Questioning Minds: Short Stories By Modern Korean Women Writers (Hawaiʻi studies on Korea) 9780824833954, 9780824834098, 0824833953

Citation preview

Korean literature HAWAI‘I STUDIES ON KOREA

in English, the ten short stories by modern Korean women collected here touch in one way or another on issues related to gender and kinship politics. All of the protagonists are women who face personal crises or defining moments in their lives as gender-marked beings in a Confucian, patriarchal Korean society. Their personal dreams and values have been compromised by gender expectations or their own illusions about female existence. They are compelled to ask themselves “Who am I?” “Where am I going?” “What are my choices?” Each story bears colorful and compelling testimony to the life of the heroine. Some of the stories celebrate the central character’s breakaway from the patriarchal order; others expose sexual inequality and highlight the struggle for personal autonomy and dignity. Still others reveal the abrupt awakening to mid-life crises and the seasoned wisdom that comes with accepting the limits of old age. The stories are arranged in chronological order, from the earliest work by Korea’s first modern woman writer in 1917 to stories that appeared in 1995—approximately one from each decade. Most of the writers presented are recognized literary figures, but some are lesser-known voices. The introduction presents a historical overview of traditions of modern Korean women’s fiction, situating the selected writers and their stories in the larger context of Korean literature. Each story is accompanied by a biographical note on the author and a brief, critical analysis. A selected bibliography is provided for further reading and research. Questioning Minds marks a departure from existing translations of Korean literature in terms of its objectives, content, and format. As such it will contribute to the growth of Korean studies, increasing the availability of material for teaching Korean literature in English, and stimulate readership of its writers beyond the confines of the peninsula.

AVA IL A BLE FOR THE FIR ST TI M E

Julie Matsuo-Chun

ISBN 978-0-8248-3409-8

Honolulu, Hawai‘i 96822-1888

Questioning Minds

Kim Whanki, Moonlight (Wŏlgwang), 1959. Oil painting on canvas, 92 cm x 60 cm. Courtesy of the Whanki Foundation, housed in the collection of the Museum, Korea University, Seoul, Korea.

UNIVERSITY of HAWAI‘I PRESS

SHORT STORIES BY MODERN KOREAN WOMEN WRITERS

translated and with an introduction by

Yung-Hee Kim

COVER A RT:

COVER DE SIGN:

K IM

Yung-Hee Kim is professor of Korean literature in the Department of East Asian Languages and Literatures, University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa.

Questioning Minds

90000

9 780824 834098 www.uhpress.hawaii.edu

Questioning Minds

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hawa i ‘ i

stu di e s

on

korea

Wayne Patterson The Ilse: First-Generation Korean Immigrants, 1903–1973 Linda S. Lewis Laying Claim to the Memory of May: A Look Back at the 1980 Kwangju Uprising Michael Finch Min Yŏng-gwan: A Political Biography Michael J. Seth Education Fever: Society, Politics, and the Pursuit of Schooling in South Korea Chan E. Park Voices from the Straw Mat: Toward an Ethnography of Korean Story Singing Andrei N. Lankov Crisis in North Korea: The Failure of De-Stalinization, 1956 Hahn Moon-Suk And So Flows History Timothy R. Tangherlini and Sallie Yea, eds. Sitings: Critical Approaches to Korean Geography Alexander Vovin Koreo-Japonica: A Re-evaluation of a Common Genetic Origin Yung-Hee Kim, translator Questioning Minds: Short Stories by Modern Korean Women Writers

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hawa i ‘ i

st u di e s

on

kore a

Questioning Minds Short Stories by Modern Korean Women Writers

translated and with an introduction by Yung-Hee Kim

University of Hawai‘i Press, Honolulu and Center for Korean Studies, University of Hawai‘i

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© 2010 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 15  14  13  12  11  10    6  5  4  3  2  1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Questioning minds : short stories by modern Korean women writers / translated and with an introduction by Yung-Hee Kim.   p.  cm. — (Hawai‘i studies on Korea)   Includes bibliographical references and index.   ISBN 978-0-8248-3395-4 (hardcover : alk. paper) —   ISBN 978-0-8248-3409-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)   1. Short stories, Korean—Translations into English.  2. Korean fiction—Women authors—Translations into English.  3. Korea (South)—Fiction.  I. Kim, Yung-Hee. PL984.E8Q47 2010 895.7'3010809287—dc22 2009030298

The Center for Korean Studies was established in 1972 to coordinate and develop resources for the study of Korea at the University of Hawai‘i. Reflecting the diversity of the academic disciplines represented by affiliated members of the university faculty, the Center seeks especially to promote interdisciplinary and intercultural studies. Hawai‘i Studies on Korea, published jointly by the Center and the University of Hawai‘i Press, offers a forum for research in the social sciences and humanities pertaining to Korea and its people.

University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources. Designed by University of Hawai‘i Press production staff Printed by The Maple-Vail Book Manufacturing Group

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To the memory of my mother

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Contents



Preface Acknowledgments Introduction: Traditions in Modern Korean Women’s Fiction Writing, by Yung-Hee Kim

ix xiii 1

Stories 1 Kim Myŏng-sun: A Girl of Mystery (1917)

15

2 Na Hye-sŏk: Kyŏnghŭi (1918)

24

3 Kim Wŏn-ju: Awakening (1926)

55

4 Han Mu-suk: Hydrangeas (1949)

68

5 Kang Sin-jae: The Mist (1950)

83

6 Song Wŏn-hŭi: When Autumn Leaves Fall (1961)

100

7 Yi Sun: A Dish of Sliced Raw Fish (1979)

119

8 Yi Sŏk-pong: The Light at Dawn (1985)

150

9 Ch’oe Yun: Stone in Your Heart (1992)

164

10  Pak Wan-sŏ: Dried Flowers (1995)

186

Notes Bibliography Index

215 223 229

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Preface

Questioning Minds is designed to reflect the living tradition of Korean women’s fiction writing through a representation of short stories dating from 1917 to 1995, written by ten different women, with the aim of making them available in English translation to a wider readership outside Korea. This translation is especially intended for college-level audiences and readers. My experience in teaching the course “Modern Korean Women Writers and Culture,” which I implemented and have offered for years at University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, has convinced me of the need for more systematically organized introductory and textual material such as this book for use by both students and teachers in Korean literature. The majority of the stories in this anthology are translated here for the first time, whether into English or any other language.1 In this sense, the present book represents an attempt to explore thus-far-untraveled terrain and contribute to the expansion of Korean literature beyond the confines of Korea. A distinctive feature of this anthology is the thematic relationship between the works included. These stories are chosen not simply because they are by women writers. Rather, these works touch upon issues related to gender and kinship politics, such as women’s search for self-identity, gender relations, marriage and family institutions, problems of old age, and women’s creative engagement and professions, to name a few. All the protagonists in these stories are women situated at one stage or another in their life cycle— as daughter, daughter-in-law, wife, mother, or widow. These characters face personal crises or defining moments in their lives as gender-marked beings in a Confucian, patriarchal Korean society. They often find their personal

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aspirations, values, and dignity compromised, threatened, or even violated by gender expectations, marriage conventions, or their own illusions concerning female existence. These circumstances compel the heroines to raise—some directly and others implicitly—such questions as “Who am I?” “What have I done with my life?” “Where am I going?” and “What are my choices?” A few succeed in resolving their quandaries; in the process, some find invaluable, even philosophical, insights into life itself. Some at least come to recognize their entrapped condition, even while they remain deadlocked in their circumscribed existences. Essentially, these stories represent the variety of challenges and dilemmas Korean women have experienced since their country’s modernization. Such questioning postures by the female characters help the reader discern the challenges the individual authors faced amidst the dominant gender assumptions/ideologies and cultural practices of their times. Notable targets of their rebuke include the patriarchal prejudices against female education; women’s enforced confinement to the domestic sphere; the denial of opportunities for women to develop their intelligence and artistic talents; male sexual license and egotism; the Confucian promotion of marriage and motherhood as the one and only purpose of a woman’s life; the cult of women’s other-oriented existence, that is, the emphasis upon their subservience, self-sacrifice, and obedience; the hierarchical ordering of family relationships, with women occupying the lowest rung; and the feminine mystique surrounding the conjugal and familial happiness of middle-class urban professional housewives. At the same time, amidst such themes a number of these writers skillfully capture key moments in Korea’s past and present. They are vigilant in reading the signs of their times, and subtle in weaving a sense of historical reality into the lives of their characters. That is, these short stories frequently reveal their authors’ keen understanding of the crucial ramifications of the sociopolitical and cultural unfolding on the conjugal, familial, and intellectual lives of women. This historical consciousness communicates their views of women as historical-social beings and agents—not merely as entities submerged in domestic isolation, as often assumed, but as integral parts of their respective sociopolitical landscapes. Often incisively evoked in these stories are the irrefutable and far-reaching presence of colonial Japan in all aspects of the daily lives of Koreans; the turbulence and tension of the postliberation period and the ravages of the Korean War that contributed to the varied destinies of their heroines; the growing consumerism and the vulgar materialism of the middle classes, and the bourgeois complacence of the 1970s and 1980s; and the escalating erosion of traditional values, marriage customs, and kinship relationships of the 1990s. These stories can be seen as illuminations of the

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intricately woven intertextuality of fiction with history, culture, and women’s lives. An effort has been made in this anthology to convey a historical sense of the development of thematic concerns in the stories by including at least one story from each decade of the twentieth century, beginning with the 1910s and ending in the 1990s. Nevertheless, there is a gap between the 1920s and the 1940s due to difficulties in locating a representative story that would meet the anthology’s topical parameters. Such stories are scarce largely because not all modern Korean women writers, including those with popular followings, are interested in probing gender-related or feminist issues. In addition, there has not necessarily been a qualitatively or even quantitatively steady growth in these thematic areas from one generation to the next. Furthermore, depending upon the individual writer, interest in such tropes may be fortuitous or temporary. My desire to avoid duplication of already translated works and the space constraints in this anthology have also led to the exclusion of deserving stories. In the end, however, these circumstances provided me with the challenging but rewarding task of looking for and listening to lesser-known voices that reveal hidden talents and offer refreshing insights. Ultimately this task presented valuable opportunities to widen my own literary horizons regarding modern Korean literature as a whole. The selected stories are arranged in chronological order from 1917, with the very first work of the first modern Korean woman writer, to the narratives that appeared in the mid-1990s. This arrangement will help the reader see the changes in narrative technique and structure as well as the textual shifts in vision and thematic articulation, depending on the time of their publication. Through this formal arrangement readers ideally will come to appreciate the lives of modern Korean women, punctuated by frustrations, self-doubt, anguish, rebellious impulses, and the occasional sense of accomplishment, all of which contributed to the configuration of Korean culture and intellectual history. Another noteworthy aspect of this collection is the variety of narrative viewpoints among the stories. A number of them are told by first-person narrators and even make use of an epistolary format, while others are related by third-person or omniscient narrators. Some stories are presented in chronological order, but a few employ memory modes and explore manipulation of time and unconventional narrative organization. Such narrative and structural diversity adds color and tonal shades to these thematically linked stories. The stylistic variety also represents the spectrum of Korean women writers and reminds us that these are only a small sample of the available literature. In modern Korean literature short stories have been considered a consum-

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mate literary art form and a testing ground for an author’s talent. As such, the genre has become an orthodox and mainstream channel, through which writers make their literary debut; thus it is not unusual that the fame of some major writers rests on a handful of short stories. This convention strongly persists in contemporary Korea, including in women’s fiction writing. Lastly, in accordance with the Korean custom, personal names were rendered surname first followed by given name. It also should be noted that Korean women do not change their surnames after they get married.

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Acknowledgments

A number of individuals and institutions lent their valuable assistance in bringing Questioning Minds: Short Stories by Modern Korean Women Writers to publication. Several authors and families kindly gave me their permission to translate the stories and reproduce photographs: authors Pak Wan-sŏ, Song Wŏn-hŭi, and Ch’oe Yun; Nyle Kim, daughter of Na Hye-sŏk; Yi Wŏl-song, disciple of Kim Wŏn-ju; Young-Key Kim-Renaud, daughter of Han Mu-suk; Suh Im Soo, husband of Kang Sin-jae; Park Young, son of Yi Sŏk-pong; and Han Ki-woong, son of Yi Sun. A special credit for Ch’oe Yun’s photo goes to Choi Kwangho. I was also the recipient of thoughtful support from colleagues in Korea, Pak Hyeju, Ch’u Ŭn-hŭi, Lee Duk Hwa, and Choi Jung Sun, who went out of their way to secure information on individual writers, their works, and related matters. In addition, I will cherish the graciousness and generosity of Park Mee-Jung and Chae Young of the Whanki Museum in Seoul, who readily provided permission to use artist Kim Whanki’s painting for the book jacket. My manuscript received reinforcement from Michael E. Macmillan’s everready editorial input and computer-aided technical expertise and from Daniel C. Kane’s skillful editing. My gratitude is also extended to Kichung Kim for reading the entire manuscript and providing insightful suggestions and encouragements. To Patricia Crosby and Ann Ludeman of the University of Hawai‘i Press goes my sincere appreciation for their professional guidance and procedural coordination. Most of all, I am deeply indebted to Rosemary Wetherold, whose

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patience, thoughtfulness, and meticulous copyediting contributed to the final shape of this book. I will always remain thankful to the members of my family who have been there rooting for me to persevere and bring this project to a successful conclusion. Despite my best efforts, I was unable to locate the owners of the copyrights to the photos of Kim Myŏng-sun and Kim Wŏn-ju. I would be pleased to include appropriate acknowledgments in subsequent editions of this book if informed of the rights’ owners. Financial support for research and translation from the Korean Culture and Arts Foundation (the present Korea Literature Translation Institute) and the Daesan Foundation is gratefully acknowledged.

