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  [Essay] The Future Crossroads of Korean SF Literature

  As the Featured Writer section of this issue spotlights a science fiction writer, we have taken this opportunity to invite two experts to contribute special essays on SF literature. This first essay looks at the background of the development of Korean SF and its future prospects.—Ed.   The year 2020 will go down in history as the year of the COVID-19 pandemic. To make matters worse for those living in South Korea, the rainy season hit especially hard this summer, battering the country with days of endless rain. Under these specific circumstances—biological disaster and climate-induced crisis—people’s thoughts are likely to turn to the apocalyptic, to unprecedented encounters with nature, society, and daily life, which until recently, had been the realm of science fiction. As a reader of the SF genre, I look forward to new SF works that will be born in and shaped by these circumstances. From the Poverty of the Twentieth Century to the Flowering of the Twenty-First Century The science fiction genre originated in the West, meaning that original Korean science fiction was initially built on the introduction of foreign SF works. Jules Verne’s novel Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea—one of the primogenitors of the genre—was first introduced to Korea in the year 1907. Works of science fiction subsequently introduced to Korea often did not focus not on reflections on science and technology, which could be considered the traditional province of the genre elsewhere. Instead, these works were oftentimes stories written with education and enlightenment in mind, characterized by their stubborn insistence on scientific utopias. Works like the aforementioned Twenty Thousand Leagues, H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine, and Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward: 2000–1887, which were critical of contemporary human society, were in many cases only partially translated into Korean and then abandoned. As a result, until the 1980s, the public in Korea saw the genre as little more than a means to scientific enlightenment. As a result of this public perception, works of science fiction written in Korea were largely geared towards children and the YA demographic. With the exception of “Jaeang bujo” (Disaster relief) (1960), a short story by writer Kim Yoonjoo (who was only recently rediscovered as the originator of the postapocalyptic genre in South Korea), about the only other notable work of science fiction in modern mainstream Korean literature was Bok Geo-il’s novel Bimyeongeul chajaseo (In search of an epitaph) published in 1987. The slow development of original science fiction in Korea is in many ways due to the country’s tumultuous modern history. Decades of Japanese colonial rule almost immediately gave way to the Korean War, which was followed by national division, as a result of which stories in the genre—outside the purpose of scientific enlightenment—were seen as groundless works of escapist fiction. Neither those who sought artistic aesthetics nor those who sought to bring social hypocrisies and injustices to light attempted to take science fiction as a serious literary approach. With the exception of Moon Yoonsung’s 1967 novel Wanjeon sahoe (Perfect society), very few works of literary fiction defied this trend to make a truly serious attempt at the genre. The rapid development of original science fiction in Korea in the twenty-first century, in a sense, is a righting of something that had long ago gone off-course. The genre was slower to grow in Korea than in other industrialized countries because of the aforementioned lack of understanding and awareness about science fiction. However, the elements that make up the genre—the exploration of the impacts of science and technology on humans and societies—were always destined to become part of mainstream discourse. For Korea, that moment came in the twenty-first century as the Hwang Woo-suk stem cell fabrication scandal, the AlphaGo victory over a human baduk champion, and the new “daily life” made possible by the greatest public internet infrastructure in the world reached the lives of ordinary Koreans. The new contexts provided by these social and historical developments demanded a new level of imagination from the public, leading them to science fiction not as a means of enlightenment, but as a means of critically reflecting on the impact of science and technology on the world. The rise of genre fiction as a whole cannot be understated in this regard. Literary works in the horror (Lee Woohyuk’s Toemarok (The soul guardians)) and fantasy (Lee Yeongdo’s Dragon raja) genres became wildly popular bestsellers in the 1990s, widening the field and drawing more interest in genre fiction. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings series and Rowling’s Harry Potter series were also major contributors to the rising popularity of the field. The introduction of foreign writers Michael Crichton and Bernard Werber served to further expand interest in the genre as Korea readers responded to their works with great enthusiasm. The surprising success of author Kim Choyeop’s solo anthology in 2019 and her near-instant breakthrough into the world of mainstream literature was the culmination of many quiet but consistent accomplishments of original Korean SF throughout the years. The signs had been present for over a decade—writer Djuna’s works, which had only been consumed by SF communities in the 1990s, garnered the attention of mainstream literature readers in the twenty-first century (Moonji, one of the largest publishers of mainstream literature in Korea, published Djuna’s anthology Taepyeongyang hoengdanteukgeup (The transpacific express) in 2002). “Mainstream” writers such as Kim Young-ha, Park Min-gyu, Yun I-Hyeong, and Kim Junghyuk broke away from the traditions of solemn gravitas established by older authors and dove into SF without hesitation. It was thanks to these years of development that Kim Choyeop, who made her literary debut through a new writers’ SF competition, was able to publish a solo science fiction anthology that became a mainstream literary bestseller. Searching for a Brighter Future SF literature in Korea today enjoys an unprecedented boom, yet at the same time faces the challenge of diversification, following in the footsteps of countries with a deeper tradition in the genre. To this end, Korean writers must fill in the vast spectrum of science fiction that ranges from hard SF to slipstream fiction. The twenty-first century also marked a period of change for the genre on an international scale. Rapid scientific and technological progress has altered the very fabric of daily life, and these changes are no longer considered the exclusive province of science fiction as mainstream literature also grapples with the theme of science and technology’s impact on society. Alvin Toffler made this observation as early as the 1970s, remarking that SF would face an identity crisis. As a prominent futurist, Toffler had long been an advocate of the inclusion of science fiction in public education. His assertion was that rather than have schools focus solely on the past via history lessons, science fiction literature must also be taught in order to help students look to the future. Korean science fiction stands at the crossroads of challenge and opportunity—opportunity because the country’s near-unprecedented speed of economic and political development has also come with great cultural confusion and upheaval, which ironically provides ample fuel for the genre to draw upon. If the twentieth century was an era of scientific imagination, the twenty-first will be an era that calls on writers to draw on their ethical imagination—and few other countries are faced with such an unending series of such issues as Korea. Korean science fiction has garnered international attention over the past several years. Clarkesworld—one of the most popular science fiction magazines in the English-speaking world—recently published a number of Korean short stories, and Korean works were involved in a story exchange with Chinese short stories via the Future Affairs Administration, a Chinese science fiction platform. The English-language anthology of Korean SF works, Readymade Bodhisattva, was published in 2019, and major Korean SF writers such as Kim Bo-young and Djuna have signed deals with American publishers. Kim is making especially large strides, signing contracts for the publication of multiple works via HarperVoyager and preparing for simultaneous publication in both the US and the UK. Chinese writers Liu Cixin and Hao Jingfang’s recent Hugo Awards victories brought Asian science fiction into the spotlight, which bodes well for original Korean SF works. Another challenge faced by SF literature in the twenty-first century is the waning influence of print media. The development of information and communications technology continues to transform the media landscape daily, and with each year younger generations show a greater preference for video and visual media over books. English writer Will Self described this phenomenon as the decline of the Gutenberg minds. Established science fiction writers, too, no longer simply write for print media—they create their worlds with potential adaptations into film or television, video games, comic books, and performances in mind from the moment they begin their work, marking a clear change in the traditional creative process. Korean science fiction today is growing at an exponential rate, not only in the traditional literary medium but also in media such as web novels, web comics, and TV series. From a broad perspective, it can be said that the SF genre’s base is growing—it will be the task of science fiction writers, then, to preserve the unique values of traditional written fiction in the ever-growing world of Korean SF.   Translated by Slin Jung

  by Park Sang Joon

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  [Essay] Chinese Science Fiction Goes Global

