s staff favourite books           선생님, Hello again! This is Harvard bookstore’s staff favourite books of 2019. Look at your book at the bottom right. 힘내요!!!!!! I’m sure 《여우 여자》 is wonderful!! Love, Janet     Sent from my iPhone     54. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Wed, Feb 19, 2020, 7:53 PM subject:             Bluebeard’s First Wife   The books just came back from the printers!! 아직 나올 때까진 멀었지만… 6월달에 나와요!! The front cover has a blurb by Susan Choi who won the National Book Award last year.     55. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan, Kang Youngsook date:                 Thu, Mar 19, 2020, 9:35 AM subject:            Update   하성란 강영숙 선생님, How are you? I’ve been thinking of you and everyone in Korea. I hear the situation there is improving, which makes me feel hopeful. Spring break started this week for us, but since parts of Canada have declared a state of emergency, we’ve been practising social distancing and staying home. Libraries, recreation centres, etc. are all shut down, and it was announced earlier this week that schools will remain closed past spring break. It’s all very troubling, and they tell us this is just the beginning. But on the flip side, because people are driving and traveling less, the animals are returning and I feel our planet is being restored. For the first time in I can’t remember how long, I’ve been hearing frogs outside our window. I’m trying to stay positive and not let anxiety take over...also trying to take advantage of the situation and get some work done, but Dale has also been working from home and I keep getting distracted by the news, as well as having everyone at home. Take care, you two! Sending you lots of love during these troubling times! Warmest, Janet     56. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sat, Mar 21, 2020, 4:01 PM subject:            Re: Update   Janet, the whole world is on high alert. It started a little earlier here in Korea, so we’ve been social distancing for more than a month now. My second child enters middle school this year but we’re in limbo because schools haven’t opened yet. Flights have been reduced, so my younger sister who’s a flight attendant is on a long vacation. I’m worried about the current situation, but then again in the back of my mind I wonder if I could maybe write about this. But there’s already a brilliant book called Blindness. And Kang Young-sook writes about the “after” in her Burim novel. I desperately want to read her book, but I’ve only read the beginning so far because I’ve been busy. Did you say you can hear frogs outside your window? In the city? How beautiful and amazing! Does that mean this virus is a warning against moving too fast? Maybe it’s saying we all need to take a break. Anyway, I feel like this pause isn’t a bad thing. See, even frogs come to our windows when we stop for a moment. Take care of your mother, husband, and children! 화이팅 no, I mean 릴렉스.^^ Seong-nan...     57. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sat, Apr 18, 2020, 11:02 PM subject:             Hello   선생님, 안녕하세요! 선생님께서는 건강히 잘 지내시는지요? 한국은 상황이 많이 나아진 것 같아 다행입니다. 캐나다는 미국 비해선 낫지만 아직도 모든 게 풀리지 않았어요. 잘 견디고 있었는데 요새 남편하고 다투기 시작했어요. ㅋㅋㅋ 선생님은 잘 견디시고 있어요? Just wanted to check in to see how you were doing. No pressure, but I also wanted to see if you’re able to work these days (many of us are distracted and are finding it very difficult to write/translate). 이런 상황에 일 하실 수 있습니까? If you are able to work, what are you working on these days? If you don’t mind me asking, what is the status of 《여우 여자》? How about 정오의 그림자 and 여덟 번째 아이? ^^ Now that 《푸른 수염》 will be released in June, I wanted to start thinking about the next book we should bring out in English. Also, I recently read 《크리스마스캐럴》 and loved it. Though I would love to translate it, I haven’t started, because most importantly, I just can’t think of a solution for translating “10박”. I need to come up with a nickname in English that also sounds like a swear word, but I haven’t found the perfect English equivalent yet. Anyway, I just wanted to check in and make sure you and your family are well. Please take good care, 선생님. Warmest, Janet     58. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sun, Apr 19, 2020, 5:49 PM subject:            Re: Hello   Janet, I’m doing well. I’m glad to hear you’re doing well too. I laughed for a long time at the bit where you said you’ve started quarrelling with your husband. My husband and I have been sharing an office for a long time so we’ve already done our share of quarrelling. It’s business as usual now. ㅎㅎ My second one who entered junior high this year is now doing his classes online beside me without having been to school yet. I didn’t go out for close to two months during social distancing. I’ve gained weight. There’s a limit to the amount of exercise you can do at home. I should have gotten more work done, but my day is almost over by the time I prepare food for the children. I’m in low spirits these days. I have to hand over the manuscript for 《여우 여자》 by May 6th. I’m feeling I’ve reached my limit in many ways. But I’ll do my best until the end. Once I’ve sent in my manuscript to the publisher, I’ll also share it with you. I’m a bit worried that you’ll be disappointed. 