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Introduction Traditions in Modern Korean Women’s Fiction Writing YUNG-HEE KIM

Modern Korean women’s engagement with fiction writing began in the late 1910s under the adverse conditions of Japanese colonial rule (1910–1945), which had put an end to the Chosŏn (or Yi) dynasty (1392–1910) and with it Korea’s political autonomy. Notwithstanding their national plight, first from Japanese colonization and then from national division in 1945, Korean women have kept their voices alive, using their writing to express concerns about both themselves and their society. This pursuit has been anything but easy, but these women have succeeded in forging an unbroken line of their own literary tradition that stretches now through nine decades. Externally, these women writers have had to overcome formidable cultural and sociopolitical obstacles—corollaries of Korea’s own historical vicissitudes. Among these obstacles were Japanese government censorship, including the surveillance of intellectuals and even the banning of the Korean language during the colonial period; the postliberation ideological chaos and the resulting national division; the destruction and social upheaval of the Korean War (1950–1953); and oppressive military rule from 1961 until the reestablishment of civilian government in 1993. Internally, they needed to liberate themselves from centuries-old Confucian gender injunctions imposed upon women—injunctions that demanded they be submissive, silent, and invisible, as stipulated in “Three Rules of Obedience” and “Seven Vices.”1 These actual and symbolic patriarchal mechanisms—the Korean version of “the Angel in the House”2—to control 1

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Introduction

women’s thought, speech, and behavior contributed to curtailing their dreams and needs and silencing the voice to speak what was closest to their hearts. Women writers who dared to speak out had to negotiate their careers through the male-dominant milieu of the Korean literary world, where established male figures presided as the supreme arbiters of literary standards and taste and even controlled the channels to publication. Furthermore, tagged with the belittling appellation yŏryu chakka (lady writers), Korean women writers also had to conquer the public’s long-standing prejudice against their work as inferior, or at best secondary, to that of their male counterparts—as the Other of Korean literary traditions. Even their Confucian-scripted, other-oriented domestic responsibilities as daughters, wives, mothers, and daughters-in-law negatively affected their literary production, denying them “a room of their own”—unhampered space, time, and material reality—so essential to any creative activity.3 These extraliterary factors may in part account for the brevity of the careers, or the entire disappearance into obscurity, of a number of Korean women writers who boasted promising beginnings. Today women writers such as Pak Wan-sŏ (b. 1931) and recently deceased Pak Kyŏng-ni (1927–2008) command high respect as elders of the Korean literary world. Because of their consistent production of works that may rank as modern Korean classics, they have even become household names. What’s more, highly educated, talented, young women writers of the 1980s and the 1990s are now enjoying unprecedented prominence, particularly in the field of fiction. Their innovative themes, narrative structure, and strategies challenge old practices, and their works repeatedly make the best-seller lists. Many of this new generation of rising women writers have garnered Korea’s most prestigious and coveted literary accolades, such as the Hyŏndae, Tong-in, and Yi Sang literature awards.4 Thus women writers have firmly carved their niche in the literary, cultural, and intellectual history of contemporary Korea.

Historical Overview The Pioneers Since most of the writers in this collection are little known outside Korea, it is helpful to begin with an overview of the major developments in the Korean women’s narrative tradition and to ascertain the relative positions these stories and their authors occupy therein. This survey is limited to presenting landmark features and does not pretend to be thorough or even analytic in its approach; it may risk simplification or generalization for the sake

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of presenting essential information. Yet this chronological sketch provides a sense of temporal flow and a proper context necessary for a better understanding of achievements by modern Korean women writers as well as their failings. The genesis of modern Korean women’s fiction writing is usually traced to “Ŭisim ŭi sonyŏ” (A girl of mystery; 1917), by Kim Myŏng-sun (1896–ca. 1951). Kim’s story is an implicit critique of the tragic and far-reaching consequences of concubinage, expressed in the suicide of a wronged wife and in the suffering of her innocent young daughter. “Ŭisim ŭi sonyŏ” was closely followed by “Kyŏnghŭi” (1918), by Na Hye-sŏk (1896–1948), which embodies the author’s firm belief that women empower themselves through a modern education, enabling them to obtain their own identities and to craft an individualistic purpose for life. This radical challenge to the received notion of marriage as the sole goal of a woman’s life is demonstrated in the tortuous struggle of the Japan-educated, eponymous heroine, who in her determined quest for an autonomous path in life dares to defy her father’s pressure to accept an arranged marriage proposal. Together these works represent the first literary voices of young women in modern Korea, raised in their common critique of the dominant gender ideologies of their society. They broke the more than one century of silence since the court women of the Chosŏn dynasty had last aired their personal thoughts and experiences from their sequestered inner quarters.5 In the early 1920s the burgeoning literature of modern Korean women attained a new momentum. In the wake of the March 1919 Independence Movement, the Japanese colonial administration loosened its iron grip and put in place the so-called cultural policy, notably in the area of publication and press law. Cultural and social activities by Koreans revived, albeit still under the watchful eye of the Japanese authorities. Young Korean elites launched major newspapers such as the Chosŏn ilbo (March 1920) and Tonga ilbo (April 1920) and magazines such as Kaebyŏk (Creation; June 1920), and literary circles mushroomed. Capitalizing on this turn of events, Korea’s first feminist magazine, Sinyŏja (New woman; March 1920), edited by Kim Wŏn-ju (1896–1971) with the assistance of like-minded colleagues such as Na Hyesŏk, made its appearance. The aim of Sinyŏja was to foster the creativity of women by providing them a public outlet, as attested by its policy of publishing only work by women. With Sinyŏja and other contemporary magazines as her platform, Kim Wŏnju spoke boldly of the urgency for the education and self-awakening of Korean women, the reform of marriage and family systems, and, ultimately, gender

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Introduction

equality. For instance, her “Chagak” (Awakening; 1926) epitomizes her belief in education as the key to empowering women to construct unconventional modes of life. The contentions of these women writers, seen especially in the works of Na Hye-sŏk and Kim Wŏn-ju, were informed by Western feminism. Most influential were ideas advocated by Swedish thinker Ellen Karolina Sofia Key (1849–1926) and the dramatic masterpieces on the “woman question” by Henrik Ibsen (1828–1906), especially A Doll’s House (1879). These progressive notions from the West inspired Korean women writers, intermediated by the activities of Japanese feminists of Seitō (Bluestockings), a group spearheaded by Hiratsuka Raichō (1886–1971) and Yosano Akiko (1878–1942) in the early 1910s.6 The works and thought of the pioneers of modern Korean women’s writing therefore had an international dimension, transcending cultural and national boundaries and possessing an aura of intellectual cosmopolitanism.7 Kim Myŏng-sun, Na Hye-sŏk, and Kim Wŏn-ju experimented with a wide spectrum of genres, including poetry, short stories, essays, drama, autobiographical writings, and translations, frequently contributing to Tonga ilbo, Chosŏn ilbo, Kaebyŏk, and other periodicals. These trailblazers rose to celebrity status and became icons of the “new/modern woman” (sinyŏsŏng), and they enjoyed close professional and even personal ties with Ch’oe Nam-sŏn (1890–1957) and Yi Kwang-su (1892–1950), the two male giants of modern Korean literature. Given the conservatism of early modern Korea, however, these women’s iconoclastic thinking, behavior, and personal lifestyles, including the advocacy of free love, multiple amorous relationships, extramarital affairs, and divorce, made them the targets of condemnation and ostracism and eventually caused their decades-long erasure from the memory of Korean society itself. Marxist Strains The heyday of the Marxist-inspired literary activities of the Korean Artists Proletariat Federation (KAPF) from the mid-1920s to the mid-1930s added a new dimension to Korean literature and changed its contours. With “Art for life’s sake” as its slogan, KAPF became the mouthpiece of the socioeconomically oppressed and displaced. The ubiquitous themes of KAPF writers were poverty, the stark contrast between the haves and have-nots, and the condemnation of the wealthy as a social evil—all fraught with propagandist zeal. In the midst of this ideological and literary agitation, the second generation of modern Korean women writers emerged, and a number of them fell under the sway of socialism. Led by Pak Hwa-sŏng (1904–1988), women writers such as

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Kang Kyŏng-ae (1907–1943) and Paek Sin-ae (1908–1939) became specialists in “poverty literature,” producing works entirely different from those of their immediate predecessors in theme and approach. Predictably, their preoccupation was to depict the affliction of those at the bottom of society, to expose the extremities of privation that Koreans—especially those at the social margins—were suffering under ever-intensifying Japanese colonial exploitation. Pak’s “Hasudo kongsa” (Sewage repair work; 1932) and “Han’gwi” (Ghost of drought; 1935) and Kang’s Ingan munje (Human question; 1934) and “Chihach’on” (Underground village; 1936) are the most notable examples. As a consequence, some of these writers criticized modern educated women as lacking a commitment to larger sociopolitical issues beyond their own gender identity or as having a superficial or even wrongheaded understanding of feminism and modernity itself. Pak Hwa-sŏng’s “Pit’al” (Slope; 1933) and Kang Kyŏng-ae’s “Kŭ yŏja” (That woman; 1932) are cases in point. An exception during this period was Kim Mal-bong (1901–1962), whose melodramatic love stories enjoyed considerable popularity. Serialized in newspapers, her major novels, Millim (The jungle; 1935–1938) and Tchillekkot (Wild roses; 1937), entertained the masses and demonstrated the possibility of commercial success for both romance writers and their publishers. Diversified Voices: The 1930s During the mid-1930s, when the socialist fervor simmered down as a result of the Japanese ban on Marxist activities in Korea, a third generation of women writers came to the forefront. These included Yi Sŏn-hŭi (1911–?), Ch’oe Chŏng-hŭi (1912–1996), Chang Tŏk-cho (1914–2003), and Im Okin (1915–1995). Most of these writers eschewed gender polemics, focusing their creative efforts instead on the domestic drama of women that revolved around their love lives or conjugal complications. Their stories played on different shades of male-female relationships and at times featured strong-willed women characters, such as the protagonist in Im Ok-in’s “Huch’ŏgi” (Notes by a third wife; 1940), who orchestrates her marriage arrangements and constructs her marital life on her own terms, with complete disregard of the opinions of others. With the occasional exception, however, the works of this new group lacked the forthright and provocative feminist-oriented urgency palpable in the writings of women in the 1920s. Of the 1930s group, Ch’oe Chŏng-hŭi’s works have been singled out as the foremost articulation of the competing claims of womanhood and motherhood. Her major stories—such as her trilogy of “Chimaek” (Earthly connections; 1939), “Inmaek” (Human connections; 1940), and “Ch’ŏnmaek” (Heavenly connections; 1941)—feature the

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lives of highly educated, willful heroines who aggressively attain what they want, following the dictates of their passion while flouting society’s sexual norms and gender expectations. They carry on affairs with married men, bear children out of wedlock, become single mothers, and consider the possibility of remarrying, even while taking along children from a previous marriage. After their amorous excursions or sexual experimentation, however, Ch’oe’s heroines eventually settle into conventional wifely or motherly roles, awakened to the power of a reality that will not tolerate their individualistic, nonconformist impulses. Closing Days of the Colonial Period The period from the late 1930s through the early 1940s marked the darkest hours of the Korean colonial period, culminating in Japan’s entry into World War II in 1941. From that time Korea was transformed into a Japanese military supply base. Koreans lost their language and were forced to adopt Japanese-styled names, pay homage to the Japanese emperor, and worship at Shinto shrines. Korean male students were drafted into the Japanese army, while young Korean women were recruited as sex slaves (“comfort women”) for Japanese troops. The two leading Korean newspapers, Tonga ilbo and Chosŏn ilbo, were forced to fold. A number of writers, including Yi Kwang-su and Ch’oe Nam-sŏn, succumbed to collaborative roles within the Japanese war propaganda campaign. Son So-hŭi (1917–1987) and Han Mu-suk (1918–1993) embarked on their careers with these bleak developments as backdrop, but their principal works were published after Korea’s liberation from Japan. The strength of Son So-hŭi, a master of psychological realism, lies in her superb ability to capture the fine shades of emotions and dissect the emotional complexities of her characters—usually those of women protagonists. Han Mu-suk debuted with her award-winning full-length novel, written in Japanese, Tomoshibi o motsu hito (The woman carrying a lamp; 1942). On the whole, Han’s works are marked by a deep historical consciousness and an abiding concern with the intriguing interplay between unfolding sociopolitical forces and human destiny. New Beginnings: Postliberation and Korean War Periods The jubilant hopes shared by all Koreans upon liberation from Japan in 1945 were soon dashed. The postliberation years became for Korea a prolonged period of social and political anarchy, ending in 1948 with the division of the country into two ideologically opposed regimes of South and North. Within two years the Korean War (1950–1953) broke out. As with so many

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other aspects of Korean society, its toll on the development of Korean literature was colossal. A large number of Korean literary luminaries were killed, kidnapped, or defected to the North, leaving a void in the literary world in the South. This turbulent transitional period witnessed the debut of such Korean women writers as Kang Sin-jae (1924–2001), followed by the major post– Korean War women writers, including Pak Kyŏng-ni, Han Mal-suk (b. 1931), Ku Hye-yŏng (1931–2006), Son Chang-sun (b. 1935), and Chŏng Yŏn-hŭi (b. 1936). Their concerted efforts, together with those of their immediate predecessors, Son So-hŭi and Han Mu-suk, helped Korean women’s fiction writing win recognition as a credible and essential component of the modern Korean literary repertoire. Kang Sin-jae distinguished herself by her sophistication in deploying natural objects, color schemes, and sensory descriptions to enhance the symbolic significance of the narrative action and the inner lives of her characters. Through these strategies of indirection and distancing, Kang “shows” with classical restraint, lyricism, and aesthetic sensualism rather than “tells.” Of the post–Korean War writers, Pak Kyŏng-ni has become a pillar of modern Korean literature. Early in her career Pak was involved extensively in Korean War issues based upon her personal experience as a war widow. “Pulsin sidae” (An age of distrust; 1957), her best-known war account, is a scathing indictment of the corruption, hypocrisy, and rampant mammonism that inundated postwar Korean society. Pak’s greatest literary achievement, however, is related to her fascination with the fluctuating, powerful operation of historical forces in human life, a concern crystallized in her masterpiece, Toji (Land; 1969–1994; sixteen volumes). A panoramic family saga, Toji is built around strong-minded and domineering women in an upperclass family over four generations from the late Chosŏn dynasty to the end of the colonial period. This monumental project, completed in twenty-five years, triggered the popularity of the so-called taeha sosŏl (long-river novel), or roman-fleuve genre, to be emulated by a younger generation of writers in the 1970s and 1980s. On Firm Ground: The 1960s–1970s The 1960s marked another watershed in Korean history. The decade witnessed two major political events of lasting import: the toppling of the despotic and corrupt civilian government of South Korea by student revolutions in April 1960 and the coup d’état of May 1961, resulting in the establishment of military rule that would continue until 1993. A sharp social and political consciousness crested among young writers, compelling them to embrace