  Chinese SF has become a global phenomenon, winning laurels and fans all over the world. In this special essay we take a look at how this came to be and to see if Korean SF, and Asian SF lit in general, can take some pointers on how to reach global readers.—Ed.   On the evening of August 22, 2015, fans of science fiction from the United States, the UK, Australia, Japan, China, and other countries quietly converged for a convention in Spokane, Washington, where they clustered around the stage, eyes anxiously fixed on a giant screen. On the screen was Kjell Lindgren, an astronaut of half-Chinese descent, broadcasting live from the International Space Station to announce that Liu Cixin’s The Three-Body Problem (translated by Chinese American science fiction writer Ken Liu) was that year’s winner of the Hugo Award for Best Novel. Inside the hall, fans went wild, with those from China relaying the news back home on social media. The Hugo Award represents the choice of SF fans, and it has a long history as being one of the genre’s major awards. For Chinese literature, winning a Hugo is also an international honor that attests to the rise of China’s soft power. Though five years have passed, The Three-Body Problem’s Hugo win marked a turning point for Chinese science fiction. In 2016, Hao Jingfang’s Folding Beijing (also translated by Ken Liu) won a Hugo in the Best Novelette category, and that September, then Politburo member and Chinese Vice President Li Yuanchao delivered an address at the 2016 China Science Fiction Convention in what may well have been the first time in history that such a senior Chinese government official endorsed science fiction in public. Looking back, science fiction has had its high and low points in modern Chinese history. Neither the SF wave that rode the PRC initiative to popularize science nor the enormous commercial success of Ye Yonglie’s Little Smart Explores the Future in the late ’70s lasted long, and as such, they hardly survived the Cultural Revolution and the Anti-Spiritual Pollution Campaign. If we consider the new wave of the late ’80s and early ’90s, Chinese SF has been something of an ambush waiting to happen, silently welling its power for more than two decades. The outside world did not take notice until The Three-Body Problem was published—when the “Dark Forest Theory,” “dimensionality reduction strike,” and other terms spread across the Chinese internet—and until the Chinese government had given science fiction its official seal of approval. ⁎ In past years, the Hugo Award was presented at the World Science Fiction Convention—better known as Worldcon—as votes were cast by World Science Fiction Society members of that year. Whether it be the awards or the convention itself, the longtime tradition of Worldcon is a cultural feast for fans, whose zealousness can be felt in the sheer extent of advance planning. Outside of China, many such conventions are like a gathering of old friends, in that even when business is conducted, there is little government regulation. But in China, the situation is somewhat different. Holding a large-scale science fiction convention—or at least an international one—first requires gaining the permission and support of authorities. It is difficult for science fiction as a popular literary genre—as opposed to “serious” mainstream literature—to gain government support for publishing and translation, regardless of whether it was originally published at home or abroad. And yet, ever since science fiction conventions were first held in China, the government’s stance has been abundantly clear. Back in 1991, 1997, and 2007, Science Fiction World, the largest SF magazine and publisher in China, convened for international conventions that not only received government support, but featured government leaders in attendance. Since 2016, the China Association for Science and Technology has sponsored the China SF Convention in Beijing, Chengdu, and Shenzhen. Not only was the opening ceremony attended by the Chinese vice president, but association leaders and local officials have attended every year since then. In 2017, Chengdu, Sichuan Province, co-hosted the 2017 China SF Con as well as the China International SF Conference, and it was declared that the latter event would, in perpetuity, become biennial and be held in Chengdu. The aforementioned names and their linkages may be a complicated matter, but suffice it to say, the two major SF conventions in contemporary China are led by the China Association for Science and Technology and the Sichuan Province Association for Science and Technology. Another grassroots science fiction event—the Xingyun (Nebula) Awards for Global Chinese Science Fiction ceremony—gained government support and commercial viability a few years after being financially sponsored by its founders. Unlike the fan-fueled activities of their international counterparts, the major SF conventions within China are tied to the popularization of science and development of the SF industry and rarely do without speeches from officials, high-level summits, laser light shows, closed-door banquets, and the like. To solidify the connection between domestic and foreign conventions, the science and technology associations and local governments have regularly sent representatives to Worldcon in recent years, heading overseas to study how to hold international SF conventions, with panel discussions, marketplaces, exhibitions, and parties—and various other activities that have since become commonplace. Relatively speaking, China’s science fiction conventions have become fancier, as well as more commercial, whereas overseas science fiction conventions have generally become more grassroots. Particularly noteworthy is the case of Chengdu, Sichuan Province, home of the longstanding Chinese SF institution, Science Fiction World magazine. Today, Chengdu is competing with Memphis in the United States to host the 2023 Worldcon. This is but one such initiative designed to cement Chengdu’s reputation as the Capital of Science Fiction. According to the 2019 Chinese Science Fiction Industry Report: “In order to develop the city’s ‘Silicon Valley’ for science fiction film and television industry, Chengdu plans to invest more than 2 billion yuan and add another 200,000 square meters to its current size of 150,000 square meters, for a total gross investment of 26 billion yuan.” Chengdu is not the only local government to invest in science fiction as a growth sector. In the city of Mianyang, also in Sichuan Province, the Pisces Dome Sci-Fi World is a project that spans about 2500 Chinese mu—or 412 acres—and calls for a total gross investment of 5 billion RMB to implement cutting-edge VR/AR (virtual reality and augmented reality) technology, establishing the city as a science and technology tourist destination. In Qianjiang, Hubei Province, plans are underway for the construction of the so-called Chinese Sci-Fi Author Village, where authors will be invited to assume the post of village head and write works on the theme of the Qianjiang crawfish (a local delicacy), and engage in other related commercial activities. Thus, it should be clear that to the Chinese government, science fiction is not only literature, but a lucrative industry. In 2017 and 2018, it accounted for a total output of 14 billion yuan and 45.6 billion yuan, respectively. Of the total, the book industry accounted for only 6.9 percent and 3.9 percent. The lion’s share belonged to the film industry at 13 billion yuan and 20.9 billion yuan. And in 2018, the science fiction game industry achieved a total output of 19.5 billion yuan. With China now home to two winners of the Hugo Award—the equivalent of an “SF Nobel Prize”—the world of film and entertainment has become the main driver of economic development within the SF industry, drawing the interest of the government. It is no surprise that this August the China National Film Administration and China Association for Science and Technology issued a document titled “Some Opinions on Promoting the Development of Science Fiction Films” (or so-called “Ten Opinions on SF”) that describes the Chinese government’s policy measures to promote the production of SF movies, including talent cultivation, VFX (visual effects) technology development, tax benefits, and other measures. ⁎ In contrast to the government’s promotion of Chinese language and culture through projects such as the Confucius Institute, the spread of Chinese science fiction overseas was almost entirely by word of mouth. By 1964, Lao She’s dystopian novel Cat Country had been translated into English, followed by other works of Chinese science fiction that were translated into English, Japanese, German, French, Italian and other languages. In the twenty-first century, works by a new generation of SF authors underwent translation, and authors would search for independent translators or self-translate, receive story commissions from anthology editors, be represented and publicized by publishers and agencies, and reach overseas readers through whatever means possible. A good case in point is author Chen Qiufan, who found Chinese American science fiction writer Ken Liu on the internet and introduced himself in an email. After recommending that Liu’s works be translated into Chinese, Chen enclosed a work of his own in an English translation that he himself had commissioned, asking if Liu might take a look. Liu, who decided that the translation fell short, took it upon himself to retranslate the work, marking the start of his career as a translator of Chinese SF. That short story, “The Fish of Lijiang,” was published in the American science fiction and fantasy magazine Clarkesworld, becoming its first work of Chinese science fiction. It won the 2012 Science Fiction and Fantasy Translation Award, and as is now widely known, Liu went on to translate numerous works of Chinese science fiction into English. Clarkesworld and Chinese SF startup Storycom collaborated to create a regular column dedicated to Chinese science fiction. To this day, more than fifty works ranging from novellas to shorter fiction have been published, while a talent pool of translators has been cultivated. From its origins as a labor of love to its transformation into a commercial product, Chinese science fiction has enjoyed a popularity in the United States that seems both fortuitous and inevitable. The Three-Body Problem is nothing short of outstanding, and seeing its commercial potential, China Educational Publications Import & Export Corporation Ltd. funded its translation. The book has now been published into numerous languages. With its success, American publishers have undoubtedly been clamoring to win translation rights from Chinese companies, and confidence in the market has only grown along with a willingness to publish newer and more original works in the US market. As a major cultural influencer in the world, American publishers are making decisions that are noted by publishers in other countries, enabling Chinese SF to be translated into a multitude of languages. But American publishers aren’t always willing to assume translation costs, which can be high. In terms of government funding, this type of literature isn’t a priority. As a result, there are two primary funding models for translations of Chinese science fiction. In the first, the author and the translator split the royalties, whereby the translator does not receive a predetermined sum and instead accepts any remuneration earned, necessitating that the collaboration be based on mutual agreement and confidence in the work. This model is more common in the early stages. In the second model, funding comes from a Chinese cultural organization, such as the case of the Storycom-Clarkesworld collaboration. With translation costs subsidized by Storycom, Clarkesworld essentially paid the standard author’s fee for an English-language author to a Chinese author. Naturally, such developments have been accompanied by the growth of a translator pool, and Chinese-to-English translators have been able to negotiate better terms, such that in some cases, American publishers have been willing to cover translation costs. Guaranteed remuneration has allowed more translators to specialize in the field, allowing more Chinese science fiction to be translated into English. Interestingly, in an exchange with Italian publisher Francesco Verso, I discovered that in Italy, many students of Chinese are more interested in science fiction than in classical literature, and thus are more willing to make Chinese science fiction the subject of term papers and research. Through his publisher Future Fiction, Verso has published several bilingual Chinese-Italian books of Chinese SF. Meanwhile, in Germany, a group of young enthusiasts founded the bilingual German-Chinese magazine Kapsel, which not only takes Chinese science fiction as its main theme, but also received funding from the Senate Department for Culture and Europe in Berlin to host a series of talks featuring Chinese SF authors. Moreover, Chinese science fiction fans, domestic or overseas, tend to make recommendations every chance they get. For a long time, science fiction fandom was just a minority group in China, but they have since developed into several tight-knit cultural circles. Through the process of such groups connecting with fan groups overseas, science fiction has become an intercultural language, with fans who will stop at nothing to promote the works they love. In the wake of Chinese SF’s international success, domestic fans have also discovered a newfound pride in their national identity and in their identity as SF fans, with an increasing number embracing the role of cultural ambassador. Chinese SF counts Barack Obama, Mark Zuckerberg, and other notables among its overseas fans, as well as key opinion leaders in science fiction circles, whose favorable remarks have turned a spotlight on it. A universal literary genre, science fiction is more apt to transport readers to a different country and different culture than its classical counterpart. Whether it be artificial intelligence, climate change, e-waste, or space invaders, its themes have found global resonance among audiences. China’s rise as a major power has naturally drawn the gaze of the world amid the upheaval of the present and anxiety and curiosity over the future. Although Western readers and mass media may interpret Chinese science fiction through a political lens, for many others it satisfies a need for great and diverse stories. For authors, works do not serve political purposes; more often, they speak of possibilities, or sound alarms—or remind people not to allow a terrifying future to happen, and that the future must not divide nations. Government support and commercialization in the development of the Chinese science fiction industry have undoubtedly been critical, but it all started with the passion of the fans, and with the words ni hao crossing borders. I am pleased to see that Korean science fiction, with the support of LTI Korea, has made it into the pages of Clarkesworld, with no shortage of younger writers like Kim Choyeop. Her stylistically breathtaking and conceptually brilliant short story “Symbiosis Theory” has garnered positive reviews from English-language readers. A few months ago, Kim Juyoung’s Time Exile became the first Korean SF novel to be published in China. I immediately bought it and read it, and felt as if I could see the story on the big screen. I couldn’t put it down—or as Kim Bo-young remarked, “It is a story of epic proportions.” I look forward to seeing more Korean science fiction translated into Chinese and English, and I hope that Asian science fiction as a whole will win over more Western readers and command their attention.   Translated by Bonnie Huie