《크리스마스캐럴》 is a story I have some regrets about. I would suggest that you translate 《여우 여자》 next. Please wait a little longer. Let’s be healthy until the Corona virus is gone. Give my regards to your husband. I’ll email you the manuscript soon. With love, Seong-nan     59. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Apr 23, 2020, 10:15 AM subject:             Re: Re: Hello     선생님!! So great to hear from you. 저도 마찬가지예요. 하루가 밥하고, 빨래하고, 애들 가르치는 일로 너무 빨리 지나가요. So I understand completely! I look forward to getting 《여우 여자》. 화이팅, 선생님! You can do it!! 1. By the way, Anthony just sent this to me. The Guardian mentioned Flowers of Mold today, and he tells me the same reviewer is working on a review of Bluebeard for another newspaper/magazine. Will update you as soon as this comes out! https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/apr/23/south-korea-female-writers-rise-up-cho-nam-joo 2. Also, CrimeReads will be publishing “Night Poaching” (〈밤의 밀렵〉) on their website!! More soon - see below for Anthony’s message. Love, Janet     60. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Apr 28, 2020, 1:52 PM subject:             Fwd: Booklist Advance Review - Starred   선생님!!! We got another starred review!! This time from BOOKLIST!!! The review will go live on May 15!! Congratulations!! Love, Janet     61. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Jun 15, 2020, 10:38 AM subject:             A lot of Bluebeard news!              선생님! 안녕하세요! 건강히 잘 지내지요? We got another SUPERB review in Words Without Borders. Congratulations! https://www.wordswithoutborders.org/book-review/ha-seong-nans-bluebeards-first-wife-gives-the-old-tale-of-patriarchy-a-new?src=twitter How is 《여우 여자》 coming along? 계속 재촉해서 미안해요, but I believe in you! You can do it, 선생님!  XO, Janet     62. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Jun 15, 2020, 3:37 PM subject:             Re: A lot of Bluebeard news!   Janet, I hope you and your family are doing well.^^ I’m still revising 《여우여자》. The publisher has been pushing me to send them the manuscript but I’ve been failing to meet the deadline. But I’m recovering my strength and my spirits little by little so I’ll wrap it up soon. I’m thankful to you for always giving me strength. 《여우여자》 is a novel I serialized a long time ago. In the meantime, society has undergone a lot of changes so I’m revising that bit, but it’s not easy. Do you remember the short story 〈강의 백일몽〉 in my collection Wafers? I feel shy saying this, but I like this story. There are 11 stories in this collection, maybe you can work on this next after shortening the list? My novel A should also be a good follow-up to Bluebeard’s First Wife. I think the message in that novel can still have some impact. A publisher has approached me with an offer to republish it so I’m preparing for it now. But first, I’ll wrap up 《여우여자》 quickly. I’m sending you all the support and strength you gave me. The COVID-19 situation is scary but it’s amazing how people are finding ways to live and work even in this situation. I’m thinking about the life ahead of us. Thank you, Janet. Always take care of yourself.^^ Seong-nan     63. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Jun 15, 3:53 PM subject:             Re: Re: A lot of Bluebeard news!             선생님!! 반가워요!! 선생님께서 겪고 계신 것들 충분히 이해가 됩니다. I’ve been trying to write my own 장편 for the last 4 years without success  so I’m definitely not one to pressure you. 사실 《웨하스》는 오랫동안 간직하고 있었지만 읽어보지 못했는데, 《웨하스》 하고 《A》를 다시 읽어 보겠습니다. I’ll let you know my thoughts as soon as I finish! 다른 출판사에서 《A》를 내고 싶다고요? Congratulations! 어떤 출판사요? 준비 중이시면 does that mean there will be many changes to the text? If so, could you please send me the final version? Thank you and talk soon! 보고 싶어요! Warmest, Janet     64. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Jun 16, 2020, 4:22 PM subject:             Happy pub day!   선생님! Happy publication day to you!! Bluebeard is out in the world today!! We did it! By the way, I read 〈강의 백일몽〉 last night. I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!!! I still have to re-read A to decide, but I really want to work on Wafers next!! XO, Janet     65. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Tue, Jun 16, 2020, 4:52 PM subject:             Re: Happy pub day!   Janet, congratulations!!! I’m so happy we’re on this journey together. Please be with me in the future too. ㅎㅎㅎ Seong-nan     66. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Jul 28, 2020, 10:32 PM subject:             40   선생님, 잘 지내시지요? 요즘 자주 생각나고 보고싶어요. I turned forty last week. 그래서 그런지 우울하네요. 작업 진도는 안 나가고, 15년동안 한국 드라마 안 보다가 요즘 코로나 사태 후로 드라마에 완전 빠졌답니다... 유치한 것 알면서도 너무 좋아요. ㅋㅋ Agnel Joseph (the editor-in-chief of Korean Literature Now) wants to do a special feature on translators and the relationship translators have with their authors, and he thought you and I would be perfect. He’ll be in touch with you soon. For that reason, I was looking through some of our old emails and found this one from 2007, just a little over a month after you gave birth to your son. 세월 정말 빠르죠? 선생님, 항상 힘내세요! Warmest, Janet     67. