In Korea, poetry remains the dominant form of literature not just by tradition, but also because fundamentally, the Korean language and its infinite nuances allow the most creative and powerful forms of expression with an economy of syllabs. On the other hand, people don't have much time to read fiction and long formats, particularly during their study years, the most formative ones for authors... but let's not digress, and venture into yet another rant about an education system known for destroying creativity in all its forms.
Speaking of form, or rather format... modern Korean fiction often comes in novellas, which can be a blessing: more room for character or story building than short stories, easier to test / taste new authors (e.g. no risk of endless ordeal in case you don't enjoy the journey!).
Asia Publishers provides series of small and colorful books that have a knack for jumping into your pack and holding you company wherever you go. They're all full of vitamins (bilingual editions augmented with short critics or comments), and sometimes you meet a true gem.
'The Summer' begins with a touching love story, which happen to be a story of lesbian love in smalltown Korea. Rewarding such a theme would send a very positive message from/to the country and its literature, but I voted for Choi Eunyoung's work because of its intrinsic qualities. As its protagonists move to Seoul, become adult, experience life's sometimes most frustrating twists, 'The Summer' grows into a tough, delicate, timeless and universal story of life, and a sincere, true literary feat. So congratulations to Choi Eunyoung - I'm looking forward to reading more from her.
Which will require, considering my embarrassingly miserable command of Korean, more work for translators, 'The Summer' being the first of her works to be available in English. If Han Kang and Deborah Smith shared the Man Booker International Prize, I'd like to thank Jamie Chang for sharing 'The Summer' with us.
And while I'm at it, thank you, Brother Anthony of Taize, for sharing so many works of Ku Sang, and countless works of great Korean authors... not to mention, over last night's dinner (and in the great tradition of Korean literature), more stories and shots than I can recall.
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| CHOI Eunyoung receives the 2017 Ku Sang Young Writer Award (20171124 - twitter.com/theseoulvillage/status/934003760552013825) |
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"The Summer " / "그 여름" by CHOI Eunyoung (Asia Publishers 2017) |
***
I'll realize that I didn't post my reviews for the 2015 edition** on this blog. You'll find them right below (NB: my vote went to Geum Hee's 'Ok-hwa', the award to Cheon Myeong-kwan's 'Homecoming'):
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| "Ok-hwa" by Geum Hee (Asia Publishers 2015) |
Each
one of the four
short stories nominated for the 2015 Ku Sang Young Writer Award
proposes its own special and unique take at the elusive Korean dream,
diversity, and identity. We follow the interactions of characters
coming from different backgrounds, different countries, and sometimes
different continents, who may share the same look, but seldom the
same destiny… except maybe for that universal, all too human sense
of loneliness and alienation.
***
"Ok-hwa"
by Jin Jin-ji / Geum Hee
‘Ok-hwa
is about “the
anxiety of people who lived on the land of people not on their side”.
Where is home? Is it this ethnic Korean village in China struggling
with illegal “escapees”
who do share the same look, but have that “particular
North Korean scent”?
Is home that fabled, far-away South Korea where Chinese Koreans and
North Koreans alike feel mistreated? Deaconess Hong may be a rock in
her community, her heart and convictions start melting as soon as
she’s confronted with shifting mirrors and memories.
All
characters in this story are somehow outcasts in the making, starting
with ‘the woman’: everybody at the church is embarrassed by that
unnamed escapee from North Korea begging around for money. Will she
really leave for South Korea? Hong wants her out of her sight also
because she reminds her too much of another escapee woman, and that
one had a name: Ok-hwa. Ok-hwa was never cast out by the community,
to the contrary: she was the one who rejected all others by suddenly
vanishing, shattering the nucleus of Hong’s family, which welcomed
her and married her to its precious son. Is the outcast Hong’s
brother-in-law, who just returned from South Korea, where he felt
like a sub-citizen? The main outcast could be Hong herself: she can’t
escape anywhere, she can’t disappear in thin air, but is she truly
there, and is there anybody “on her side”?
"Time Difference" by Baik Sou linne
In
“Time Difference”, a married woman is tasked by her mother with
meeting Jung-hun / Vincent, a cousin from the Netherlands whose
existence is hidden from the rest of the family. Their secret
encounters spice up her predictable life, and she is troubled by this
man who is seven years older, but looks younger than her. Vincent is
at the same time so similar and so different, like an inaccessibly
free alien brother. She has a mission, a message for him, but she
keeps procrastinating, and simply lives these lively moments. Yet she
can’t fully enjoy them, because she already knows that she can lose
a brother.
"Old Man River" by Lee Jang-wook
“Old
Man River” flows around Alex, a Korean adoptee who, since he lost
his American father Nikola, is also orphan of both adoptive parents.
Back from Iowa to his native country, with little chance of finding
his biological mother through some tearjerker of a TV show, he feels
like a total foreigner in a place where everybody looks like him.
Alex did have once a girlfriend, but Lien had to leave Cedar Rapids
for Vietnam with her father. Vietnam, USA, Korea, the same places
emerge from the stories that his boss, a Korean bar owner in Itaewon,
keeps telling again and again. But Alex has his own broken record:
he’s obsessively mumbling the story of Heath Ledger’s tattoo,
“Old Man River”. Is this lone soul going to drown completely?
"Homecoming"
by Cheon Myeong-kwan
In
“Homecoming”, the single father of a mixed boy struggles for
survival in a dystopian future. They are ‘blankets’, homeless
people at the bottom of a society of casts where only 10% have a job,
and where the only safety net is a closefisted system of vouchers. At
the top of the pyramid, the Gangnam superrich play with the lives of
the Gangbuk superpoor, sometimes adopting their kids on a whim. Even
by sacrificing himself, the father can’t afford feeding his son, or
paying for his medical treatment. Will he accept the offer and
abandon him, like his own father abandoned his family decades ago?
What does ‘do the right thing’ mean in such a broken world?
***
Through
the magic of fiction, Koreans from all horizons are confronted with
four disturbing and sometimes distorting mirrors for the whole world
to see. Now I’m confronted with a tricky choice: which room to
recommend most in a house of mirrors that deserves a full tour?
My
vote goes to "Ok-hwa" precisely because Jin Jin-ji’s
story is, by itself, a whole house of mirrors. You know that you’ve
stepped in a fiction, you are aware that with each character the
author introduces new angles of reflection, new social and
interpersonal constraints, you know that she’s also playing with
time and voices to add confusion, and you know that you’ll end up
as tangled as the main character.
Jin is not telling a story, but building an architectural trap where fiction forces the reader to see all sides of reality. And if all four stories somehow reach for a better mutual understanding within the ever more diverse Korean world, “Ok-hwa” may have the power to change the way many people look at each other as well as at themselves.
Seoul Village 2017
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* Giuseppe KIM sang beautifully one of her poems on stage, and both the guitarist and the poet ended in tears.
** I unfortunately couldn't attend last year's edition
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