  by Regina Kanyu Wang

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  Into the Dark Unknown

  A novelist, poet, playwright, and theorist, Choi In-hun is one of the most acclaimed, versatile writers and intellectuals of twentieth century Korea. Born in 1936, Choi grew up in Hoeryong (present-day North Korea), migrated to the South at the beginning of the Korean War, and studied law at Seoul National University before entering the literary scene in 1959 with his short story “A Detailed Record of Grey Club.” The period from the mid-1950s to mid-1970s in Korea—shaped by the clash of Western modernity and Korean tradition, the heavy burden of the colonial era, the disaster of war, the division along borders and ideologies, deformed democracy, revolution, and autocracy—is reflected in Choi In-hun’s complex, elusive literary works, and his eclectic approach to writing. Today Choi may be best known for his novels, which comprise his highly regarded The Square, an intense story of an intellectual so devastated by the realities on both sides of the demarcation line that he plunges into death, or A Grey Man, a “novel of ideas” about a northern refugee wrestling with love, time, and democratic revolution. The character reappears in the sequel Journey to the West, where he engages in surreal personified discourses with figures from Korean history. However, especially in his early creative phase, Choi In-hun also produced manifold novellas and short stories, such as Reflections on a Mask, a novella interspersed with hypnotic interludes about the digestion of wartime experience and an attempted reintegration into society, as well as parodies of pre-modern Chinese and Korean fiction: the unsettling novella The Cloud Dream of the Nine, a fevered dream-like transformation of the seventeenth century masterwork by Kim Man-jung; The Jehol Diary, a parody of Park Jiwon’s famous travelogue; New Tales of the Golden Turtle, a reconfiguration of the early Joseon dynasty collection of “strange tales” by Kim Si-seup; or adaptations of pre-modern folk-literature such as The Story of Chunhyang. Moreover, Choi In-hun’s rich oeuvre includes exceptional plays, characterized by a balance of poetry and prose, including Once upon a Long Time Ago and Hans and Gretel. He also wrote about literature and philosophy, such as Literature and Ideology. Many of Choi In-hun’s figures are disillusioned struggling intellectuals and artists with identities shaped by their ties to both Koreas, who are caught in the maelstroms of the post-colonial, Korean War, and postwar eras, striving to cope as individuals in dislocated environments. Such a figure, for instance, is A, the protagonist from Choi’s version of New Tales of the Golden Turtle. After having defected to North Korea during the war, A is trained as a spy to be sent on a mission to postwar South Korea. Secretly regretting his prior decision to go north, he plans to surrender to ROK officials, but as he crosses the border and silently crawls southward, he is shot by thieves, hiding in the night, who take his belongings and throw his body into the Imjin River. Amid the dark waves, A’s soul emerges from the bullet hole in the corpse’s skull and, squatting atop the lifeless, stripped body, floats downstream. “But tell me, what did I do wrong?” cries the agonized soul, furiously pondering over a life of senseless despair and division as it is carried along by the waters of the river that separates the two Koreas out into a dark unknown. The literature of Choi In-hun—profound, surprising, puzzling, haunting, and deeply rooted in the formation of modern day Korea—mirrors herein.    Dennis WuerthnerResearch Associate in Korean StudiesRuhr-University Bochum

  by Choi In-hun

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  Blooming Like a Pheasant’s Eye Flower