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Wed, Jul 29, 2020, 4:04 PM subject:             Re: 40   Janet, congratulations on turning forty!!! I’d just turned forty in Korean age when we first started exchanging emails. I gave birth to a child at that age with no fear, so don’t feel too depressed. If I could go back in time, I’d go back to that year.^^ Trust me. This will be the best time for you. ¤¾¤¾ My eldest—the one I ventured out to give an umbrella to—entered graduate school this year. She’s getting married next year. Her fiancé is the man she starting dating in college. The baby who was forty days old then is now in first grade of middle school. Time really does fly. More than anything else, I was happy to discover the name Hong Jeemyung in the email you sent me. Your Korean name is also beautiful. I was taken back to that time while reading your email. Cheers to your bright fortieth! Wishing good health to you and your family.^^ Seong-nan                  Translated by Agnel Joseph  

  by Janet Hong

• 

  [Dyad] The Voice in My Ear — by Janet Hong

    Writing is often said to be solitary and lonely; the same can be said of translation. The actual translator-author relationship may be fraught, challenging, distant, or even non-existent. But in this case, translator Janet Hong and writer Ha Seong-nan formed a bond that bloomed into one of friendship, one that grew in affection and closeness over the years. The following exchange reveals the precious, serendipitous experience of words not only reaching across geography and culture, but also intertwining lives together. —Ed.     The first time I got in touch with Ha Seong-nan was in March of 2007. After obtaining her contact information from a professor in Korea, I worked up my courage for about a month, until I finally picked up the phone one day and called her, without any advance notice, from my home in Vancouver, Canada. Though I had the option of emailing her, I felt extremely insecure about writing in Korean with my poor spelling and grammar, and I somehow got it into my head that verbal flubs would be more forgivable. 　I don’t know what I expected Ha to sound like, but I still recall my surprise at her soft, clear voice (which I can only describe as “musical”) when she picked up sounding excited, almost out of breath, as if she’d been laughing at a funny joke just seconds before. After I apologized for not having contacted her sooner, I blundered through my introduction—how I’d received the grand prize in the 2001 Korea Times Modern Korean Literature Translation Awards competition for my translation of her story “The Woman Next Door,” which was the first thing I’d ever translated, how I’d gotten an LTI Korea grant to translate the rest of The Woman Next Door collection a few years before, how much I loved her work, when Ha, all of a sudden, gave a great shout. Stunned, I stopped mid-sentence. She apologized immediately; the truth was, she was in the middle of watching a soccer match. When I offered to call at a better time, she assured me it was all right, and proceeded for the next twenty minutes to answer all my tedious questions (“How would you like to Romanize your name?,” “What other stories or collections do you recommend I work on next?,” and so on) with the patience befitting a saint. 　I often think back on this conversation and smile at my bumbling earnestness, at Ha’s initial inattentiveness and immediate contrition. I also recall with vivid clarity the different aspects I was attempting to reconcile in those moments. For one, after poring over her stories for years, I was trying to contain my inner fangirl speaking to the actual author on the phone. Then there was my astonishment over the fact that this cheerful, soft-spoken woman was the creator of stories often described as “off-kilter,” “unsettling,” and “menacing.” 　Shortly after this phone call, Ha and I started emailing, with Ha writing in Korean and I mostly in English. The emails generally concerned questions I had about the text, or written consents I needed signed by Ha in order to translate her works and submit them for publication. However, bits of personal information crept into these exchanges, as they inevitably will, and slowly a friendship started to form. It would be several more years before I would finally meet her in person, when we take part in a bilingual reading tour through various American cities, with another writer I translate whom I’ve also grown to adore—Han Yujoo—but that’s a story for another time. 　I still remember racking my brain for days about an appropriate gift for Ha before our first meeting. I remember asking the front desk at her Seattle hotel to ring her room and my nervousness as I waited for her to come down to the lobby. The moment I clapped eyes on her petite frame, my plan to be poised and professional left my head, and without thinking, I strode toward her and threw my arms around her. * After the trip, Ha and I remained in close contact. I soon received a grant to translate Bluebeard’s First Wife, this time from the Daesan Foundation, and continued to publish translations of her short stories in journals. During this period, there was an opportunity for Ha to make her English-language debut with The Woman Next Door collection, but the terms offered by the publisher weren’t ideal and we didn’t go through with it—something I’m grateful for in retrospect. 　