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Introduction

as their primary mission the critique of the dictatorial military government. Such new literary visions led to a public discourse on the writer’s responsibility for and commitment to social causes. A few new women writers arrived in this engagement-oriented literary milieu: Chŏn Pyŏng-sun (1927–2005), Yi Sŏk-pong (1928–1999), Pak Sunnyŏ (b. 1928), Song Wŏn-hŭi (b. 1927), and Yi Kyu-hŭi (b. 1937). Of these, Chŏn, Pak, and Song shared an interest in revisiting Korean historical experiences spanning from the colonial period up to the post–Korean War era. Their works scrutinize the ramifications of Japanese colonialism, Koreans’ anticolonial resistance movements, the ravages of the fratricidal civil war, and the hardships of the war refugees. Some of these writers, such as Chŏn, ended up writing popular newspaper novels about clandestine love affairs of wellheeled women or the erotic pursuits of urbanites. In contrast, Yi Kyu-hŭi early on drew critical attention for her focus on rural idealism, regional flavors, and the folksy, unadulterated lives of countryside dwellers, which contrasted sharply with the regression of other contemporary women writers into melodramatic mass entertainment. In the end, however, the majority of this generation of women writers ceased to be of consequence, and their works fell mostly into obscurity. The 1970s saw an unprecedented acceleration in industrialization and urbanization in South Korea, driven by a series of governmental economic plans. The booming economy and new wealth, however, were attended by a host of new social problems, such as urban overcrowding and pollution, the disintegration of rural communities, the dominating influence of materialism and consumerism, and the loss of traditional values. The collective voice of sociopolitically engaged writers grew louder than in the previous decade, drowning out those colleagues less willing to be so committed. Some writers appointed themselves as social consciences and launched literary activism. In direct proportion to the military government’s crackdown on intellectual dissidents and student activists, the antigovernment stance of the engagement writers grew more belligerent and confrontational. In this tense atmosphere a new crop of women fiction writers appeared, represented by Pak Wan-sŏ, Sŏ Yŏng-ŭn (b. 1943), Kim Chi-wŏn (b. 1943), Kim Ch’ae-wŏn (b. 1946), Yun Chŏng-mo (b. 1946), O Chŏng-hŭi (b. 1947), Yi Sun (b. 1949), and Kang Sŏk-kyŏng (b. 1951). Collectively, this group constituted the first real blossoming of writing by Korean women, evidenced by their sweeping the most esteemed Korean literary prizes and demonstrating the possibility their works might become part of the canon of modern Korean literature. Among these writers, Pak Wan-sŏ deserves special mention. A prolific

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Yung-Hee Kim

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and highly awarded writer of today, Pak has towered over the women’s literary world since the 1970s. She firmly established her stature as a sociocultural critic whose thematic versatility ranged from vital social issues, gender relations, marriage and family, and problems of the elderly to the Korean War. Pak is also one of the earliest writers of the 1970s to call attention to the necessity of confronting the Korean War experience once again and examining its longterm, debilitating effect on families. This theme found its first expression in her debut novel, Namok (Naked tree; 1970), based on her own tragic experiences of the war and has become the leitmotif of her literary corpus. Another trademark of Pak is her uncanny ability to pinpoint social evils and shallow fads, pitilessly exposing their sordidness and vulgarity. Her favorite targets are the foibles of urban, middle-class housewives, often captives of consumerism and bourgeois pettiness. With her characteristic acumen, wry humor, and deliberate verbosity, Pak levels her critical pen at her characters’ crass materialism, obsession with social climbing, status consciousness, hypocrisy, and familial egotism, often turning their antics into tragicomedy. Pak also excels in problematizing women’s midlife identity crisis, as well as divorce and the issue of gender inequity. She has proven pivotal in the revival of feminist interest in Korean literature since its decline from the 1930s. Sociopolitical Challenges of the 1980s: Expansion and Enrichment The massacre of the antigovernment, pro-democracy demonstrators during the Kwangju Revolt in May 1980 opened a dark chapter in Korean history. A culture of violence began to prevail, most observably in the terrorization of intellectual dissenters and in bloody street clashes between police and radicalized college students. In the midst of seeming economic prosperity, the country was riddled with such problems as unremitting disputes between labor and management, violent union-led strikes, intensifying deterioration of rural areas, widening economic gaps between classes and between regions, and the erosion of commonly held spiritual values. Popular discontent and hostility grew against the government’s tyranny in the name of national security, law and order, and economic development. As college students, young women writers of the 1980s experienced firsthand this oppressive social atmosphere. Few were left untouched by the pressure to make the difficult choice between pure academic pursuits and membership in popular student movements. Many became politicized and turned into willing and regular participants in street demonstrations and covert antigovernment activities. The list of major women writers who came of age during the 1980s includes Kim Hyang-suk (b. 1951), Ch’oe Yun (b. 1953), Yang Kwi-ja (b. 1955), Kim Hyŏng-gyŏng (b. 1960), Kim In-suk (b. 1963), and Kong

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Introduction

Chi-yŏng (b. 1963). The collective trauma of citizens during the Kwangju Revolt became the inspiration and material for Ch’oe Yun’s “Chŏgi sori ŏpsi hanjŏm kkonnip i chigo” (There, a petal silently falls; 1988), which impeaches the senselessness and inhumanity of the military regime’s civilian butchery during those fateful days. Kim Hyang-suk and Yang Kwi-ja were leaders in their focus on the lives of the “little people.” Kim drew her protagonists mostly from women of lower classes, while Yang excelled in presenting snapshots of an assortment of characters from the lower classes congregated in a satellite city outside Seoul, as revealed in her Wŏnmidong saramdŭl (People of the Wŏnmidong neighborhood; 1987), a collection of stories in the yŏnjak sosŏl (linked short stories) genre. Kim In-suk, who during the 1980s was absorbed in producing “labor novels,” was one of the most ideologically radicalized writers. Some of her works are inflammatory exposés of the industrial exploitation of wage earners. Kong Chi-yŏng’s ideological path converged with that of Kim, and Kong produced stories revealing the leading roles of young activists involved in organized labor movements. In contrast, Kim Hyŏng-gyŏng took a more reflective and eclectic stance toward the social developments of her time. Her major interest was in showing the importance of striking a balance between the individual and society, without group ideology hindering the individual’s pursuit of his or her own personal self-fulfillment. Another new factor adding impetus to the development of Korean women’s literature in the 1980s was the implementation of women’s studies in Korean academe in the mid-1970s and its resulting impact on Korean society as well as contemporary literature. Increasing scholarly research on the history of Korean women and current women’s issues stimulated interest in women writers, both past and present. Especially noteworthy was the contribution of Tto hana ŭi munhwa (Alternative culture; 1985), a feminist journal, to the sensitization of the public’s and creative writers’ awareness of current feminist discourses, theories, and praxis. Wider Horizons: The 1990s and Beyond After three decades of military rule, in 1993 Koreans celebrated the reestablishment of the civilian government and ushered in a new cultural epoch. With most of the tyrannical government controls removed, Korean writers began to readjust to the freedom of self-expression and to chart their future courses, while reflecting on their past work. The changed cultural atmosphere of the 1990s coincided with an unparalleled upsurge in the creative activities of women writers, as each year brought new faces and record-setting award winners in the field of women’s literature. This new generation of women writ-

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Yung-Hee Kim

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ers, whose careers are still evolving, is represented by Ŭn Hŭi-gyŏng (b. 1959), Yi Hye-gyŏng (b. 1960), Sŏ Ha-jin (b. 1960), Chŏn Kyŏng-nin (b. 1962), Sin Kyŏng-suk (b. 1963), Kong Sŏn-ok (b. 1963), Ch’a Hyŏn-suk (b. 1963), Pae Su-a (b. 1965), and Ha Sŏng-nan (b. 1967). Together with women writers of the preceding decade, a handful of these contributed to raising the visibility and credibility of women writers by reaping many respected literary awards. One distinctive change of the 1990s was the slow but definite waning of interest in topics dealing with political oppression, labor classes, and rural populations—themes prominent in the late 1980s. The success of the democratization movement greatly reduced the pertinence and demand for such subjects. In its place, there appeared a swing toward reassessing the true implications of the previous decade’s democratization process and its effects on participants in radical activities. Another characteristic of the decade was a rekindled and widened interest in feminist and gender issues. As a result of this development, the works of pioneers in women’s writing have been excavated and rediscovered, and tomes of research are currently available in Korea for specialists in women’s studies and Korean literature. Most notably, from the mid-1990s to the present there has been a boom in Na Hye-sŏk studies. Autobiographical writing has also become popular, especially among women writers. Lastly, the “division literature” dealing with the political polarization of South and North Korea has also gained prominence, underscoring the complexity of Korea’s reunification project and expressing wariness of romanticized visions of unifying Korea under one political ideology. Over the past century, Korean women writers have bequeathed a laudable literary legacy, a result of their implacable urge to communicate what has been of utmost concern—the dynamics between the lives of women and the shifting social realities of their time. These days Korean women writers enjoy a solid following among well-seasoned and discriminating readers and will continue to entertain, educate, and inspire. Undoubtedly, in the new millennium, these writers will again have to adjust to new sociocultural mandates and demands for thematic diversification and depth, technical sophistication, and conceptual maturity. It is expected that their efforts to meet such challenges will further authenticate the endeavors of modern Korean women’s writing, bringing a gender balance that has long eluded Korean literary traditions, and, in the end, enrich the Korean cultural and intellectual heritage.

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Questioning Minds Short Stories by Modern Korean Women Writers

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One

A Girl of Mystery (1917)

Kim Myŏng-sun

A native of Yungdŏk village in the P’yŏngyang district of South P’yŏngan Province, Kim Myŏng-sun (1896–ca. 1951; pen names, Mangyangch’o and T’ansil) was born to a wealthy merchant and his concubine, a former kisaeng, or woman of the entertainment world. The stigma associated with her mother’s former profession cast a shadow of gloom and shame over Kim’s life and work. After finishing grade school in P’yŏngyang, she entered Chinmyŏng Girls’ School in Seoul in 1908, where she was known to be an industrious and intelligent student. However, her school years in Seoul were difficult, as she was subjected to slurs about her family background and to mistreatment from the family of her father’s legal wife. After dropping out of school in 1911, Kim left for Tokyo in 1913 to pursue her studies at Kōjimachi Girls’ School. Though she did not complete her education in Japan, Kim returned to Seoul in 1916 to enter Sungmyŏng Girls’ School, where she graduated in March 1917. Only a few months after her high school graduation, Kim’s literary breakthrough came with her first short story, “Ŭisim ŭi sonyŏ” (A girl of mystery). The story won second prize in a literary competition sponsored by Ch’oe Nam-sŏn’s magazine, Ch’ŏngch’un (Youth; no. 11, November 1917). It was highly praised by Yi Kwang-su, a judge of the contest, for its realistic thrust and unsentimental treatment of the subject—a departure from premodern Korean fiction. Sometime in 1918 Kim returned to Japan to study literature and music, and in 1919 she joined the Ch’angjo (Creation) group, Korea’s first literary circle, organized by Kim Tong-in (1900–1951) and other male Korean students in Tokyo. In 1920 Kim Myŏng-sun’s first poem, “Choro ŭi hwamong” (A flower’s dream in dewy morning), was published in the group’s magazine,

15

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Questioning Minds

Ch’angjo. Thenceforward, Kim contributed her poems, essays, and short stories to a Tokyo-based Korean women’s student magazine, Yŏjagye (Women’s world). During these years in Japan, many unfounded rumors linked Kim to affairs with well-known Korean artists and writers. Back in Korea by 1921, Kim began to actively produce literary works, becoming an important contributor of poems, short stories, and even translations, such as Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “The Assignation” (1845), to the magazine Kaebyŏk. At one point she was also involved in a student drama group as its sole female member. With her literary fame growing steadily, in 1924 Kim published her autobiographical novella, “T’ansiri wa Chuyŏng’i” (T’ansil and Chuyŏng), in which she highlighted her anguish and umbrage concerning the prejudice and discrimination she had experienced due to her birth and family background, while protesting exaggerated rumors about her private life in Japan. The year 1925 marked the peak of Kim Myŏng-sun’s career—the publication of her collected works, Saengmyŏng ŭi kwasil (Fruits of life), the first such publication by a woman writer in Korea. Throughout that year and the next she concentrated on publishing her poetry in the newspapers Tonga ilbo and Chosŏn ilbo. Toward the end of 1926, Kim passed an examination to become a reporter with the newspaper Maeil sinbo, joining a group of early Korean women journalists. From 1927 to 1930 Kim ventured into cinema and played leading roles in at least five movies. This new enterprise, however, was creatively draining and financially disastrous. By 1932 Kim’s literary activity had diminished, and her financial problems mounted. As an unmarried woman with no special skills besides writing, she struggled to support herself and at one point was even reduced to street peddling. Little is known of her activities and whereabouts from 1932 to 1935, but reportedly she returned to Tokyo and studied music and French. Back home by 1936, Kim tried to revive her literary career by publishing children’s stories and confessional poems, which recaptured her years of suffering and despair from social ostracism. With her poem “Kŭmŭm pam” (The night of the last day of the month; 1939), her literary career came to an end. Little is known about her life or literary activity thereafter. Unconfirmed rumors and hearsay claim that Kim Myŏng-sun returned to Japan sometime in 1939 and continued to live in extreme poverty until her presumed death in 1951 in a Tokyo mental hospital. It seems that Kim Myŏng-sun’s work was part of her effort to dispute and rectify distorted views of her life and background, distortions that stemmed from orthodox notions of family and marriage as well as gender prejudice. Her continuous search for respectability, recognition as an authentic writer, and nongendered acceptance of her total being eluded her during her lifetime.