  In a recent interview with Maeil Business News Korea, the poet Shin Dalja said, “Whenever I see a pheasant’s eye flower, it reminds me of my life—unattractive and small. But people take notice of it because it blooms, surrounded by ice, earlier than any other flower in the spring. That’s all that it’s known for. Musing on its tenacity, I just can’t think other way: I myself am an unattractive and small pheasant’s eye. . .” As a matter of fact, the pheasant’s eye flower is neither showy nor glamorous. And it may indeed be unattractive in some people’s eyes, as the poet remarked. But is it an appropriate analogy for the poet herself? While one may sense her humble heart through those words, we know that as a poet, Shin has never been “unattractive and small.” Shin is not only one of the most prominent poets in the contemporary literary scene of Korea, she also enjoys a wide readership in Korea. She is especially well known for her vivid representation of a feminine sensibility and her portrayal of the hardships women have to go through even in our age of gender egalitarianism. Viewed in this light, we might bestow a new meaning on Shin’s portrayal of herself. Most of all, we should take into consideration the social and cultural conditions she has dealt with in her career; even though circumstances have improved lately, being a woman poet has been something like those flowers, surrounded by ice, blooming early in the season. Shin, like almost all other women poets in Korea, has had to endure prejudice and discrimination. If we are to choose a poem that fits the poet’s portrayal of herself, we might pick “An Oil Lamp.” The poet happened to see “[a] white porcelain oil lamp” lie “for well over ten years pale and forgotten / in a corner of [her] house.” Though the lamp “was holding a dead black wick,” she knew it was not dead, only “forgotten.” As if to make sure that the lamp was truly not dead, the poet “poured in a little oil and lit it.” Now “it covered its eyes as though bewildered, / but soon / there was a magnificent flame tingling to its very toes.” One might read the poet’s mind as delicate and sensitive enough to gaze warmly upon something long neglected or forgotten. Seen from another perspective, however, the forgotten lamp might not be a lamp in the literal sense of the word, but something long dormant in the poet’s mind, such as a certain poetic idea or topic. Now, by dint of the poet’s reinvigorated poetic impetus, it has come into full bloom as a living poem. In this sense, “An Oil Lamp” might be regarded as a poem about writing poetry, and “a little oil” as, say, the poet’s imagination or diction. But the poem does not end there. What may be called a dramatic reversal is in place. In the third stanza, the poet glimpses an image of a woman in the lamp: “Ah, that body, still female, / blazing up / if the fire is fed.” One may well imagine that the poet is seeing herself in the lamp: she herself was the one long neglected or forgotten, but knew that she would “blaz[e] up / if the fire [were] fed.” Or, to use Shin’s own words, she would be blooming like a flower of pheasant’s eye, melting the ice with her passion. Indeed, Shin is a poet as strong-willed as the pheasant’s eye flower in her determination to let her poetic aspiration fully bloom. It goes without saying that it is impossible to grasp the whole gamut of Shin’s poetic world in such a brief space. And we know that reading only one poem won’t do justice to her extensive work. Hopefully, the poems introduced here will help readers understand the poetic world of Shin Dalja in more depth. One final remark I would like to add: Shin’s poems will remain not only as small flowers of pheasant’s eye but also as ever-blazing lamps in the minds of those who love poetry.    by Jang Gyung-ryulProfessor of English, Seoul National University

  by Jang Gyung-ryul

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  The Long Journey of a Writer Who Crossed the Borderline

  Dearest Seonsaengnim, the news of your passing came so unexpectedly. It seems like only yesterday when you would greet us with your warm welcoming smile—how could you have parted from us so soon? Was it because you missed your hometown so much that you left your body behind and departed with just your soul? You were to us the icon of division and division literature. After leaving your home and family in the North and setting off southwards, as a witness who has endured all the wounds and ordeals brought by division, your path in life followed the same route as the twists and turns of our country’s history. Division colored your entire world, the subject of your existence; and exploring this with every fiber of your being, you stood tall in the wide forest of division literature. There is one image that always comes to mind when I think of you. It is the scene from 2000 when separated family members were meeting in a room in Pyongyang. You were reunited with your younger sister for the first time in fifty years. Amid that bitter scene, where longing and regret flowed out as tears, you comforted your sister with a smile and encouragement, saying, “Let’s not cry.” Your brave composure stood in contrast to that of all the weeping families. The reason I recount this memory is because, in truth, I think your literature is just the same. In the long sixty-five-year journey of your work you have been neither fierce nor loud, but serene and still. Your composure has been like a great river, carrying in its deep waters the agony, longing, anger, and grief along in its calm current. The journey of your life is bound, without excess or affectation, in your literary works such as in “Big Mountain,” which recounts your memories of the large mountain that stood tall near your hometown, holding the smaller mountains in its embrace; “Far from Home” and Petit Bourgeoisie, which tell of your experiences as a wandering laborer in Busan just after you came southward; and North Wind, South Wind, about being tangled up in difficult circumstances after having just bought your first house in Cheonho-dong. You described these heart-wrenching situations with serenity, like the flow of water. These narratives were not simply confessions from your life’s story, but rather reflections on society and humanity—stories that have ultimately stood on a higher plane evoking the tragedy of the Korean people. The “one household unification” that you often spoke of was of the same vein. You didn’t like the term “unification” did you? You said that ideological or political unification needed to be set aside, and that first, people from the North and South should be able to travel back and forth as frequently as possible—that if the people traveling north and south increased, the numbers of people sharing meals would increase, and unification would come naturally, just as water trickles from a mountain spring. You knew the best means by which we might one day be together. Now, you have parted from this world. But the longing to overcome division, which you expressed in everything you did and everything you wrote, remains as a large mountain. That longing will remain with us, and I believe it will become the basis for how we can overcome our separation. You can now tread upon the soil of your hometown, the place you longed for even in your dreams to meet again all those you have longed to see. Take the hand of Hawon* too, whom you once left behind. Respectfully, I wish you blessings in the next world. Rest in peace.    With deepest respect,Kang Jin HoProfessor of Korean LiteratureSungshin Women’s University   * A character in “Far from Home”

  by Lee Ho-cheol

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  About the Writer: Lee Ho-Cheol

  Editor’s Note Lee Ho-cheol, one of Korea’s most renowned writers, passed away at the age of eighty-five on September 18, 2016. Experiencing historical upheavals, division, war, displacement, and the birth pangs of democracy in South Korea, Lee spent a lifetime studying the issues of war and division. To commemorate Lee’s journey to overcome division and achieve the unification of the Korean peninsula, the Featured Writer section includes an interview conducted in 2013, as well as write-ups from both Korean and foreign critics about his works.   Born on March 15, 1932 in Wonsan, South Hamgyeong Province, now part of North Korea, Lee Ho-cheol was in his last year of high school when the Korean War broke out in 1950. After being sent to war as a soldier and then getting captured as a prisoner of war, he managed to return to his hometown, only to be separated from his family again when he fled south alone. He made his literary debut when “Far from Home” was published in Literary Arts in 1955 on the recommendation of his literary idol, Hwang Sun-Won. In 1960 as a journalist he was sent to observe talks held at the border in Panmunjom and was able to talk with fellow journalists from North Korea. The short story “Panmunjom” is based on this experience. During the 1970s and 80s he was heavily involved in the anti-dictatorship, prodemocracy struggle as a governor of the NGO Citizens for the Defense of Democracy, president of the Association of Writers for Actualized Freedom (the organization which went on to become the Writers Association of Korea), and joint president of the National Coalition for a Democratic Constitution. At the same time he also wrote prolifically, and won the Hyundae Literary Award, the Dongin Literary Award, and the Daesan Literary Award. In 2002 he was also awarded the Republic of Korea's Eungwan Order of Cultural Merit and in 2004 he received the Schiller Medal from Friedrich Schiller University in Jena, Germany. Lee was elected to the National Academy of Arts of The Republic of Korea in 1992. His most notable works include the novels Seoul Is Heaving (1966), South Wind, North Wind (1977), Petit Bourgeoisie (1979), and Southerners, Northerners (1996); and the short story collections Stripped Bare (1961), Big Mountain (1972), Wasting Away (1974), Gate (1981), and Panmunjom (1988). His works have been translated into English, French, German, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, Polish, and Hungarian. 