Last year, eighteen years after I’d started translating Ha, twenty years after the book originally came out in Korea, The Woman Next Door was published by Open Letter Books as Flowers of Mold. It was followed by Bluebeard’s First Wife, which was released this June. Since both collections were published in Korea so many years ago, Ha worried that the stories would feel dated, but they have both received a warm reception from reviewers and readers. We’ve wondered since then: If she had made her English-language debut back in 2012, before all the current global interest in Korean arts and culture, would her books have garnered the same attention? This is something we will never know, but we still can’t help marveling at the timing, the arbitrariness and serendipitous nature of it all. * I never actually set out to become a translator. It didn’t even occur to me that one could do it as a profession. While studying English literature in university and dreaming of becoming a writer, I realized I knew next to nothing about the literature of my heritage, so I took a Korean language course from a brilliant professor, who taught Korean by getting his students to read a sampling of modern Korean short stories. As the end-of-term project, we each had to translate a never-before translated Korean story into English. The story the professor gave me to translate was insufferably tedious and difficult—I don’t recall the title or what it was about. At the time, my mother was reading a new collection of short stories by a Korean writer who had debuted a few years earlier. She praised one story in particular and recommended that I try translating it instead. This was Ha Seong-nan’s “The Woman Next Door.” 　Ha and I sometimes joke that it was my mother who brought us together. What if my mother hadn’t been reading Ha Seong-nan at the time and had failed to recommend her story to me? What if I’d ended up grinding it out with the tedious story I’d been assigned? I would have no doubt produced a mediocre translation, since it would have lacked passion. Then would I still have ended up pursuing translation, let alone falling for Korean literature? * In late October, Ha Seong-nan’s Bluebeard’s First Wife was selected as one of Publishers Weekly’s Top Ten Books of 2020. Open Letter, Ha, and I were overjoyed, but when this made the news in Korea a few weeks later, I realized anew how special this recognition truly was. 　It is always a cause for rejoicing when a translated book is included in such a list, but this was also only the second time a work from South Korea has made the list. What seemed simply miraculous, though, is that a book originally published in Korea in 2002 could be deemed not only relevant in 2020, but also “shocking,” “unapologetically feminist,” and “wonderfully weird.” 　At the time, I was busy sifting through nearly twenty years of personal history regarding Ha: annotations of her stories, drafts of translations, as well as emails and handwritten messages she and I’ve exchanged. We had been asked to contribute to a special segment on the relationship between a translator and writer they translate for Korean Literature Now’s fiftieth issue. As I read through over 200 pages of emails, I was able to see the progression of our relationship. The years of decreasing formality, the liberal use of the heart emoji and exclamation marks in the later emails, culminating in Ha addressing me by my first name and we both signing off with “XOXO,” or “Love,” followed by our first names. I was reminded of other things, too. All the phone and Skype calls, the gifts exchanged, dinners we shared in Korea—everything from Buddhist cuisine to traditional Korean full-course meals to fried chicken with beer. And then probably one of my favorite memories of all when she and writer Kang Young-sook took me to a small unmarked bar tucked away in one of the alleys of Insadong, frequented by writers and artists, a bar you wouldn’t know was there unless you were looking for it. Ha has met my husband, my children, and even my mother once. But through all the sifting what struck me more than anything was Time and its passing—how slowly the last twenty years seemed to pass, yet how quickly, too. Perhaps turning forty this year has put me in a nostalgic mood. 　For PW’s news to come while reflecting on the last twenty years of translating Ha seems especially serendipitous. And that’s the word I’m left with: serendipity. Ha is the first writer I translated and also the reason I fell in love with Korean literature. You can even say she’s the reason I started translating in the first place. 　A new neighbor’s moved into number 507. It’s the strangest thing. Even after all these years, this first line of “The Woman Next Door” rings in my head like a bell, stirring up emotions, announcing the start of something new, something unexplored, like the famous first line of Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Dog.” 　