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Kim Myŏng-sun

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Kim Myŏng-sun led a kaleidoscopic life, but its story contains considerable lacunae, and even seemingly known details are often mutually conflicting and sensationalized. Among the first generation of modern Korean women writers, Kim Myŏng-sun is the one for whom information is the most lacking. Today scholarly efforts are attempting to excavate her lost works in order to better assess her position in the lineage of modern Korean women fiction writers. As more accurate information is collected, Kim’s biography may have to be revised to correctly reflect her life story as well as her corpus of work.

A Girl of Mystery [1]

The village called Saemaŭl was located about half a mile inland from the eastern shoreline of the Taedong River in P’yŏngyang. It was a fairly large village, and its inhabitants—mostly farmers—as well as their houses looked rather respectable. A girl of eight or nine, named Pŏmnye, lived in the village, and contrary to her rustic name, she was as beautiful as a flower and extremely gentle. She had moved to the village about two years earlier, appearing quite suddenly and from out of nowhere with a Hwang Chinsa, an old white-haired man in his sixties. After they had been settled in the village for several months, a woman in her thirties, also an out-of-towner, came and joined them. They didn’t work for a living but still appeared well-off. Year-round they received no visitors, neither did they associate with the other villagers. This state of affairs of Pŏmnye’s family aroused curiosity among the neighbors and became a favorite topic of conversation in the tobacco-smoking gatherings of the rainy summer season and during the long nights of winter. The beautiful Pŏmnye seemed eager to get to know the other girls in her neighborhood. On the occasions when she stood outside the house and watched the village girls harvest greens, her lovely face and appearance dazzled them, making them glance at one another in admiration. Every time this happened the old white-haired man was sure to call out, “Pŏmnye! Get in here, Pŏmnye!” She then went back into the house crestfallen, glancing over her shoulder at the girls. What roused further curiosity about Pŏmnye’s family were the different dialects of each of its three members. The old man spoke in a pure P’yŏngyang dialect, whereas Pŏmnye used standard Seoul speech, and the woman, the Kyŏngsang regional dialect. Pŏmnye called the old man

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Questioning Minds

“grandpa” but called the woman “nanny.” The simple-minded country girls thought the woman must be Pŏmnye’s mother. Still, the countryfolk didn’t pry into the details of her family affairs.

[2]

One market day in the summer, exactly one year after Pŏmnye’s family had moved into the village, the old man left the house around one o’clock in the afternoon, but by nightfall he had still not returned. Pŏmnye slightly pushed open the clover-bush gate and stood peeking out from inside, as if she couldn’t stand her boredom anymore. She caught sight of T’ŭksil, the daughter of the village head, who was wandering around looking for her mother. Ever so quietly, Pŏmnye stuck her white face out through the opening of the gate and, smiling as T’ŭksil stared at her, asked secretively, “Are you T’ŭksil?” “Uh-huh,” T’ŭksil answered delightedly in the P’yŏngyang dialect. Then she asked, “But where’s your grandpa?” A smile lighting up her lovely face, Pŏmnye replied, “He went to town a long time ago, but . . .” Before she finished her words, the soft rims of Pŏmnye’s eyes turned red. The two girls remained silent for a while. “Don’t you have a father?” asked T’ŭksil. “He lives in Seoul with his mistress and my older sister . . .” Pŏmnye’s eyes became red again. “Who are those people living with you?” “My mom’s father and the maid . . . ” As the two girls began to talk in an increasingly friendly way, the old man’s dignified and composed silhouette came into view. Pŏmnye whispered to T’ŭksil in a sweet voice, “Come play again tomorrow.” Pŏmnye walked hurriedly toward the old man and grasped his sleeves, joyous at his return home. Holding her hand as he entered the gate, the old man said, “You must have been very bored, waiting for me so long, right?”

[3]

After a long wait through the severe, sultry summer, autumn arrived unannounced, and the paulownia leaves fell lifelessly at the stir of the clean, cool wind. Once again, it was time for the Festival of the Harvest Moon. City dwellers and countryfolk alike rose early in the morning to pay visits to their ancestral graves. Villagers prepared rice wine and food, and men and women of all ages headed for Pukch’on to comfort the lonely departed souls of their ancestors, parents, husbands, wives, and children. Pŏmnye and her grand-

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father of the Saemaŭl village were among these throngs, though it wasn’t clear whose grave the two were visiting. In no time, the sun set in the west over Moran Peak, and the soft waves rippling around Nŭngna Island turned golden.1 The grave sites were deserted, for the noisy visitors—so many during the early morning hours and daytime—were gone. In the streets below Ch’ŏngnyu Cliff, a few folks—tipsy and muttering to themselves—were seen scattered among those returning home. Then two shadowy figures appeared, an old man and a child, making crunching sounds on the sand as they headed toward Saemaŭl, beyond the Taedong River. They were Pŏmnye and her grandfather on their way home— all worn-out. Pŏmnye’s hair hung to her ankles, glossy black. Her white forehead looked as if it had been carved from marble, and a couple of strands of hair on either side of her forehead fluttered now and then as the cool breeze blew, heightening her beauty. She wore a Korean costume—a lightweight dark blue skirt and a yellow double-layered blouse—and her shoes were pink. Compared with the girls of Saemaŭl, she stood out like a crane among chickens. She and the old man both walked in silence. Her lovely face wore a griefstricken expression, unusual for a child. Along the river, village women were preparing for dinner. This was not the first time they had seen the pair, but today their curiosity was whetted further and they watched them intently. One girl said, “She is so lovely. I wonder where she lived before.” Another, “I can’t get enough of her, no matter how many times I look at her. She is always pretty. I wish I saw her as much as I’d like to.” Still another spoke to Pŏmnye, laughing loudly. “Where have you been, Pŏmnye?” Only Pŏmnye’s eyes smiled at these village girls as she silently followed the old man. At that moment, a gentleman—it wasn’t clear whether he was a foreigner or a Korean—was watching the scene with a pair of binoculars from the second floor of a Western-style house on Nanbyŏk Cliff, high above the Taedong River. The gentleman quickly called his servant. Following orders, the servant hung a lantern on a little green boat moored in front of the house, then quickly rowed his master across the river. But by the time the boat pulled ashore on the other side, the old man and Pŏmnye had already disappeared into Saemaŭl. The gentleman took the road leading to another village, not to Saemaŭl. When he returned to the riverside, a disappointed look on his face, the round moon in the eastern sky was graciously shedding its bright light on thousands of figures in the dark. The whole area outside Taedong Gate on the banks of the Taedong River was illuminated by bright electric lights and glittered like

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a sleepless city. Small pleasure boats, decorated with ruby-like lights, floated up and down the river, while men and women aboard sang “Songs of Melancholy” and enjoyed a day of merrymaking.2 The gentleman stood gazing at the scene, distressed. After a long while, he dejectedly boarded the boat and was rowed back toward the opposite side. He then entered the villa known to belong to Mr. Cho, the bureau director. In all likelihood, this was a gentleman who owned this summer house.

[4]

Among the village women who saw the gentleman at the river was a meddlesome one called Ŏnnyŏn’s Mom. Urged by her desire to see Pŏmnye as well, the woman came over to Pŏmnye’s house and told the family what she had seen. The old man didn’t seem very surprised and calmly thanked her. The woman left, and about two hours later the old man and Pŏmnye called on the village head to say good-bye to their neighbors. This was only the second time the old man had come to see the village head—the first was when he had moved into the village. The farmhands of the village carried to the riverside some seven or eight travel suitcases, furniture, and the like. The old man and Pŏmnye were followed by the wife of the village head and the kindhearted neighbors who came to bid them off, although these villagers had never had close contact with the two. As good luck would have it, there was a boat ready to leave downriver. The calm waves reflected the glow of the bright moonlit night. When the boatman announced that they were ready to embark, the old man said his slow good-byes to the assembled neighbors. The villagers expressed with one voice their best wishes for the pair’s travels, which were echoed by the mountains and rivers. Pŏmnye’s pale face looked wretched under the moonlight, and wrapped with a snow-white blanket, she shivered as if she had caught a cold. In a trembling voice, she also said good-bye and walked steadily up to the boat, holding the old man’s hand. Just before boarding the boat, however, she turned her head and, with her round sparkling eyes, took one more look at the villagers. As the evening deepened, all about felt desolate. The waters of the Taedong River, holding the secrets of ancient ages, made soft lapping sounds, as if trying to recount stories of old. The splashes of the oars broke the midnight silence. When the boat had gone downstream a short distance, T’ŭksil shouted, “Good-bye, Pŏmnye!” “Goodbye, T’ŭksil!” Pŏmnye shouted back from across the water. Her voice trembled like the sweet sound of the zither.

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Kim Myŏng-sun

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The villagers remained there at the riverbank, their opinions about Pŏmnye and her family divided, until the boat looked dim in the distance and the sounds of rowing could no longer be heard. They didn’t even notice that their feet were soaked by the waves rushing against them. The village leader had just learned from Ŏnnyŏn’s Mom what had happened earlier that evening, and, tilting his head, he mulled it over quite a while. Then he asked Ŏnnyŏn’s Mom, “Well, where was the gentleman coming from?” She said, “He was looking out from the tall two-story house over there, with something black over his eyes.” She seemed able to see things far away. The village leader tipped his head again, and there was another long silence. Finally, as if he had finally solved a mystery of many years, he said, “Now I see. Pŏmnye is Kahŭi, the daughter of Mrs. Cho, the wife of the bureau director, who killed herself two springs ago.” The eyes of those around him grew wide, as if they had heard something dreadful. The village head sighed and then said almost in a shout, “The poor child!”

[5]

The girl was Kahŭi, the daughter left as a legacy by Director Cho’s wife, who had committed suicide the year before due to her domestic troubles. Concerned about the extraordinary beauty of Kahŭi, in both her inner disposition and her outer appearance, her grandfather had changed her name to its contrary, Pŏmnye.3 Kahŭi’s mother had been well known in P’yŏngyang for her beauty, and, overcome by the ardent pleas of Director Cho, who came to the city for the summers, she married him. Mrs. Cho was the only daughter of the wealthy Hwang Chinsa, who, after his wife’s death when his daughter was fourteen, never remarried and raised her by himself like some precious jewel. Who would have guessed the truth in the saying “There is no rose without a thorn”? Director Cho came from a generations-old upper-class family and had a way with and an eye for women. He had already married three times and had changed concubines ten times. He relished his life spent in the kisaeng world and even played fast and loose with the wives of the countryfolk. At his villa he made merry, day and night. Kahŭi was born after Mrs. Cho married her husband. As the saying goes, a woman’s physical beauty is short-lived, and Mrs. Cho’s misery grew in direct proportion to her husband’s dissipation. His new concubine stole his love. He severed his wife’s relationships with her kin as well. Cho’s daughter by his previous marriage leveled false accusations at Mrs. Cho at every opportunity. Mrs. Cho could receive neither the love she wanted, the freedom she desired, nor even the separation she asked for. She was distrusted, ill-treated, and

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locked away in his P’yŏngyang villa. At long last, driven to despair, Mrs. Cho gathered all the strength of her ailing body and ended her own life. The young twenty-four-year-old wife, in her lovely prime, stabbed herself to death with a dagger one April day when even nameless little grasses on the road, trampled by both man and horse, burst into blossom. The tragic death of this pitiable wife had been known to people far and near, touching everyone’s heart. In accordance with the old saying “People are missed more when they are gone,” Director Cho sobered up a bit thereafter and to some extent grieved for his dead wife. But that was crying over spilled milk. He then began to love Kahŭi more than when his wife was alive. But Kahŭi’s grandfather, Hwang Chinsa, fearful of Cho’s scheming concubine, who was out to hog his love, took up the life of a piteous drifter, with his granddaughter in tow. When would the wanderer Kahŭi see a spring day? The warm spring will surely come around after summer, autumn, and winter, but what of the poor child of a poor mother? [First published in Ch’ŏngch’un (Youth), no. 11 (November 1917)]

Analysis of “A Girl of Mystery” Kim Myŏng-sun’s first published work, “A Girl of Mystery” (Ŭisim ŭi sonyŏ; 1917), which made her the first modern Korean woman writer, is a compact piece involving a tragic family history centered on the lovely Pŏmnye, her maternal grandfather, and her dead mother. A sense of mystery pervades the entire narrative—the true identities of Pŏmnye, Hwang Chinsa, and their family secrets withheld until the end. In the course of its suspenseful narrative with the most famed sites in P’yŏngyang as backdrop, each section contributes to the cumulative tension building toward the story’s conclusion. Perhaps the most touching segments of the story depict the dark, sorrowful side of Pŏmnye’s life, first illuminated under the brightness of the harvest moon. The grief-stricken Pŏmnye and her grandfather trudge along the moonlit village road, having just visited her mother’s grave, highlighting their forlorn and desolate existence lived out in complete isolation from the villagers and, by extension, from the rest of humanity, a poignancy further accentuated by the merrymaking aboard brightly lit pleasure boats on the Taedong River. “A Girl of Mystery” reaches its peak when the frightened, sad Pŏmnye bids a reluctant nighttime farewell to her friend T’ŭksil on the banks of the Taedong River to begin yet another uprooted journey. The helpless image of

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Pŏmnye and her unsurpassed beauty becomes the center of the narrative focus, dramatizing the depth of her undeserved sufferings as the victim of her father’s infidelity. Only after Pŏmnye and her grandfather are removed from the main stage of the story do the family secrets, enigmatic and so anxiously guarded by her grandfather, begin to be unveiled. It turns out that Pŏmnye is none other than Kahŭi, the daughter of Director Cho’s wife, who committed suicide in protest of her husband’s philandering. Pŏmnye’s grandfather, the guardian of his granddaughter, has changed her name from the refined “Kahŭi” (“beautiful girl”) to the more countrified “Pŏmnye” (“plain maiden”) and has deliberately chosen social anonymity and an itinerant life, as if seeking to avoid the prominence his dead daughter had won in life. Further, the grandfather’s determination to preempt Director Cho’s attempts to gain control over Pŏmnye suggests his intention to void Cho’s claims to fatherhood, to symbolically punish Cho’s transgression against Pŏmnye’s mother as an indefensible and unforgivable crime that destroyed the family’s happiness for three generations, and most of all, to shield Pŏmnye from the tainted moral and cultural sphere of her father. It is ironic that Hwang Chinsa, an old man of Confucian tradition, elects to sacrifice his life for his motherless daughter and granddaughter, whereas Cho pursues a lifestyle that the modernizing Korea of the time tried to stamp out. “A Girl of Mystery” is an implicit but powerful denunciation of male sexual license, concubinage, and polygamous practices, practices that privileged men and devalued women. In profiling a woman who rejects the humiliation and suffering inflicted by her husband’s egocentric pursuits, the narrative calls into question the patriarchal sanction of uncontrolled male sexuality and its attendant destructive power. Pŏmnye’s mother’s suicide—the final weapon of the powerless—is a metaphorical condemnation of male profligacy and sexual exploitation of women that seeks to expose the far-reaching social ramifications of such behavior. Ultimately, the narrative illustrates how male hegemony in patriarchal Korean society leads to the dehumanization and victimization not only of women but also of men themselves, as is clearly evinced in the frustration and helplessness of Pŏmnye’s father. Given the author’s personal experience as the victim of double standards of morality and the duplicitous Korean marriage system, “A Girl of Mystery” argues forcefully for much needed reform—a cry for fundamental changes in women’s position vis-à-vis men. In this sense, the story articulates the author’s politicization of the personal and her challenge to the native patriarchy of her society.