  by Lee Ho-cheol

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  Lee Ho-cheol and a Divided Nation

  Lee Ho-cheol is one of the authors who helps readers, non-Koreans in particular, understand what is currently taking place in the two Koreas, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and the Republic of Korea where he lived until he passed away. Facts are said to be “an obstinate thing,” and the sad facts of the split of the Korean people that has lasted more than half a century may be best explained by those who know, not by hearsay, what has been happening in the country since the end of the Second World War and the liberation of Korea from Japanese rule. Apart from his gift as a prose writer, Lee knew the history of his country from experience. His experience being as hard and agonizing as the experience of many of his compatriots of the same age and social status. When the war between the North and the South began, Lee was taken away from his high school and mobilized in the North Korean army. And a few months later he, a youth of no more than eighteen, was imprisoned by the Southerners. His stories, like “Panmunjom” or “The Deputy Mayor Won't Take Up His Post,” or, in particular, “Separated Family, Divided Nation – A Lamentation,” as well as his most ambitious novel Southerners, Northerners, are written from personal experience, of which Lee writes in his preface to the Russian translation of Southerners, Northerners: “Both the story ‘Mollusc’ published in 1956 and the novel that it has a lot in common with, were written on the basis of my personal impressions, as I was the participant and the witness of the events described in those works.” In his prose works, both novels and stories, by portraying the calamity of national division that extends well beyond the three-year Korean War, Lee makes an attempt to solve many issues that still seem unsolvable, to answer the “damned questions” of Korea in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Why is the peninsula still, after half a century, a “hot spot?” What should be done for people who not only lived through the Korean War but remain, as a result of Korea’s continuing division still separated from their family members, and continue to be “Far from Home” as one of his stories is called? By describing in the novel such typical characters of Northern “people’s socialism”—Pak Ch’ŏnok, pedantic and dogmatist, enthusiastic about social activities of all sorts, who organizes collective recitals and political studies, or the teacher Ch’oe Sangho, a theoretician of socialism, a would-be director of the High Party School, who “observes the people defiantly”—Lee explores the trauma experienced by separated families, and probes into the problem of the “flight through the 38th parallel,” a phrase that may be unknown to foreigners but has become for Koreans an upsetting metaphor of the national divide. Division in Lee’s work, novels and stories alike, becomes for many of his characters, as well as for the author himself, the cause and effect of estrangement that is so hard to overcome, in cities in particular, and is as long-standing and as dramatic as the political division of the two Koreas. The greatest of Lee’s achievements presumably is that he has made a very successful effort to help people around the world understand the essence of the tragedy of Koreans both in the North and in the South. A plaintive effort to make readers feel compassion for all those in Korea who are separated from their families still unable to meet. The translations of Lee’s novels and stories, made under the support of the Literature Translation Institute of Korea, first appeared as early as the end of the last century, while presently his creative output has been translated into dozen of languages, English, German, Spanish, Russian, Japanese, and Chinese among them.    by Alexander Y. LivergantEditor-in-Chief, Inostrannaya LiteraturaAssociate Professor, Russian State University for the Humanities

  by Lee Ho-cheol

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  White Is Not Always Fair

  White things—things that are pure and clean—which sterilize the parts of life that have been dirtied. That cure wounds. “Something like white ointment applied to a swelling, like gauze laid over a wound.” (p. 10) This book, by reading and writing such white things, will smooth over and bandage the wounded heart. Before reading a book there are times when we have assumptions about what it is going to offer; if your assumptions about The White Book were like the lines above, you would be left with a very different impression after actually reading the work. At first it seems like the kind of simple friendly work that divides the pure and the dirty, the light and the dark, and takes only that which is clean and fair, but in the end The White Book has nothing to do with such a blinkered, selective kind of writing. Life can never be pure, it is always colored in various hues that clash, break and get broken, dye and become dyed. Our hearts and minds get caught up in the crossfire of this color and suffer ever-changing wounds. Life is mottled and untidy; it is a dizzying ballroom of mottled things and is in essence the possibility of getting wounded. Therefore writing which seeks to be truthful about life, as long as it does not get snagged by foolish temptation, does not look towards purity or all that is fair, bright, and without injury, but rather proceeds out onto the dance floor filled with the wounds of mottled things. This is the kind of writing that makes up The White Book.     So why is it not ‘dappled’ or ‘variegated’? Why white? Because there is more to white than meets the eye. White is not a color or hue that accompanies yellow or black, red or blue. For the colors from yellow to blue to be possible, there must first be something for those colors to color, something as yet uncolored, a lack or emptiness—something akin to a blank white canvas. In this way the whiteness of a canvas is not equal to other colors like yellow, black, red, or blue. It is a shade on a more fundamental level, and it is the background shade that makes all other colors possible. White is the same as that which makes all other sounds possible, the frame of potential for sound that is silence.1 In this way white is not particularly bright or fair. Rather, it is already the frame of potential for all colors, and somewhere at its root those potentials bubble up towards the visible surface. In this way white itself is mottled. As Han Kang writes in “Fog” and “Candle”: in the thick white fog the ghosts of many colors wander with eyes that can never be seen. As white is life not realized, it can also be the color of death. If we think in this way, death cannot be seen merely as a ceasing of life’s functions or an extinguishing, but rather must be understood as something which is not yet a life realized—a space of potential that could be filled with life, or else a potential which exists transcending life realized.     Therefore thinking about whiteness is not “turning away from death to face life,” but rather honing in to focus on “that in life which is not yet part of life, or else that which has already passed beyond life” and thus approaching death. Inside of thinking about whiteness it is more correct to say that life and death in fact overlap. And so a newborn baby, a body that has just died, and the mourners who send their loved one away all wear white clothing—the newborn gown, the shroud, and the mourning dress. Life that has already passed, life, which is as yet approaching, the life that we are now living through—all of it is held within whiteness. Again, thinking about whiteness is the search for the white that always lingers beneath the layers plied onto a painted canvas that cannot be smothered completely, and from that whiteness unearthed new colors can be brought forth. Or else it serves to awaken that which lies dormant beneath a blank canvas, and as a means of checking that this lack of color does not present a simple emptiness, it also serves to make both life and death more abundant. In the end, thinking about whiteness can become an opportunity for us to actually, truly want this life, which we have no option but to accept, and go on living. When we read The White Book, what is it that the work is offering to us? It is precisely this opportunity.    by Kwon HeecheolLiterary Critic   1 See: Kandinsky, Concerning the Spritual in Art, Trans. Kwon Yeong-pil, Youlhwadang Publishers, 1986, pp. 81-83; Kim Sang-hwan, Philosophy of the Deconstruction Era, Moonji Publications, 1996, pp. 74-85