When I first read the opening line from “The Woman Next Door,” I had no idea it would take eighteen years before Ha’s book would come out in English translation. While translating Ha, I met and married the man who is now my husband, moved across Canada, got an MFA in creative writing, moved back to Vancouver, had children, finished my first book, published other works in translation, and went from “emerging” translator to “no longer emerging.” During that time, Ha, too, has gone through her share of successes and struggles. It’s astonishing to me that I’ve carried her stories with me for so much of my life, her lilting, keen, sly voice always in my ear. After all, not many people can say they’ve translated a writer for half of their lifetime. 　It’s commonly said that the literary translator is the closest reader of the text. It’s also commonly said that writing is lonely work. Often when I’m working on my own novel, I feel as though I’m walking through a dark tunnel alone. I feel lost and I don’t know where I’m going; I don’t even know if the end is in sight. However, translating Ha’s work has been like walking through the same dark tunnel, but with a friend, holding hands. The tunnel may seem to go on endlessly, but the fact that you’re not alone is comfort enough. Because when all’s said and done, isn’t the journey what’s important? More and more, I’m feeling it’s a rare thing to truly know another, to be known by another. Just as how I feel comforted by the presence of Ha’s words, it is my hope that Ha, too, will feel less alone as she puts words to paper, knowing there is someone by her side who is straining step by step, just as she is, toward the light at the end of the tunnel.

  by Janet Hong

• 

  [Dyad] Line by Line, Again and Again — by Ha Seong-nan

  Photographs Copyright ⓒ choemore   Writing is often said to be solitary and lonely; the same can be said of translation. The actual translator-author relationship may be fraught, challenging, distant, or even non-existent. But in this case, translator Janet Hong and writer Ha Seong-nan formed a bond that bloomed into one of friendship, one that grew in affection and closeness over the years. The following exchange reveals the precious, serendipitous experience of words not only reaching across geography and culture, but also intertwining lives together. —Ed.     Janet says the first time we spoke on the phone was in March 2007. She says she was shocked to hear me shout in the middle of our conversation 　and that I apologized to her immediately, explaining that I was watching a soccer game. Me? Shout? Had someone just scored a goal? 　I remember that first call with Janet. Over the characteristic echo of an international call, I heard the voice of a young woman say demurely, “I’m sorry, my Korean isn’t very good.” But her Korean was good. I was nervous, as she must’ve been, at the sudden phone call from a stranger. I strained my ears and tried not to miss a word. But to think I cried out during that call. Except for Janet’s voice, I’ve completely forgotten the soccer game, let alone the fact that I’d shouted. 　Janet recently reminded me of the phone call. I’ve revisited my memories since then, and each time, strangely enough, I go back to when I lived on the twenty-fourth floor of an apartment, the very top floor. It’s probably because of the word “soccer.” After all, no Korean can forget the Korea–Japan World Cup of 2002 where young and old alike swarmed to the games in matching Red Devil T-shirts and cheered for Korea in synchronized clapping; that 3-3-7 beat used to ring in my head all day long. Despite knowing my memory is wrong, despite knowing it would actually be another five years before she calls, when Janet calls I’m in the living room of the twenty-fourth-floor apartment where I lived in the year of the Korea–Japan World Cup. 　No matter how many times I search online, I can’t find the soccer game I was watching in March 2007. Most of all, I mull over why I, a person who’s not given much to excitable shouting, had cried out that day. What sort of game would cause me to be so rude on the phone with a stranger from Vancouver, Canada? If it was an important game, I should be able to find it quickly enough. More importantly, it was only a month after I’d given birth to my second child. The whole family moved around carefully lest we wake the baby. The baby would’ve started wailing at any loud noise. 　Janet and I also started emailing each other in March 2007. The kitchen smells of miyeok-guk that has reduced down from being heated again and again, and only the newborn baby and I are in the living room. I’m hanging freshly washed clothes on the drying rack and the baby is sleeping. Suddenly, it grows dark outside the window, and rain and hail start to pour down. The weather forecast didn’t mention rain. I wait for the rain to stop, but it doesn’t look like it will anytime soon. If this keeps up, my eldest who went to school without an umbrella will get soaked. The thought of bringing her an umbrella is foremost in my mind, but I can’t simply leave. What if the sleeping baby wakes and starts crying? In the end, I change and find an umbrella. It’s my first time going out since the delivery, except to get OB/GYN checkups and vaccinations for the baby. The street is slippery and the temperature has dropped. I totter along. 　