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.