  by Han Kang

• 

  Walking Towards the Vanishing Point Cradling a Love of Life

  In the courtyard of an old, humble hanok in northern Seoul that has been lovingly restored, folding chairs are set out in tight rows with loud construction noises coming from the building site next door, where a beautiful building like this one has already been demolished. At the designated time the tiny courtyard fills with people; it’s standing-room only with the entranceway full too. In front of the small but tightly packed crowd sits Han Kang, a unique stillness in the surrounding bustle and noise. When she takes the microphone to begin talking about her artworks on display in this tiny gallery, the levels have to be adjusted so her voice can be heard, even though the builders have agreed to take a break. The hanok is called E’JUHEON and it belongs to a larger gallery called O’NEWWALL. Here, Han Kang’s performance art captured in four videos is on display in an exhibition called “Vanishing Point.” Han’s works take up a single room of the small, squat building. Entering the room it is hard to know where to look. At a glance it is difficult to tell what’s going on, the videos require concentration, and in this way they entice the viewer in. During the talk Han Kang describes how she came up with the ideas for the four performances. They are closely connected to her latest book, The White Book which began life as a list of white things, she explained. “When I go abroad I feel freer somehow and my imagination works more actively. When I was on a plane coming back to Korea from the Paris Book Fair, I saw a mountain range covered in ice on the screen showing what was below us. It made me think of the white newborn gown I had written about, and then the ideas for these video works suddenly came to me.” The four videos all feature items from the list, things which Han thought she would want to give to her older sister, a baby that died in her mother’s arms after just two hours of life, if she had survived and lived in her place. The original editions of Human Acts (left), The Vegetarian (middle), The White Book (right)   In the first work Han sits on a wooden stool near a window slowly stitching a newborn’s gown, a process which she describes in one of the most moving chapters of The White Book—how her mother realized she was going into early labor, and unable to call for help, boiled water to sterilize scissors, and stitched together a gown for a newborn while going through the pains of labor, to give birth alone. In the second work we see a close-up of a small, white stone being washed repeatedly, although it seems infinitely clean already. The third video features white feathers covering lines of poetry written on white paper, while the last video shows Han walking, with a length of white string running through her hands and charcoal between her toes, leaving a dark grey line and crushed bits of burnt matter on a length of paper. Describing the white string, Han says it has “a start and an end, like life, like measuring a distance.” Having spent a long intercontinental flight imagining the contents of these artworks Han says that she felt a joyous revelation, “I had imagined all of this without language—the thing that I have lived by.” Indeed most of the questions asked by the audience at the talk revolved around her experiences with language and artwork, and how these two practices differ or relate to one another. Han expressed that for her, the difference was not all that great, “We are all born with bodies; I believe that it is all connected, there are translations between mediums happening all the time, poetry becoming dance, becoming music, I think I had already felt this.” The sense of joy that she felt in the realization that her ideas had been detached from language then is less about the content, the feeling or what they convey, but connected to the constraints of language. She explained, “Language is a very important tool for me, it is something which I love dearly, but it is also an impossibility which causes me pain.” It is interesting to note that Han’s literary works are full of artists, from her debut novel Black Deer to the short story “Mongolian Mark,” with which she won the prestigious Yi Sang Literary Award. These characters and their work as described in her writing come from things seen and things imagined, Han explained, “I love art and I have many vivid dreams, on occasion I have thought ‘I could do it,’ but when I was at school it didn’t seem like I had any talent with art.” It is quite clear from the work in this exhibition, however, that she does have a talent for conceiving of artworks, just as she has a talent for conceiving of stories, and despite differences in medium her works seem to share a deep and profound sensibility. In Han’s writing there is something which transcends language, and this is even clearer when a similar feeling comes across in her artwork without a single word. Her works are greater than the sum of their parts, and perhaps this is why her novels have carried over so well when translated into other languages.   Photographs by Baek Jongheon   About half way through the talk Han Kang suddenly stopped for a moment; her parents had just arrived and were standing near the door. Having made sure that they had each found a seat she explained, “They’ve just arrived back from a trip for their wedding anniversary and happened to be passing through Seoul today. Mum doesn’t know what this book or these artworks are about. I haven’t told my parents. I’m sorry for writing about this without your permission. I’m worried now how they will react. So, let me read to you from the book.” Han then read “Newborn Gown,” the fourth chapter of the first section of The White Book. The atmosphere in the packed courtyard grew heavy; it was clear that Kang’s parents were quite taken aback at what they had just heard, but also deeply moved, to find an experience they had lived through, a fact of life, recounted in this way by the daughter who had followed. Breaking the silence that hung heavy after her reading, Han repeated the words of her mother to the newborn, “Please don’t die, don’t die, live.” With a quiver in her voice she added, “These are words for all of us.” Although not something intended, Han’s works of performance art had a strong sense of the shaman ritual about them. Like the generations of shamans who have presided over the births and deaths, the spiritual lives of ordinary people in Korea for centuries, Han Kang walks unafraid towards the vanishing point, the inevitability of death, possibilities cut short, alternative universes and moments that will never return. Examining this vanishing point, the blurry uncertainties at the edges of the world each of us inhabits, is something which takes great courage, but for Han Kang it seems inevitable. In her artworks you sense a profound love of life in all its forms, all of the things that surround and elude it. There is a deep sadness in her work also, but somehow it is a sadness which whispers, “Life is fleeting, some lives never get to be, but here we are.” A sadness made of light.    by Sophie BowmanTranslator

  by Han Kang

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  [Essay] The Globalization of Korean Literature and the Status Quo