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Two

Kyŏnghŭi (1918) Na Hye-sŏk

The daughter of a well-established family in Suwŏn, in Kyŏnggi Province, Na Hye-sŏk (1896–1948; pen name, Chŏngwŏl) attended Chinmyŏng Girls’ School in Seoul, where her exceptional intelligence and artistic talent in painting were widely known. Upon her graduation from high school, Na, encouraged by her Japan-educated elder brother, proceeded to Japan in 1913 to study Western oil painting at the Private School of Fine Arts for Women in Tokyo.1 At the college, Na became a quick convert to feminism under the powerful influence of the Japanese feminist movement led by the Seitō (Bluestockings) group, as is evident in her first essay, written at age eighteen, “Isangjŏk puin” (Ideal women; Hakchigwang [Light of learning], no. 3, 1914).2 During her college years, Na served as secretary to the Korean Women Students’ Association in Japan and played a vital role in the publication of its journal, Yŏjagye (Women’s world), in which Na’s first short story and masterwork, “Kyŏnghŭi,” was published (no. 2, March 1918). When she graduated in April 1918, she became the first Korean woman painter with a BA degree. Back in Korea, Na taught fine arts at various high schools, but her involvement in anti-Japanese activities during the March 1919 Independence Movement ended her teaching career and led as well to a five-month imprisonment. She was released from prison at the end of 1919. In April 1920, Na married a Japan-educated lawyer and widower, Kim U-yŏng, who had courted her since her student days in Japan.3 Toward the end of 1920, Na briefly returned to Japan to further her study of painting. Her subsequent one-person show, held in Seoul in March 1921, was the first of its kind and a sensational event, generating wide publicity and fascinating the public.4 Na’s growing stature as a painter was nationally recognized by June 1922, when her paintings were

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accepted for the first Annual Korean National Art Exhibition, held in Seoul. She was the only Korean woman thus honored, having successfully competed against Japanese artists. In 1923, Na left Korea to live in Andong, Manchuria, where her husband held the post of vice-consul general for the Japanese Foreign Ministry. They stayed there until 1927. During this period Na, a mother of three children, established her artistic reputation by successively winning official recognition at the Annual Korean National Art Exhibition between 1923 and 1927. Na also contributed a number of critical essays on art and culture to such newspapers and magazines as Tonga ilbo, Chosŏn ilbo, Kaebyŏk, and Sinyŏsŏng (New women). Her second short story, “Wŏnhan” (Grudges; Chosŏn mundan [Korean literary world], April 1926), the tragedy of a tradition-bound wife struggling with her husband’s sexual promiscuity, is a product of this period. From 1927 to 1929 Na traveled with her diplomat husband on a world tour, sponsored by the Japanese government for her husband’s exemplary service in Manchuria, and thus became the first Korean woman to travel to Europe and America.5 Making the most of this opportunity, Na took up painting lessons in Paris for about eight months. Occasionally she also accompanied her husband, who traveled around European countries on diplomatic missions and for legal studies. This tour presented Na with many occasions to carefully observe European culture, arts, customs, family life, and women—topics that she would write about extensively in later publications.6 Leaving Europe in September 1928, Na and her husband headed for New York, and after their travels in the United States, they returned to Korea in March 1929 via Hawai‘i and Japan. About six months after her return, Na held a homecoming art show on September 23 and 24, 1929, in Suwŏn, her hometown, exhibiting the paintings she completed in Europe together with facsimile prints she acquired in Europe of works by European painters—another landmark in Korean art history. In spite of her responsibilities as a mother now of four small children, Na consecutively won admittance to the Annual Korean National Art Exhibition from 1930 to 1932 and to the Twelfth Japanese Arts Academy Exhibition, the most prestigious show in Japan, held in Tokyo in October 1931. During this period, Na was sought after by magazines and newspapers for interviews and articles regarding her observations about her world travels and art. This was the high point of her life, at least in terms of social reputation and prestige. Then personal tragedy struck. On the grounds of adultery, concerning an affair she reputedly had during her stay in Paris, Na was divorced in 1931.7 She lost custody of her children and was even denied access to them. Her private, domestic affairs became a social scandal of epic proportions. The ordeal of

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marital failure and family crisis caused a drastic decline in Na’s artistic activities as well as a loss of public esteem. From 1933 on, her works did not appear in officially sponsored art exhibitions. In 1934 she created another social uproar by publishing details about her marriage, family life, and divorce in two installments of articles under the title “Ihon kobaekchang” (Confessions on my divorce; Samchŏlli [All Korea], August and September 1934). In these confessionals, Na denounced Korean society’s patriarchal sexual double standards, underscored the difficulties of educated women living in such a cultural milieu, and revealed her despair at life as a divorcée. Although the piece was an attempt at self-vindication, it served only to expose Na to further social disapproval and alienation. Her 1935 private show failed to regain her former glory. From 1932 to 1936 Na serialized observations of her world travels in the magazine Samchŏlli, which may have been her main source of income. During this period, she also wrote on her personal life, and in one such article, titled “Sinsaenghwal e tŭlmyŏnsŏ” (Entering into a new life; Samchŏlli, February 1935), Na characterized herself as a pioneer victimized by her own society. Sometime in 1937 Na visited Kim Wŏn-ju at Sudŏk Temple to paint the countryside landscape and learn about Buddhism. During this stay she reportedly attempted to become a Buddhist nun but left the temple, unable to make a final decision. Until 1938 Na sporadically contributed articles, mostly to Samchŏlli, on her views on Korean women and her own life. From 1939 on, however, homeless and rejected even by her unforgiving natal family, Na wandered the country. Some reports indicate that she visited friends and offered her paintings as payment for room and board, but few details are known about her life thereafter. With her physical and mental health in decline and with no financial support, she stayed for a while at a nursing home in Seoul. She died anonymously at a charity hospital in 1948. Na’s life story proved a cautionary tale for generations of Korean women thereafter, and Na Hye-sŏk herself a negative model for any sensible women to eschew.8 Na Hye-sŏk was forgotten for about a quarter century until a biography, Emi nŭn son’gakcha yŏnnŭnira: Na Hye-sŏk iltaegi (Your mother was a pioneer: Life of Na Hye-sŏk), appeared in 1974.9 This was the first attempt to remove from Na the stigma of a morally fallen “new woman” and contributed to reestablishing her identity as an intellectual pioneer as well as the first modern Korean painter. It was only in the mid-1990s, however, that serious research began, creating a virtual Na Hye-sŏk boom in Korean feminist studies that continues to this day and has made her the most researched woman writer of the 1920s.10

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Kyŏnghŭi [1]

“Oh dear! I can’t stand this rainy season,” said the portly lady, the mother-in-law of Kyŏnghŭi’s older sister, lighting the tobacco in her pipe. It had been a long time since she last visited Kyŏnghŭi’s house. “I don’t blame you. How are your grandchildren doing in this weather? I’m sorry for having neglected to send our servant over to ask after your family,” said Lady Kim, lighting her own pipe. She is the wife of Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn, head of the household. Her hair is streaked with gray; a few stray wrinkles crease her forehead. “Please don’t mention it. It is I who should apologize, not you. The little ones are fine, but their mother has had stomach trouble the past few days. But when I left home today, she was up and about.” “This heat makes people sick so easily. You must have been very worried.” “Oh, yes, but I’m relieved to see her better. By the way, I bet you are happy to have Kyŏnghŭi back home from Japan,” the lady-in-law added, as if suddenly remembering something she’d forgotten. “I am in constant anxiety when she is in Japan. So it’s good to see her back home at least once a year for summer vacation.” Lady Kim tapped her pipe on the ashtray. “I know what you mean. It would be hard enough to send a son far away, to say nothing of a daughter . . . Has she been healthy?” “I think so. On the whole, she seems to be all right. But when she says everything is okay, I get the feeling she says so just to set me at ease. She looks tired, and I can see she hasn’t been eating well and hasn’t had an easy time of it.” Then, turning toward the back courtyard, Lady Kim called out, “Kyŏnghŭi, come here! The lady-in-law from Sŏmunan has kindly taken the trouble to visit you.” “Yes, mother,” answered Kyŏnghŭi, who was sitting on the cool back porch and chatting with her sister-in-law, whom she hadn’t seen for some time. Her sister-in-law was mending a sock, while Kyŏnghŭi ran the sewing machine, working on a summer shirt for her older brother to wear with his Westernstyle coat. Kyŏnghŭi had been talking about her life in Japan—of an incident where she was almost run over by a streetcar, something that still made her

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shudder at the mere thought of it. She had also mentioned to her sister-in-law that she often found her legs stiff when she awoke on winter mornings, for she slept curled up tightly throughout the cold nights. Kyŏnghŭi explained to her sister-in-law that in Japan not a day passes without rain, and related one incident during a downpour. As Kyŏnghŭi was hurrying to get to school on time in her high wooden sandals, she had tripped. She skinned her legs, tore her umbrella, and, worst of all, completely soiled her clothes—much to her embarrassment. Kyŏnghŭi talked of her studies, as well as a number of things she saw in the streets of Japan. At the moment her mother called, Kyŏnghŭi was in the middle of telling her sister-in-law about a movie she had seen some time ago—one about a young boy who, angry at his father for not allowing him to play, hung a notice on a big tree outside his house, offering his father for sale. Almost immediately, he received an offer from a pair of small orphans, a brother and a sister, six or seven years old—just around his age. They wanted to buy the boy’s father with their last two pennies—all they had left from their wanderings since the death of their parents. Completely taken by the story, Kyŏnghŭi’s sister-in-law, not realizing she’d dropped the sock she was mending onto her lap, exclaimed, “Oh, dear! So what happened?” It was at that very moment that Kyŏnghŭi was called away by her mother. “Hurry back,” her sister-in-law said, frowning. Even the maid, Siwŏl, who was seated next to Kyŏnghŭi while starching the cleaned laundry, clucked her tongue in annoyance, since she was also drawn to the story. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back,” Kyŏnghŭi said, and walked away smiling, pleased that she had such a receptive audience for her stories. Kyŏnghŭi made a respectful bow to the lady-in-law on the front porch. She had actually forgotten about such ceremonial formalities during her stay in Japan over the past year, but she had become quite good at them now, thanks to the practice she’d had with her parents upon her return home a few days earlier. Kyŏnghŭi, however, was tickled by her own prim and formal manners—so different from her carefree lifestyle in Japan. “Oh, dear, you look exhausted. Living away from home must have been hard on you,” the lady-in-law said tenderly. She even grabbed Kyŏnghŭi’s hands and stroked them, adding, “Your hands feel as if you were living with tough in-laws. I’ve heard that girl students have silky-smooth hands, but whatever happened to yours?” “Mine have always been rough like this,” said Kyŏnghŭi, lowering her head. “I think her hands were roughened because she does her own laundry and even cooks for herself,” Kyŏnghŭi’s mother cut in, as she relit her pipe.

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“Oh, my goodness!” said the lady-in-law. “Do you mean you do chores in Japan that you never did at home? Does your school have such rules?” The lady-in-law was taken aback. Kyŏnghŭi remained silent. Kyŏnghŭi’s mother answered instead, “That’s not the case at all. Kyŏnghŭi has taken it on herself. I don’t think she would do something like that even if she were forced to. We send her enough money to cover her school expenses, but she says she enjoys being busy and taking care of herself.” Lady Kim was repeating what Kyŏnghŭi had told her at bedtime the night before. “Isn’t that asking too much of yourself, though?” said the lady-in-law, touching a few stray hairs hanging down on Kyŏnghŭi’s forehead and tucking them behind her ears. She then patted Kyŏnghŭi on the back and gently stroked her face. “I’ve heard that Japanese homes are not heated during the winter and that Japanese side dishes are puny in amount. How can you live on that?” “There’s truth in what you said, ma’am. But we get by without the heat at home, and as we are served just the right amount of side dishes, we feel no need for more food either.” “Even so, isn’t it hard on you all to live like that? By the way, your older sister couldn’t come to see you because she’s been ill the past few days. But I’m sure she’ll come visit you this evening.” “Thank you, ma’am. Please make sure she comes. I miss her very much and can’t wait to see her.” “Yes, I do understand! Even I got anxious to see you once I heard you were back home. How much more so between sisters!” The lady-in-law’s words were full of feeling, for she had herself experienced longing for her parents and siblings after she married into a family far from her own home. “Kyŏnghŭi, are you planning to go back to Japan? Why do you need to go so far away? Don’t you think it’s better for you to stay home like a genteel lady, marry into a rich family, have children, and live a happy life?” the lady-in-law asked, as if to tutor Kyŏnghŭi in such matters. Then she looked at Kyŏnghŭi’s mother, seated opposite her, as if to ask her consent. “Thank you, ma’am. But I think I should stay in school until I finish my studies,” Kyŏnghŭi replied. “Do you really need to study so much? Since you are not a man, you won’t have to earn a living working as head of the county or even as a clerk in the district office. Besides, even educated men have a hard time finding jobs these days.” The lady-in-law seemed very much worked up. She couldn’t understand why her in-laws went the length of sending their daughter to Japan for school