I’m practically running. Children in school uniforms are starting to pour out of the school gate. Since I can hardly see in the rain, it’s difficult to spot my child in the crowd of identical uniforms. I even go to her classroom, but she’s not there. Did she go a different way? Or maybe I walked past her without recognizing her? I make my way home somehow. Fortunately, the baby is still asleep. A little later, my eldest walks in, shaking off the rain. While I was scrambling to find her, she’d been on her way home, getting soaked to the skin.     　I wrote about that day in an email to Janet that I wrote in response to a couple of emails she sent me following her initial phone call. I hadn’t even seen her face yet, and all I knew about her was what she’d told me in her email. I didn’t write that I felt like crying on my way home, but I did mention how I’d hurried back so quickly that my legs were sore for two days. I also wrote that I’d wanted to see my daughter smile when I showed up at her school with an umbrella. 　Why did I tell Janet about that day, when I hadn’t shared it with anybody else? 　A few days after our first phone call in March 2007, Janet sent me a long email. It started off with the sentence: “Please excuse me—I’m not very good at writing in Korean.” Surprisingly, the entire email was in Korean. Except for a few words that were spelled as they sounded, her writing was perfect, contrary to her concern in the last sentence: “Please let me know if you couldn’t understand any parts of this email because of my Korean. I’ll write in English next time.”  　Korean name: Hong Jeemyung. Moved from Korea to Seattle, USA, at age two, then to Vancouver, Canada. Took a Korean language class at university to improve her Korean and had to translate a Korean short story as the final assignment. She found the story the professor had assigned to her tedious, so she decided instead to translate a story her mother recommended: “The Woman Next Door” . . . She’d already translated five of my short stories and was planning to submit them to journals, hoping to catch the eyes of publishers in Canada. 　I liked this part the most: “I’ve dreamed of becoming a writer since I was a child.” That had been my dream, too. “I work through the translation line by line, going over it again and again. Maybe that’s why even when I write in English, my sentences sometimes sound like yours. Isn’t that funny?” 　I don’t know what caused me to share my troubles with her. Isn’t that funny? Sometimes I say this line to myself in her voice—the voice I know now. Isn’t that funny? 　I never shared with anyone the hardships of writing while parenting. I didn’t want to. Even if I did, I knew nothing would change, and stubbornly, I didn’t want to admit my struggles. But I’d ended up confessing these struggles to Janet who was then in her late twenties. 　My email ended with an apology for not replying sooner. It was an excuse, if anything. I had a baby recently so I’ve been slow with everything. I’m sorry. 　“I didn’t know you just had a baby,” Janet wrote in her reply. And so began our emails, which have continued to this day. 　In that time, Janet got married and became a mother to two children. She said she translated in her spare time after dropping off and picking up her kids from school. Not once did she grumble or complain. Then one day she told me about the novel she was writing. It was the story of the haenyeo. She was planning to stay a few days on a small island close to Jeju island for research. 　Janet is still writing her story. I know all about writing in the bits and pieces of time left over from your day, the hours after your children fall asleep. The situation in Canada in 2020 isn’t much different from here. But Janet doesn’t complain. Line by line, she writes her story. Most of our emails are about this very thing. After all, that’s all we can do—put down one line at a time. Eagerly, I await her book. 　I’ve forgotten many things. My memory is like a small cup, so when fresh water is poured into it, the water inside escapes. I don’t remember even half of what Janet remembers of that day. In the living room of the twenty-fourth-floor apartment where I lived in 2002, I still hear the voice of a young Janet from 2007 saying, “I’m sorry, my Korean isn’t very good.” With all my heart I want to cheer on that young woman. Neither of us knows that The Woman Next Door will be published many years later, in 2019. Over the phone, she asks me many questions. If I did cheer, it must have been because of that. The past mixes with the present, and the wait that had felt so long feels too short now. But in my jumbled memory, her words “Isn’t that funny?” ring out as clearly as if I’d just heard Janet utter them, and the line she wrote in her email a long time ago—“If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep translating you for as long as I can”—still feels new. We both write without complaining. We write line by line, going over it again and again. In fact, the most recent email we exchanged was about this very thing.   Translated by Agnel Joseph

  by Ha Seong-nan