  How to account for the success of The Vegetarian? In the immediate aftermath of the Man Booker International Prize, a lot of the reporting speculated on what had led the judges to single out The Vegetarian. But though the MBI has created excitement on an unprecedented scale, The Vegetarian’s critical and commercial success has been ongoing since its original publication in 2007. Though never (until now) a bestseller, the book received strong critical acclaim when it first appeared, with its middle section taking home the Yi Sang Literary Award, and was already a cult “steady seller” before any of the MBI announcements started having an effect. In addition, by the time the contract for the English translation was signed the book had already been published in countries as far afield as Argentina and Japan, Poland, and Vietnam. This impressive feat was down to the tireless work and connections of Han Kang’s agents, Joseph Lee and Barbara Zitwer, and the book’s favorable reception in these countries was enabled by the skill and dedication of a range of translators as well as the strength of the original work itself. Because of course, the most important reason for The Vegetarian’s unprecedented success is that it is an extraordinarily powerful work of literature. First, there is Han Kang’s style, restrained but never indifferent, perfectly calibrated to describe scenes of extreme violence or sexuality without the least hint of sensationalism. Then there is the form she uses, the varying voices and perspectives which combine to create a subtly shaded triptych of tones and atmospheres, while still providing the reader with a suspenseful plot to pull them through the pages. And there is the portrayal of Yeong-hye herself, a character approached through the obliquely intersecting gazes of those around her, onto whom they project their own repressed fears and desires. And yet, even the most astonishing literary accomplishment is never a guaranteed success. This is all the more so in cases like The Vegetarian’s UK publication—a work of translated fiction, published in a country where translation accounts for no more than four percent of overall publications, written by an author whose work had never been published in English outside South Korea itself. This is not the kind of book that will sell itself; ensuring the best possible chance of success requires intelligent marketing and tireless promotion. In the case of The Vegetarian, this extended from the cover design and marketing copy to a social media campaign and publicity events. One of the most distinctive—and significant—features of these first two was that the author’s nationality, though not effaced, was also not foregrounded. It was simply not an issue.   What might this mean for the future? Over the past few years, I’ve heard people involved with South Korea’s publishing and translation scene bemoan the lack of a “Korean Murakami.” For me, this has always begged the question of what would constitute successful globalization, as well as what, exactly, is meant by Korean literature. After all, Murakami Haruki is not “Japanese literature” any more than Han Kang is “Korean literature.” Fervent Murakami fans are not, by and large, spurred on by this passion to read more Japanese literature—they want to read more Murakami. When a writer succeeds on the international stage they become, for that audience, an international writer. One of the most beautiful things about literature has always been its ability to reveal the flimsiness of those boxes which we all too often put ourselves or others into—not perhaps to transcend borders, but to show that if there is an unintelligibility between countries, it is no more than that which exists between any two individuals. In considering whether there is a certain type of book that will be more or less likely to succeed abroad, these ideas of representativeness or cultural essentialism are definitely unhelpful, but what seems to be replacing them in the source markets, and has always been strong in the target markets, is equally problematic. These days, “universality” crops up with alarming frequency in UK-based discussions on translated fiction—when asked what they look for in a foreign book, editors (particularly at the bigger publishing houses) have become so accustomed to providing this stock response that it’s clear they haven’t really thought about what they mean by “universal themes,” or whether their idea of universality has in fact been shaped by their own particular background. From listening to the examples they cite, you could be forgiven for thinking that to qualify as universal, a book must feature a white male protagonist, preferably a university professor or someone of a similarly elite background, having some kind of mid-life crisis. In addition to the obvious political / representational issues with this view, it also seems to stem from a confusion about the term “universality” itself. Earlier this year, I listened to the Scottish writer A.L. Kennedy give a talk in which she explained that universality is not the opposite of specificity, but in fact proceeds from it, which seemed to me absolutely true. To confuse universality with generality, the absence of the particular—in this context, we might think of the absence of the local—is the kind of thinking that has led the whole notion of “world literature” to be criticized as encouraging homogenization and reinforcing lopsided power structures. There is no doubt that the outsized success of The Vegetarian has vastly expanded the range of Korean books which publishers might be willing to take a chance on. Though there will always be some kinds of books less likely to cross borders (and every country’s literature needs a balance of books that work best for a domestic audience and those which may in fact be more appreciated abroad), there will be room for a broad spectrum— from those which will introduce aspects of Korea’s rich culture and eventful history to international readers, to those which are not set in Korea and do not feature Korean protagonists. Within a few years, Korean literature (and please, let’s not call it “K-lit”) could become a byword for originality, artistic quality, formal and stylistic diversity. But none of this is guaranteed, and will not happen automatically. The Vegetarian has opened the door, but so did Murakami, yet his success had absolutely no effect on contemporary Japanese literature as a whole, which is still sorely under-represented in English. Here, the crucial advantage which gives Korean literature the edge is its funding organizations—LTI Korea, the Daesan Foundation, ARKO, and others—long-established, generously endowed, staffed by friendly, dedicated women and men. The role these organizations play is more important now than ever before, if this unprecedented opportunity to introduce Korean literature to the Anglophone world is neither to be missed nor left entirely to market forces, which are concerned neither with the politics of representation nor with presenting the full spectrum of literary talent.   Conclusion There’s always a danger, in this kind of discussion, of thinking that what is required is some kind of programmatic action plan—ten steps to Korean Literature’s World Domination!, like those books about how to get ahead in business. Publishing is a business, of course, but those of us with a passion for literature don’t publish in order to make money, we only try and keep our heads above water for the sake of being able to publish. A statesanctioned attempt to increase a nation’s “brand value,” or a homogenizing push for inclusion in some global canon, will be entirely at odds with this ethos. Through the books we make available, there are so many other things we can help make happen: readers will fall in love with individual characters, be impressed by the artistic achievement of certain writers, learn about cultural traditions and contemporary lives. Some will be inspired to study a language and become translators themselves. The continued opening up of Korean literature to the world will be an organic, holistic process, made up largely of people—writers, translators, publishers—doing what they love, aided and supported by funders and other organizations. We’re not selling a product; we’re opening a door. I believe that if we all work together with this common goal in mind, the future of Korean literature will be very bright indeed.    by Deborah SmithLiterary TranslatorFounder and Publisher, Tilted Axis Press

  by Deborah Smith

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  Part Ⅳ. The “Dicapoem” Movement

  Digital Communication and the “Dicapoem” Movement   Dicapoem: A Multi-Language Art Form Poetry read from a printed text is the product of print communications that came to flourish following the invention of the Gutenberg letterpress in the fifteenth century. The large-scale circulation of knowledge and information made possible by print communication paved the way for the Renaissance, the Reformation, and subsequent civil revolutions that, in the end, led to the dawn of modernity. It is in this context that the history of humanity can be said to coincide with the evolutionary history of media technology. By opening up a new era of digital communication where almost anyone anywhere in the world can freely access a worldwide computer network, the Internet heralded new progress in human history. Smartphones, which are basically handheld computers, have brought about the digital media era of the individual where communication takes place in the condensed time and space of social media. As we can see in everyday social media exchanges, digital communication goes beyond text to communicate in multiple languages (text, image, etc.) simultaneously. The power of this second Gutenbergian revolution of digital communication has been too strong for poetry to continue following the tradition of only using written text. Accordingly, the “dicapoem” has emerged as a new poetry movement for the digital communication age, creating new prospects for poetry as a multi-language art form harnessing image along with written text. As dicapoems establish the textuality of words and images, the image and the text are completely inseparable. This is very different from the common practice of making a “photo poem” by juxtaposing a text poem with an appropriate photograph. Photo poems combine a stand alone poem with another stand alone photograph to bolster the effectiveness of each, which means that the image and text are independent—the combination of photograph and written text a temporary arrangement. A dicapoem, on the other hand, is the result of a poet feeling inspiration in nature or an object and capturing what they have seen with a digital camera, then expressing their inspiration in writing and combining these two elements as a single text “written” in multiple “languages.” If you examine the image and written text of a dicapoem separately each loses its reason for being as neither image nor text has independent value as photographic art or written poetry. The culmination of that poetic inspiration is then instantly communicated via social media.   Experimentation and École I coined the word “dicapoem” in 2004 by combining the word “dica,” short hand in Korean for “digital camera,” with “poem.” Following this, from April-June 2004, a total of fifty dicapoems were published online, and in September of the same year the concept of the dicapoem was brought before the public eye with the publication of the dicapoem anthology, The Way to Goseong. In the beginning the concept of a dicapoem arose from individual experimentation. However, soon enough, with the opening of an online forum in 2004 and the creation of the “mook” (magazine-book), Dicapoem Mania (2006), the bi-annual publication, Dicapoem (2007), and the 2008 establishment of a dicapoem festival held in Goseong, South Gyeongsang Province, I joined with other poets such as Choe Gwangim and Cha Mingi to form an école and thus began dicapoetry as a literary movement centered around the Goseong region. Professor Kim Jonghoi has said of dicapoetry: “Standing at the cutting edge of the era, this poetry movement, much like the modernist poetic movement led by Kim Gwang-gyun in the 1930s, sets a cultural standard which...is working to invigorate the reputation of an entire region and I believe it will surely develop its own important festival.” Indeed, the dicapoem has been heralded as a new classic form, working to restore the significance of poetry in the age of digital imagery and communicate with readers via digital media. The specialist dicapoem magazine is now on its sixteenth edition with poets such as Cho Jeonggwon, Jeong Hanyong, Kim Wangno, Choe Chunhui, Byeon Jongtae, Kim Yeongtak, Park Seoyeong, Park U-dam, Kim Ryung, Cheon Yunghui, Jo Yeongrae, Yi Kiyong, and Jeong Da-in. At the same time, critics such as Kim Jonghoi, Lee Byeongheon, Lee Jaebok, Kim Jongtae, Kim Seokjun, and Oh Hongjin have gotten involved, and even academic articles and university dissertations have been written on the subject. Not only that, Chae Hoseok’s The History of Korean Modern Literature (2009) for young readers includes my dicapoem “The Way to Goseong” and offers dicapoetry as a new poetic genre for the Internet era. Dicapoems go beyond print books, being communicated to a wide online aud ience instantaneously through social media and online news outlets. Currently, in the online newspaper Money Today, a twice-weekly column entitled “Dicapoems brought to you by poet Choe Gwangim” is being published (138 editions as of January 1st, 2016), while various dicapoems, such as Kong Kwang-kyu’s “Farming Pants Pattern,” Kim Back-kyum’s “Autumn Sunflower,” Kwon Jeong-u’s “As the Sun Sets,” Ban Chil-hwan’s “A Flower’s Home Address,” Seo Donggyun’s “Spring,” and Kim Miryang’s “Underlining,” have been featured on the mobile-version homepage of the search engine and portal site Naver, recording over 100,000 hits. With the popularity of dicapoems growing, from 2009 to 2011 an outdoor evening poetry reading called “Seoul Flowing with Poems” was held, and since 2013, the “Gwanghwamun Kyobo Book Centre Dicapoem Reading” event has been staged quarterly. Last year, the event “A Night at Gyeolseong Hyanggyo (Confucian School)” was held, bringing together dicapoems and traditional heritage, and in 2015, at the Lee Byeong-Ju Hadong International Literature Festival, the first dicapoem competition and award ceremony was held.   Significance and Outlook As smartphones have enabled us to capture a moment and instantly share that moment via social media, this new means of expression has opened up opportunities for real-time interactive communication, and as we have seen, dicapoetry continues to grow in popularity. In terms of creative aesthetics, if traditional written poetry is the result of one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent imagination, dicapoems turn that notion around as they are formed from ninetynine percent inspiration and one percent imagination. As dicapoetry takes momentary poetic inspiration as poetic completion, it has garnered a fate by which even five lines of text seems long and, accordingly, a dicapoem will be a short witty statement of only two or three lines.    by Lee Sang-okPoet and ProfessorZhengzhou University of Light Industry