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or what the purpose of such education was. But since it was her in-laws’ family matter—something she needed to be discreet about—she tried her hardest not to betray her disapproval. Behind their back, however, she never failed to criticize them, saying, “Who in the world would take such a girl in marriage?” Today she seized this opportunity to let out what had been on her mind. Kyŏnghŭi quickly figured out what the lady-in-law was up to, having grasped the gist of her remarks—“Hurry up and get married, and be done with this nonsense about education”—and she was prepared for anything the old lady might say next. At the same time, Kyŏnghŭi couldn’t help but realize that the lady-in-law’s words echoed those of her mother’s sister, who had come to visit with her the day before, as well as those of her elder uncle’s wife, who expressed the same concern every time she saw Kyŏnghŭi. Kyŏnghŭi was convinced that this summer, just like last summer, these relatives would fire similar barrages at her. Kyŏnghŭi was itching to speak up to the lady-in-law: “Human beings don’t live just for food and clothing. What makes us human beings is education and knowledge. It is ignorance on the part of your husband and sons that leads them to keep as many as four concubines among themselves. Your own lack of education makes you feel helpless and sick at heart over this concubine problem. We have to teach women how to keep their husbands from taking mistresses and living with them even when they already have legal wives.” Kyŏnghŭi wished she could show the lady-in-law more examples to illustrate her points. But she was well aware that the woman would repeat the words Kyŏnghŭi’s grandmother had used earlier in the morning: “Listen, dear, women of olden days—even with no education—lived long, happy lives, blessed with wealth and a lot of sons. Women are better off when they don’t know their right hand from left. Dear child, you should know that even educated girls wind up doing such menial work as milling barley. A man is no man unless he keeps at least one concubine.” Kyŏnghŭi realized that talking to the lady-in-law would be a waste of time, only causing herself to lose sleep agonizing over such matters. She remained quiet, for she sensed that the moment she started to speak her mind, she’d meet with nothing but frustration. She also knew that if her talk with the lady dragged on, she couldn’t quickly return to her sister-in-law and Siwŏl, who were eagerly awaiting her on the back porch. Furthermore, she knew that the lady-in-law was notorious for her slanderous tongue, given to embellishing secondhand stories with her own lies, and that when it came to girl students, she went all-out to smear and malign them. Now Kyŏnghŭi felt certain that no matter how hard she tried, the lady-in-law wouldn’t take her explanation or reasoning seriously. In fact, some time ago, her older sister had warned her: “Listen, you have to be tight-lipped in front of my mother-in-law, espe-

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cially concerning anything to do with marriage. She says that the world has now gone wild, what with girl students talking shamelessly about marriage—a topic that in the past young girls didn’t even so much as allude to. And this is not all that she tells me. I have no idea where she picks up all these rumors about girl students, but she makes it a point to bring them to my attention. Her word feels like a cut at me, and I am really sick of it, probably because I have you, a girl student, as my own sister. She makes all sorts of ugly remarks about how girls lose their purity once they go to Japan. So you had better mind what you say in her presence.” Kyŏnghŭi became restless, anxious to return to the back porch before the old woman started talking again. “Ma’am, would you please excuse me? I have to get back to sewing the summer shirt my brother will need very soon.” Kyŏnghŭi breathed a sigh of relief as she moved away from the lady-in-law and headed toward the back porch, feeling as if she had just had an aching tooth pulled. “What kept you so long?” her sister-in-law asked, who had already finished darning a sock and was now working on the front part of another. At the sight of Kyŏnghŭi, she put her work on her lap and moved closer to Kyŏnghŭi, pressing her to finish the story: “So, what did the boy do with his father?” Kyŏnghŭi wore an irritated expression on her face, her brows knitted and her cheeks sullen. Siwŏl, folding the clean laundry, glanced at her and, quickly sensing what had happened, said, “Little miss, I bet the lady-in-law from Sŏmunan talked about marriage again.” Earlier that morning, after the departure of Kyŏnghŭi’s grandmother, Siwŏl had overheard from the kitchen what Kyŏnghŭi was muttering on the porch: “When the time comes, I will get married, but I’m sick and tired of hearing about it all the time!” It seemed to Siwŏl that Kyŏnghŭi was mumbling something like that again now—though she wasn’t able to catch it clearly—and she could discern the reason for Kyŏnghŭi’s sour look. A smile spread over Kyŏnghŭi’s face, brightening it up. She picked up her sewing again and began to tell the end of the story. Meanwhile, on the front porch, the two old ladies continued their talk of Kyŏnghŭi, offering one another rice wine and smoking, just as before. “Does Kyŏnghŭi even know how to sew?” “Yes, and she’s quite good at it. Though she isn’t good enough to make a man’s jacket, she does know how to sew her own clothes.” “You don’t say! I wonder how she ever finds time to practice sewing. It’s remarkable she can even make a shirt to go with a Western coat. Do girl students even do needlework?” The lady-in-law used to think that girl students didn’t even know how to hold a needle, much less use one. Moreover, she was surprised to hear that the

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happy-go-lucky, tomboyish Kyŏnghŭi, who made so much of going back and forth between Seoul and Japan for school, could make her own clothes. Still, deep down, she thought Kyŏnghŭi’s sewing was nothing to speak of. Lady Kim hesitated, afraid she might seem to be bragging of her daughter, but went on: “As you may know, Kyŏnghŭi is too busy to take the time and the trouble to learn sewing. But it seems our children find motivation as they grow older. Somehow Kyŏnghŭi managed to pick up sewing without even taking formal lessons. I suppose our children, after they learn how to tackle difficult subjects at school, develop such senses by themselves.” Although her in-law seemed unconvinced, Lady Kim continued after a short pause: “Kyŏnghŭi learned how to sew Western shirts last summer, when she went for daily lessons to the machine-sewing school outside South Gate, the one run by a Japanese woman. She started making Western outfits and hats for her nieces and nephews and even made her older brother’s Western-style summer suit. Since Kyŏnghŭi could speak Japanese, she became friends with the woman instructor, who taught Kyŏnghŭi sewing skills she’d kept secret from others. During the day Kyŏnghŭi studied at the school, and at night she’d stay up till midnight or one o’clock in the morning, drawing sketches based on what she had learned and jotting down all the measurements. “At first I didn’t know what she was up to, but I learned the nature of her work when the male supervisor of a sewing machine company visited our home and told us his plans: ‘It’s been difficult for us to teach Korean ladies because everything is written in Japanese. But from now on, we will put your daughter’s book to good use.’ I realized that even the smallest bit of education we may give our children can help them to turn out useful. “Besides, I saw with my own eyes how highly Kyŏnghŭi was regarded by those well-mannered Japanese. The other day, the same supervisor paid us another special visit after having heard somewhere that Kyŏnghŭi was back at home. Later Kyŏnghŭi told us that he really wanted her to work for his company after graduating. She says her starting salary will easily be fifteen hundred nyang, and if it keeps rising, it could be twenty-five hundred nyang in three years.11 They say that the highest-paid women workers usually get seven hundred and fifty nyang. I think Kyŏnghŭi is an exceptional case because she’s been educated in Japan. “That piece over there is her work, made with a sewing machine.” Lady Kim pointed with her chin to a landscape painting framed in glass, hanging on the opposite wall. It depicted a village scene, with a winding stream in front and a densely wooded forest in the background. It had not been Lady Kim’s intention to dwell on her daughter at such length, but she was carried away by her own talk and had ended by even

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mentioning Kyŏnghŭi’s salary. Lady Kim was more enlightened than most women—far more so than her in-law. By nature she wasn’t at all given to gossip, and when womenfolk got together and spoke ill of girl students, harping on their shortcomings, she often argued against them. She did so because she took pride in her daughter and regarded these women’s criticism against girl students’ alleged inability to sew, do laundry, and manage household matters as nothing but deliberate, malicious gossip. However, Lady Kim was no different from other women in that she didn’t really understand why Kyŏnghŭi wanted an education, why she needed to go all the way to Japan, or what good her study would be after graduation. When other women asked Lady Kim why she allowed her daughter to study so much, she dodged their question by vaguely repeating what her son used to say: “Who knows? Times have changed, and they say even girls should get an education these days.” Now Lady Kim came to a better understanding. She discovered that the respect one commanded or the salary one received was in direct proportion to one’s education. This realization dawned upon her when the respectablelooking Japanese supervisor, sporting a flashy suit and dangling a gold watch chain, took the trouble to call on her young daughter and bowed to her, saying repeatedly, “I will make sure to offer you a salary of forty wŏn on condition only that you produce within a year two embroidered folding screens of good quality while working at your own pace.” The offer was something to reckon with in light of the toil of primary school teachers, who, never free from care, had to struggle year in and year out, usually for a meager five hundred nyang, six hundred twenty at most. Lady Kim was thus convinced that children must receive an education, and if they were to get it, they should get as much as possible—not just a trifle—even if it meant going as far as Japan with their parents’ support. Now Lady Kim understood the meaning of what Kyŏnghŭi had said to her one evening: “If once I begin my education, I’d like to get it as much as possible. Then people will treat me with respect, and I’ll be also able to live like a human being.” Now it became perfectly clear to Lady Kim why her son had insisted on sending Kyŏnghŭi as far away as Japan and why women today ought to be educated as much as men. In the past, she would feel her back break out in sweat and her face flush whenever someone asked her, “What’s the point of educating your daughter so much?” On such occasions, she’d felt a strong urge to drag Kyŏnghŭi home that very moment and marry her off. Only her high esteem for her eldest son’s opinion kept her from doing so. Looking back, she was grateful to him for his firm stand, which stopped her and her husband from bringing Kyŏnghŭi back home to get married. Lady Kim now felt that

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from this point on, no matter who asked, she could give clear reasons for educating girls: “Education motivates them to learn how to sew on their own, and those who are sent as far as Japan for education are treated with respect by others.” So there was no hint of hesitation in Lady Kim’s attitude today, even as she was carried away by her own talk in the presence of her in-law. Her face glowed with happiness, her eyes brimming with pride in Kyŏnghŭi: “I enjoy this honor and joy all because of my daughter.” Although the lady-in-law didn’t quite believe what Lady Kim was telling her, she heard her out. At first, her in-law’s account rang false to her, so she just sat there, looking hard at Lady Kim’s eyes and lips as she went on talking, while inwardly criticizing her: “Now that you’ve ruined your grown-up daughter and are worried about her marriage prospects, you carry on this empty bragging.” But the longer Lady Kim’s story went on, the more it convinced the lady-in-law. Moreover, when she heard about the supervisor’s visit, his respectful treatment of Kyŏnghŭi, and his salary offer of up to two thousand nyang—a figure even beyond the dreams of skilled male clerks in the district office—she thought Lady Kim surely couldn’t be stretching the truth to that extent. Even though the lady-in-law was not quite ready to take Lady Kim at her word, for some reason neither could she completely dismiss the story purely as a tall tale. Besides, with her own eyes she could see Kyŏnghŭi’s embroidery hanging on the wall and with her own ears could hear the ceaseless whirr of the sewing machine at work. The lady-in-law felt rather confused. She felt as if she had been soundly defeated. Suddenly, a pang of conscience struck her, a firm resolve forming in her mind: “I’ve been mistaken about girl students. Girls should be educated just like the daughter of this family. I will hurry home and, beginning tomorrow, send my granddaughters, who until now have been kept at home, to school.” Her head swam, and her ears were ringing. She sat blinking in silence. The cool breeze blowing in from the backyard carried with it the young women’s gleeful peals of laughter, strong enough to crack a china dish.

[2]

“What are you working on in this heat, little lady?” the rice-cake peddler asked, wiping away her sweat with an exhausted look as she set her wooden rice-cake bowl down on the edge of the porch. About forty years old, her face pockmarked, her hair twisted atop her head and carelessly covered with a colorful cotton kerchief, the rice-cake peddler never missed her daily visit to the Yi house.

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“Just killing time,” said Kyŏnghŭi. Donned with an apron and standing on the edge of the porch, she was awkwardly chopping green onions. “Miss, where did you find time to learn how to fix pickled-cabbage kimch’i? I drop by your house every day but never see you idle, not for a moment. If you’re not reading a book, you’re writing; if you’re not sewing, you’re fixing kimch’i like this . . .” “Look, I’m a woman. What’s the big deal about me doing women’s work?” “I’ve seldom seen a girl student like you, though, miss,” said the rice-cake peddler, slapping her thigh and moving closer to Kyŏnghŭi. A soft smile floated across Kyŏnghŭi’s face. “That can’t be true. You know girl students are human beings too, don’t you? They too have to work for their clothes and food.” “Yes, of course I do. But where are we to find such sensible girl students as you, miss?” “I’m flattered. For your compliment, I guess I should buy at least twenty nyang’s worth of rice cakes. What do you say?” “My goodness, you got me wrong, miss. It has nothing to do with my ricecake peddling.” The peddler’s face, full of quirky whims, grew sullen. She pouted her thick lips—resentful at Kyŏnghŭi’s misunderstanding. Kyŏnghŭi looked out of the corner of her eye and read the woman’s mind. “Don’t be so serious. I was only kidding. I was so thrilled by your compliment . . .” “No, it wasn’t a compliment. I really meant it.” The peddler snuggled up closer to Kyŏnghŭi and let out a guffaw. “In all my years of daily rounds, I’ve never seen such a young lady like you, miss—always doing something, never once taking a nap.” “That’s because I take a nap when you’re not around.” “There you go again; you sure have a sense of humor, miss. Rice-cake peddlers drop by whenever they please, morning, noon, and night. They never come and go on schedule like students going to school. See! Don’t you agree?” The peddler turned toward Siwŏl, who was grinding starch paste in a stone mill on the wooden veranda. “You said it! Little miss never takes a nap, unless she gets sick.” “Come on! Look, your rice cakes are getting spoiled as you idly chat away like this,” said Kyŏnghŭi. “I don’t care, miss,” replied the rice-cake peddler in a dull tone. The rice-cake peddler would have poured out a lot more gossip, had Kyŏnghŭi urged her on by saying, “So, what’s new?” She could have told the story she heard from a hired hand at her rice-cake mill. It concerned a recent newspaper article about a girl student who went missing after school for sev-