  by Lee Sang-ok

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  Part Ⅲ. Extreme Lyricism Movement

  Principles and Potential of Extreme Lyricism in Korean Poetry In the Korean literary scene lately there has been enthusiastic debate about what is known as “lyricism.” Such debate begins from critical reflection upon the way that the prominent concept of the lyric relies too heavily upon European aesthetics, which in turn, stems from the custom of a system of classification separating lyric, narrative, and drama. Indeed, theories of poetics throughout Korean literary circles all explain the principles of lyricism in similar ways: internalizing the external, lasting ephemerality, self-identity, or the abundant present tense. Therefore, while narrative explores the disconnect in the relationship between the self and the world, lyric in contrast removes any distance between the self and the world. However, such an explanation is merely an aesthetic custom. It does not itself express the unchanging concept of lyricism. In this regard, it is worth noting the efforts to reconsider the explanation of lyric principle according to European aesthetics as the self-expression of the ego. Of course, until now the overriding view on the principles of lyricism in the Korean literary scene has been to define it as that which interprets and comes to grips with the world, then transforms it by means of the self-expression of the subject. This led to the lyric being understood as the expression of a kind of identity that does not come into conflict with the world; this notion was held up as a principle that takes the first person subject of “I” as the origin and expresses experience in “the abundant present tense.” In the end we can refer back to Hegel, who explained that “what is properly lyric is not objective fact and its plastic portrayal, but the echo of the external in the mind, the mood aroused by it, and the feelings of the heart in such surroundings.” * Accordingly, the urge to maintain and protect such principles of lyricism remains strong in literature to this day. This accompanies the belief that the aesthetic completeness of modern Korean poetry is realized through the dansi, or “short poem,” tradition. In excluding unnecessary language as much as possible and paring back to the minimum required for reason and feeling, the strength of short poetry comes from opening the possibility for readers to interpret a poem using their imaginations. Of course it is true that there is also an inherent danger that such practice can give rise to the over-frequent use of adage or aphorism, or of a poem ending with the abrupt transcendence of a subject, or even poems being written as little more than a memo of an idea without any linguistic artistry. The recent shift in Korean poetry towards narrative, as well as how poets are composing increasingly longer works, arise from a strategy to overcome such limitations. However, the movement towards short poetry that uses transcendence and implication as a foundation to realize an aesthetics of omission, is gaining strength on the value of the lyric as an invaluable method of creativity. This way of writing, which is vigilant not to allow over-signification by leaving things unsaid, calls for a high level of craftsmanship from its practitioners. It is the concept of “extreme lyric poetry” that has naturally come to the fore at the very apex of such an artisan spirit. The poet and critic Choi Dong-Ho sustains an enthusiastic engagement with extreme lyricism. While pointing out the various negative aspects he encounters in the poetry of younger poets, such as gratuitous difficulty, hybridity, fantasy, and redundancy, Choi uses the term extreme lyric poetry to denote an alternative path. Inherent in his usage of this term is the emphasis on the need for restraint and the blank space intrinsic to lyric poetry; a call to revive the condensed charm of lyric poetry eliminates any onerous rhetoric. He suggests extreme lyric poetry as a principle to give rise to a high level of poetic tension. According to Choi, short extreme lyric poetry denotes poetry that is formed as simply as possible—something that might be called the “minimal unit of the poem.” In this way, Choi Dong-Ho has designated the fruits of integration with the spirit of the twentyfirst century digital age as extreme lyric poetry, within which lies a reflection upon an important artistic alternative for Korean poetry in the future. We can think about this in the following way. It seems unnecessary to say that the criteria for extreme lyric poetry is not limited to the short length of the poems. However, the methodology of omission and condensation, which naturally leads to a relatively short poem, can also quite naturally be seen as the defining principle. In addition, gripping the hearts of readers with a singular message or image makes for a far more effective work. Accordingly, rather than signifying a physical minimum, the word “extreme” in the term serves to reflect the extremity of concentration and condensation. All of these precedents are achievements garnered in the “blank space and lyricism at the minimal point of language,” as described by Choi Dong-Ho himself in the poet’s preface of his 2011 anthology Ice Face. Of course, for Korean poetry to maintain its abundance, we absolutely need a form of a certain length that can hold within it complex awareness, or the passing of time over a long duration. The key point is to what extent such work creates a new stir in aesthetic experience through impact and frisson. In that regard, the length of a poem is not of fundamental importance. To put it another way, something can be short and overdone, or long and still lacking. Therefore, it may be seen that the aesthetic potential of extreme lyric poetry lies in giving life to the condensed charm of a poem with the moderation and blank space intrinsic to the lyric and the removal of any unnecessary rhetoric. Of course, the term “extreme lyric poetry” has not yet gained universal acceptance in academia. Quite simply, it denotes the methodology of poems that are being written to hold together an aggregation of language and reason that stands in contrast to the overwhelming strand of overly long and difficult poetry being written in Korea today. From the standpoint of extreme lyricism, the poem cannot exist without being condensed to a minimum. In an age where literature is overtly distributed and consumed as an artfully packaged product—an age where writers rightly consider themselves an important part of the culture industry—this kind of approach will remain fundamental to unlocking the identity of poetry itself, since it is at once both a key significance of poetry and an uncompromising indicator which will defend the essence of poetry in an age of great uncertainty. For this reason, extreme lyricism will continue to slowly emerge as a powerful means by which to maintain the diversity and balance of Korean poetry.    by Yoo SunghoLiterary Critic and Professor of Korean LiteratureHanyang University   * G.W.F Hegel, Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art, Vol. 2. Translated by T. M. Knox, Clarendon Press, 1975

  by Yoo Sungho