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eral days and, upon investigation, turned out to have been tricked by a hustler into becoming a concubine. Another story had to do with a family whose daughter-in-law, a girl student, unable to tell the difference between the warp and the woof of cotton, ended up patching all her family’s socks the wrong way. Reportedly, she also scorched a good half of the rice she was cooking. The rice-cake peddler kept a large stock of tittle-tattle stories about girl students, collecting on average about one per day in the course of her daily rounds. That’s why she got all worked up and scooted up even closer to Kyŏnghŭi, slapping her own thigh. But her high hopes burst like a bubble at Kyŏnghŭi’s cool and reserved attitude. The rice-cake peddler felt empty for no reason, as if she had lost something. She wondered whether she shouldn’t just pick up her rice-cake basket and leave, but somehow couldn’t bring herself to run off so abruptly. With her hands pressed down on her rice-cake basket, she examined Kyŏnghŭi, who was chopping nonchalantly with a knife, and then looked at the wooden floor, even counting the number of trays on the shelf. She sat idly, a blank look on her face. “Let me have white rice cakes, about five nyang’s worth, and bean-jam rice cakes, about two and a half nyang,” said Lady Kim, who was fanning herself, lying on a finely woven mat. Then she took money out of her pouch. Rice cakes stuffed with bean jam were Kyŏnghŭi’s favorite, and white rice cakes, her older brother’s. Startled, the rice-cake peddler snapped out of her stupor, and after repeatedly counting the number of rice cakes ordered, she handed them over to Lady Kim. Then, her basket on her head, she hurried out of the house without a backward glance, but all of a sudden she stopped. Fearful of losing her business with this house were they to stop welcoming her, the rice-peddler shouted, “Little miss, I’ll come back tomorrow . . . ha, ha, ha!” Once outside the gate she breathed a deep sigh of relief. Kyŏnghŭi’s sister-in-law, who was stitching a coat string onto a silk overcoat, exchanged a silent smile with Kyŏnghŭi and Siwŏl. Kyŏnghŭi felt satisfied. She felt she had gained something. Realizing the rice-cake peddler would stop her gossiping, Kyŏnghŭi even felt she had done a good job teaching her a lesson. Her knife still in her hand, Kyŏnghŭi sat lost in thought. “There’s absolutely nothing impossible for you, Kyŏnghŭi,” said a woman, who was sitting dispiritedly with her hands folded and a sorrowful look on her face. After that brief remark, she heaved an enormous sigh and closed her lips again. She seems to be weighed down with hidden worries and sorrows. Kyŏnghŭi and her siblings called the woman “Auntie,” for she had been a friend of Kyŏnghŭi’s family for nearly twenty years, and she in turn loved them as her own nieces and nephews. She regularly dropped by Kyŏnghŭi’s

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house, either to pass the time or to lift her spirits when she felt depressed. Her face was always clouded, and she had the habit of heaving deep sighs even on joyful occasions. Anyone familiar with the deep-rooted cause of her unhappiness couldn’t help but feel for her. Widowed young, this woman long mourned the loss of her husband. Her only source of happiness was Sunam, the godsent son born after her husband’s death. She spent each passing day and year looking forward to Sunam’s steady growth. A doting mother, she raised him with the greatest possible care through winter cold and summer heat. She used to wake in the middle of the night to check on her infant son, and finding him sound asleep, she patted him on his chubby buttocks over and over again in great relief. When this precious son turned sixteen, offers of marriage flooded in. Sunam’s mother shed many a nighttime tear at the prospect of welcoming a daughter-in-law and receiving her bows at the wedding in the absence of her husband. But lest her weeping become an ill omen for the future of her beloved son, she tried her best to turn her sorrow into joy, her crying into laughter. Sunam’s mother carefully saved money and trinkets to give to her future daughter-in-law. In the process of arranging for the marriage of her only son, she had to observe numerous rules and steer clear of various taboos. She was told that if a future mother-in-law interviewed bridal candidates in person, her son would spend his life in poverty; so she put all the matrimonial arrangements into the hands of the matchmaker and made her decisions based solely on propitious conjugal horoscopes. The high expectations that Sunam’s mother had for gemlike grandchildren, bustling prosperity, and showers of happiness were smashed by her daughterin-law. The young woman turned out to be a foe who caused Sunam’s mother to heave the deep sighs heard today. To this day, eight years after her marriage at the age of seventeen, Sunam’s wife had never given her mother-in-law the gift of a Korean blouse sewn with her own hands. Instead, the young woman sowed in her mother-in-law’s heart the seeds of a bitter resentment. Sunam’s mother was by nature kindhearted and gracious, and she did her utmost to instruct and mold her daughter-in-law for her own good, taking on all the trouble alone. She racked her brains to come up with ways to improve and mature her daughter-in-law. She reasoned with her and gave her countless instructions, but to no avail. If she gave her daughter-in-law something to sew, she would doze off in no time, and if she asked her to cook rice, the rice turned into thick gruel. What was worse, her daughter-in-law became more brazen as she grew older, driving her mother-in-law to her wit’s end. Growing daily more frustrated, Sunam’s mother became exasperated in the end. Whenever Sunam’s mother visited Kyŏnghŭi’s house and observed Lady

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Kim’s daughter-in-law doing such a fine job of sewing her mother-in-law a Korean blouse, she couldn’t help but sigh. She lamented her miserable life with a daughter-in-law incapable of making her even a single Korean blouse. So it was only human for Auntie to sigh out her grief, watching Kyŏnghŭi busy with her work, and to bemoan her misfortune for not having a daughter-inlaw as capable as her. The auntie made a truly pitiful sight—absentmindedly watching Kyŏnghŭi fix kimch’i. And Kyŏnghŭi found it almost unbearable to look at Auntie after she’d said with a sigh, “I’ll bet nothing is impossible for you, Kyŏnghŭi,” following the departure of the loquacious rice-cake peddler. Even though Kyŏnghŭi was busy at chopping, with her head bent forward, she knew all too well the cause of her auntie’s unhappiness, and she felt waves of deep sympathy for her. Listening to Auntie’s sigh, Kyŏnghŭi felt as if she were witnessing the misery of a host of similarly unhappy Korean families. She banged the handle of her knife on the cutting board and made a firm pledge to herself: “My future home won’t ever be like that. I will never allow such misery, not only in my own home but also in the homes of my offspring, my friends, and even my disciples. Absolutely not!” She jumped to her feet and rushed out to Siwŏl, who was dripping with sweat as she prepared starch paste at the back of the kitchen. “Look, Siwŏl, let’s do it together. Should I sit on the kitchen range and stir the starch paste with a paddle, or should I sit in front of the furnace and tend the fire? Which would you like? I will do whichever you tell me—I know how to take care of both.” “For goodness’ sake, you shouldn’t, miss. It’s so hot . . .” Siwŏl was having a hard time stirring the starch paste and stoking the fire at the same time, working all alone in the heat. A silent cry, “What hard luck I have!” resounded in her heart, as she sat blankly, pushing the wheat straw into the kitchen furnace. To Siwŏl, Kyŏnghŭi’s timely offer of help felt like a breeze against the heat and like laughter amidst pain. Siwŏl thought, “I’ll go get some delicious corn, miss’s favorite, and steam them to serve her at dinner.” Reluctantly Siwŏl said, “All right, then. Please watch the fire, and I’ll stir the starch paste.” “Great!” said Kyŏnghŭi. “You’re an expert, so you take care of the difficult job.” Kyŏnghŭi kept the fire going while Siwŏl stirred the starch paste. Atop the kitchen furnace the starch paste sizzled noisily and bubbled up, while below, inside the furnace, the wheat straws snapped and crackled. They sounded to Kyŏnghŭi like the orchestral music she had heard at a concert at the Tokyo Music School. The gradually changing intensity of the fire—from strong flames in the depths of the furnace to weak sparks near the front—reminded

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Kyŏnghŭi of a melody played from one end of a piano to the other, progressing from heavy plunks to a light tinkle. Realizing that Siwŏl, intent on her work, wouldn’t understand such pleasure, Kyŏnghŭi felt fortunate to have the ability, albeit limited, to enjoy the intricacies of aesthetic beauty. Yet when Kyŏnghŭi thought that there must be individuals who were tens and hundreds of times superior to her in such sensibility, she almost felt like gouging her eyes out and pummeling her own head to give them as offerings to such people. The flames suddenly changed from red to blue. Kyŏnghŭi mourned, “Ah, am I truly a human being, worthy of the food I take?” But then, even before she had realized it, she exclaimed, “Isn’t this interesting!” “Miss, how is it you find everything interesting? Doing laundry, you say the grimy water dripping from the wash is interesting. When you mop the floor, the hazy dust on the unclean side looks interesting. Sweeping the courtyard, you enjoy the piles of dust. I wonder how far you’d go. How about the maggots swarming in the outhouse? Are they interesting to you?” Kyŏnghŭi said to herself, “You’re right, even those things should interest me. But I feel pathetic and hopeless when beset by doubts whether I’ll ever be able to attain such pure vision or reach such levels of intellectual development. “Look, Siwŏl, now that you mention it, when are you going to do the laundry?” “Why, miss? I should get it done by the day after tomorrow.” “It will be late in the evening when you’re done, right?” “I guess so, miss.” “Tell you what. Even if you finish early, take a break at the wash area near the stream. My sister-in-law and I will get supper ready, and you can have it when you return in the evening. You’ll see how wonderful my cooking is.” Kyŏnghŭi burst into laughter. Siwŏl laughed too. She was deeply touched by Kyŏnghŭi’s kindheartedness. She muttered, “Would someone give me a sweet melon so I could give it to miss!” Indeed, whenever Kyŏnghŭi showed such kindness, Siwŏl became so overwhelmed she didn’t know what to do. Since she couldn’t put her feelings into words, she’d instead treat Kyŏnghŭi to her favorite fruits, corn and apricots, which she’d come by free from places she’d visit in her spare time— things Siwŏl would have been willing to pay for, had she had the money. Such was the relationship between Kyŏnghŭi and Siwŏl. On top of that, this time when Kyŏnghŭi came back from Japan, she’d brought toys for Siwŏl’s son, Chŏmdong, toys better than those Kyŏnghŭi gave to her own brother’s children. Siwŏl felt she could never thank her enough. “Listen, Siwŏl, there is one chore we must do together.”

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“What’s that, miss?” “Whatever it is, are you ready to do just what I tell you?” “Yes, of course, miss.” “May I ask why you leave the wooden lid of the well so dirty? It’s so dirty I can’t bear to look at it. So, starting from tomorrow, let’s make it our daily job to clean it after your dishwashing. But it doesn’t mean you do it alone. Do you agree?” “Yes, miss. I’ll clean it every day by myself.” “No. You’ve got to do it with me for the fun of it. Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Kyŏnghŭi. “There you go again with ‘fun.’ Ha, ha, ha, ha!” Siwŏl laughed too. The kitchen grew noisy with laughter. Kyŏnghŭi’s mother, who was on the inner porch listening to the laughing, said, “There they are, at it again!” “I don’t know what’s so amusing,” said Lady Kim to Sunam’s mother. “Whenever Kyŏnghŭi comes back home, the three of them hang around together day and night, driving us crazy with their laughter. You know there’s a saying that when you are young, even horse droppings rolling away make you laugh. It really seems to be true.” “What could be better than laughing? Whenever I come to your house, I feel revived,” Sunam’s mother said and let out another deep sigh. As soon as the laughter reached Kyŏnghŭi’s sister-in-law, who had remained alone on the porch working on her needlework, she rushed into the kitchen with a shoe on one foot and a straw sandal on the other, saying, “What are you up to? Let me in on it too.”

[3]

“Look dear, are you sleeping?” asked Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn. He opened the door of the room in the inner quarters and stepped inside the mosquito net under which his wife and Kyŏnghŭi lay asleep. He had just come in from the front quarters of the house. Startled, Lady Kim sat up. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?” asked Lady Kim. “No, no. I just couldn’t sleep . . .” “What’s on your mind?” Just at that moment, the clock on the wall in the wood-floored room struck one. “I’ve been lying in bed thinking carefully, and I decided to come to talk with you.” “What’s this all about?”

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“It’s about Kyŏnghŭi’s marriage. I’m so worried I can’t sleep.” “That makes two of us.” “This marriage proposal shouldn’t be passed up. I bet we’ll never get another one like it. I’ve known the bridegroom’s father well and for a long time; there’s nothing more to look into. The groom is fairly good, and besides, people are much the same anyway. As the firstborn son, he will inherit the whole of his family’s large fortune, and Kyŏnghŭi would make a perfect elder daughter-in-law for such a distinguished family.” “No doubt about it. I realize too that no other proposal will beat this one. But I don’t know what to say, because Kyŏnghŭi is dead against it and will hit the roof. Though she’s my own daughter, I don’t think I could handle her bitterness if something goes wrong after we force her into this marriage against her will.” “Why, what could possibly go wrong? The groom is good enough, and the family is also well-off, with several thousand bushels of rice as its annual income. If that’s not good enough, what more does she want? Don’t you see she is no longer young at nineteen?” Lady Kim remained silent. Her husband clucked and began to regret what he had done: “It was my mistake to send her to Japan. What’s more appalling than a girl who refuses to get married? This is outrageous. I’m nervous lest people get wind of it. We’ve already let go of several good marriage proposals. Good Lord, what should we do?” “When do you think we have to decide on this proposal, then?” “If she agrees, we can go ahead right away. Today I received another letter from them, pressing for our decision. Now that we’ve gone the length of educating her, it won’t do to give her away to a marriage arranged entirely by parents of both families, as in the old days. I’ve been trying to reason with her for the past three days, but she won’t listen. I’ve never seen such a pigheaded girl. Time and again, the groom’s uncle insists on making her his nephew’s wife, but . . .” “So what did you tell him?” “Well, I was ashamed to say that I had to ask Kyŏnghŭi first, especially when people gossip about us for sending a grown-up daughter as far as Japan and whatnot. So I told him I’d think the matter over.” “They’ll be waiting for your answer then, won’t they?” “That’s right. The proposal came to us in early January this year, and we can’t make them wait with false hopes . . .” “Oh dear! Then we have to come up with some decision sooner or later, but what shall we do? Kyŏnghŭi says she won’t marry until she finishes her studies, no matter what. Moreover, she told me she couldn’t imagine herself living

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in grand style and luxury in such a wealthy family in her wildest dreams. You see, that’s why Kyŏnghŭi gave away all the fine clothes prepared for her own marriage to her younger sister as her wedding gift. But, you know, I think there’s some truth in the saying that money cannot buy happiness.” Lady Kim herself had led a life of wealth and honor with no need to envy others, but she had suffered because of her husband’s fast living when young. She had also endured heartaches in silence when her husband had kept as many as two or three concubines during his days as magistrate of Ch’ŏrwŏn County. So each time Kyŏnghŭi gave her mother a piece of her mind, Lady Kim could see her point quite well, although she didn’t say so openly. Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn went on: “What a conceited brat! That’s why it’s no good to get girls educated; it only turns their head. This is all because Kyŏnghŭi is utterly ignorant of the world. You know, we have already married her younger sister off, right? Look, what sort of family marries off its younger daughter ahead of the older one? If Kyŏnghŭi weren’t such a good-for-nothing, we wouldn’t have given away our younger daughter in marriage. Judge Kim’s family sent this proposal because they know our family well; otherwise, who would ask for the hand of a girl from a family that marries its children in reverse order? Ah, ah . . . this time I must push it through—absolutely!” Even though Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn was half persuaded by his wife’s talk, he suddenly became edgy, recalling his younger daughter’s marriage. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that once he let go of this proposal from Judge Kim’s family, Kyŏnghŭi would never receive another marriage proposal from a family of such pedigree and wealth. Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn made up his mind to push this marriage without delay, and with force if necessary. He sprang to his feet, saying, “What good is it for a girl to study so much? Kyŏnghŭi’s done more than enough studying, and she won’t be going back to Japan. Absolutely not this time around! I’ll make sure to marry her off to Judge Kim’s family. I’ll talk to her again tomorrow, and if she won’t listen, I will go ahead with no more talk.” Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn was fuming. Lady Kim could neither agree nor disagree with her husband. All she could do was mull over the thought, “Come to think of it, unless I see my only unwed child Kyŏnghŭi married in my lifetime, I won’t be able to die in peace.” Her concern was brought about by her apprehension— whenever she lay sick in bed with palsy—of dying before she saw Kyŏnghŭi married. Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn stood to go but then took his seat again and asked his wife in a low voice, “Say, you don’t think we’ve spoiled Kyŏnghŭi by sending her to Japan, do you?” “Certainly not! She’s grown more industrious than ever. She is the first

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to get up in the morning, and she finishes up for the day with mopping the floor and tidying up the yard. When we make rice-cakes, she even helps with the sifting until they finish the job of pounding the rice into flour. That’s why Siwŏl is nuts about her.” Each time Lady Kim saw Kyŏnghŭi taking care of household chores, she was more and more pleased. After Kyŏnghŭi began her studies in Japan, Lady Kim used to secretly worry about her whenever people made an issue of her education. Lady Kim’s greatest fear was that Kyŏnghŭi would become conceited, making a big deal out of her studies in Japan or showing off her learning and expecting to be waited on like a man. Had Kyŏnghŭi turned out to be so dreadful, Lady Kim would have been ashamed of her, just as would any mother who loved her daughter. So she felt enormously relieved when she saw Kyŏnghŭi, donned in an apron, step into the kitchen on the very day following her return from Japan, even though Lady Kim told Kyŏnghŭi to take it easy and rest up after her year-long absence. From way back, Kyŏnghŭi was famous among her family members for her cleaning of the floors, loft, and closets. When she came back home from her high school in Seoul three times a year for vacation, the loft closets were turned inside out. And only Kyŏnghŭi’s cleaning could please her mother. When the loft got messy or the closets became disordered, everyone knew it was time for Kyŏnghŭi’s homecoming. Kyŏnghŭi’s older cousins, grandmother, and elder aunt, who used to come see her the day after her return home, always checked out the house and praised her: “The loft closets have had quite a makeover” or “How clean they are!” Kyŏnghŭi used to look forward to this routine the night before coming home, and the sparkling cleanliness of her house was the most telling sign of her return. Lady Kim expected that this time Kyŏnghŭi, upon her return from Japan, would ignore her old routine of tidying up the loft three times a year. But the first thing Kyŏnghŭi did upon her arrival, after paying her respects to her parents, was to open the loft closets. The next day she cleaned them from morning till night. But the way Kyŏnghŭi cleaned had totally changed. In the past she used to do her cleaning perfunctorily. She simply dusted and scrubbed the ceremonial vessels in the eastern corner of the loft and the small gourds hanging on the western wall, and then put them back in their places. Her old idea of cleaning was just getting rid of cobwebs and brushing away accumulated dust. But this time her cleaning process changed—it was structured and innovative. She altered the arrangement of things altogether, applying her knowledge of orderliness learned in home economics, tidiness in her hygiene class, color harmony in art class, and rhythmic variation in music class. Kyŏnghŭi

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checked the effect of porcelain placed next to earthenware and the display of a seven-dish set on lacquerware. She tried to see how a small bowl would look nested in a larger bowl. She even tried the effect of a yellowish casserole pot placed on a white silver tray, and put a bottle alongside a large vase to check the contrast. In earlier times, Kyŏnghŭi frowned at the musty smell of dust in the dark loft; she also carried on her daylong cleaning job—drenched with sweat—in order to receive the compliments of her family. But now she was different. She loved her many chores in the dark loft. She even put down her broom in order to pick up mouse droppings and smell them. Her day’s work was no longer motivated by expectations of reward. She simply did the job because she took it as her own task. Kyŏnghŭi’s every move was made with self-consciousness, which helped her self-knowledge grow, and as time went on, she looked for more and more work to do. Kyŏnghŭi felt that if a friend did even a bit of her work for her, the finished task belonged not to her but to her friend—even if the end product belonged to Kyŏnghŭi. This belief in independence had led Kyŏnghŭi to a resolution that so long as she wanted to have nice things or to be richer than others, she shouldn’t ask others to do even a scrap of work—work she could do herself. She made up her mind not to allow anyone to take tasks from her—even the most negligible. Kyŏnghŭi felt she was lucky to have strong legs and big arms. She could envision countless jobs ahead—tasks that asked for all her physical strength. There were also a lot of things Kyŏnghŭi hoped to own. So every time following a nap, she would recognize clearly how much her work had suffered from her laziness. Still, after she put in a full day’s work, she became keenly aware of her own inner growth—no matter how small it might be. In this way, Kyŏnghŭi had come to realize how every effort counted, since it contributed to the growth of her assets. Kyŏnghŭi’s desire to mature and increase her personal possessions pressed her to do her best from morning till night. Everyday Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn himself observed Kyŏnghŭi exert herself and began to feel proud of her. But he felt he had to confirm his impressions about Kyŏnghŭi by talking things out with his wife, as he had been constantly troubled by doubts as to whether or not they had ruined their daughter by sending her to Japan, as their eldest son had urged. Kyŏnghŭi’s parents loved her. It was this which led them to sit together this night and share their worries about her marriage and their fears about her loss of womanly virtue. Now that they were relieved of such fears, their smiling faces were filled with love for their daughter. Nothing comes close to the concern and genuine love of parents for their children—no love between friends or siblings, not even the filial love of children, can surpass it.

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Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn began to feel somewhat less jittery about the lack of future marriage proposals for Kyŏnghŭi. Nevertheless, when he stepped onto the porch and, clearing his dry throat, said, “Come what may, tomorrow is the day,” the firmness in his voice made it clear that his plans would not easily be thwarted. A crowing rooster announced a new day. The pitch-black of the night gave way to the milky dawn. A portion of the eastern window gradually lightened, slowly revealing a corner of the light green mosquito net. Kyŏnghŭi, until then fast asleep, opened her eyes. She sprang to her feet and stepped out of the room, excited at the prospect of another full day of work.

[4]

It was exactly noon, and a lunch table had been set on the porch within the inner quarters of the house. Kyŏnghŭi came in from the front quarters. Although her sister-in-law and Siwŏl begged her to take lunch, she brushed them aside. Once inside the storeroom, Kyŏnghŭi shut its doors tightly. She wept uncontrollably. She threw herself on the floor and then suddenly sat straight up. She again stood up and banged her head against the wall. Hugging a post in the room, she circled around and around it. She was at a total loss as to what to do with herself, her small bosom burning as if on fire. Wiping her tears with a towel hanging on the wall, Kyŏnghŭi could only moan now and again, “Oh my goodness, what am I supposed to do?” She even wondered if her parents were trying to get rid of her by marrying her off as quickly as possible in order to save themselves the expense of her food and clothing. She felt as if this wide world held no place for her. Tears rained down whenever she was struck by her insignificance and uselessness as a human being. She was determined that if someone were to enter the room and attempt to calm her, she’d pick a fight and, grabbing that person’s hair, pull it all out at once. She’d scratch away at the person’s face till blood streamed down from it, or even rip it apart. What kind of fate awaits Kyŏnghŭi as she bumps into various objects in the small, dark storeroom with its windows tightly closed? Kyŏnghŭi is facing two paths, two clearly marked roads. One is a smooth one, soft to her feet, leading to a rice-filled storehouse, wealth, and affection. It is a royal road, simple to find and easy to walk along. But the other will lead Kyŏnghŭi to tough, menial farmwork, such as hulling barley for a measly amount of food; and as a hired hand, she will have to sweat all day for a few pennies’ wages. Everywhere on this road, she will meet with no love but only ill treatment. She will have to step on rough rocks until the tips of her toes bleed, and there will be steep precipices and sharp mountain peaks to scale. She will have to cross

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waters and climb hills; the crooked road has countless turns, and the farther she walks, the rougher and more inaccessible the path will become. Today Kyŏnghŭi stands at her life’s crossroads, faced with the task of deciding which of these two paths to take. What’s more, she has to decide now. The decision she makes today will be final and irrevocable come tomorrow. She also knows that once she makes her decision, she won’t change her mind. Ah! Which path should she take? This decision should be made independent of her teachers’ counsel or her friends’ advice. A personal decision made in full awareness of her own action would be lifelong and irreversible. Again Kyŏnghŭi banged her head and moaned, “Oh my goodness, what am I to do?” Kyŏnghŭi kept thinking: “I’m a woman, and I am a Korean woman—a woman shackled by Korean society’s family conventions. My society decrees that women be meek and submissive, and the Korean family teaches that a woman’s life consists in following the ‘Three Rules of Obedience.’ If a woman tries to stand on her own, she will feel pressure from all quarters, and if she aspires to accomplish something, she will be criticized from all sides.” Kyŏnghŭi knows that all her friends—ten out of ten—will gently take her by the hand and advise her, “Let’s live it up free from care till we die.” Kyŏnghŭi herself has experienced the luxury of brocade clothes and has enjoyed all sorts of delicacies. “Ah! Which road should I take? What life should I live?” Kyŏnghŭi asked herself. Each time Kyŏnghŭi repeated these questions, her two dangling arms and two limp legs curled up tightly to her bosom and stomach—just as a snake, slithering flat on the road, might tense its limp body tightly and roll its eyes wildly, darting its sharp poisonous tongue in and out, when its tail is touched ever so slightly with the tip of a stick. Kyŏnghŭi looked like a toy, with nothing but a head and torso, on display in a toy store. She felt as if her one-hundredpound body had suddenly become as light as a sheet of paper fluttering in the wind. She also felt a dull, chilly pain in her head. Kyŏnghŭi’s eyes were transfixed, unblinking, as if they were about to bore a hole into the wall. Her back was soaked with sweat, and her limbs felt as cold as those of a corpse. “Oh my goodness, what am I supposed to do?” This is all that Kyŏnghŭi could utter, and she felt as if she had become deaf and mute. Kyŏnghŭi passed her hand over her body. She touched her left wrist with her right hand and then her right wrist with her left hand. She shook her head too, to see how it felt. Kyŏnghŭi asked herself, “What purpose should I make of my body, this short, tiny body? Where should I head?” Once more Kyŏnghŭi surveyed herself from head to foot. She then mulled:

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“Should I choose a life of luxury, trailing silk skirts and decorating my hair with ornamental jade and pearl hairpins? How magnificent it would be to be inducted as the wife of the firstborn son of a powerful family! What fun to play the game of a new daughter-in-law and bride! Think of the affection I’d get from my future parents-in-law! How much I’d be adored by my own parents, though I am now an object of their scorn! Imagine the envy and respect of my relatives!” “I’ve made a mistake,” Kyŏnghŭi said out loud. “Oh, what a terrible mistake I’ve made! Why did I spit out ‘no’ and not ‘yes’ when Father said, ‘Let’s go ahead’? Oh why, oh why did I say that? What possessed me to answer him back like that? Why did I say no to such fame and fortune? What will become of me, once I let this golden opportunity slip away? Maybe it’s because I’m ignorant of the world and lacking in judgment, just as Father said. Maybe it’s already too late to take back my words. Indeed, Father did say, ‘You’ll regret this forever.’ Ah, ah . . . what am I to do? Maybe before it’s too late I should go straight to the front quarters and ask Father’s forgiveness. Should I say, ‘I was wrong’? Yes, that will do. That’s the right way to go about it. And I’ll give up this burdensome study as well. I don’t have to return to Japan, just as Father said. Maybe this is the path I should take! This may be the right direction I should head. Ah, this must be the proper course to be followed. But . . . “Oh my goodness, what am I supposed to do?” Kyŏnghŭi stared into space. She felt her whole body growing heavy, as if it weighed many tons. Her head felt heavy too, as though a large bronze helmet were pulled over it. Her curled-up arms and legs stretched out and lay limp. Then her entire body contracted again as she wondered what had possessed her to answer her father so fearlessly. When he had said, “Girls are supposed to get married, bear children, serve parents-in-law, and be respectful to their husbands, and that’s all that there is for them,” she answered back, “That’s an old-fashioned idea, Father! Nowadays people say that women are human beings just as men and that, as such, women can do anything. Just like men, women can make money and hold public office. The time has come for women to do everything men do!” Thereupon her father had raised his long pipe and roared: “Nonsense! You’re nobody! Is this gibberish all that you picked up in Japan, wasting precious money, while we thought you were studying?” Kyŏnghŭi shrunk with fear as she recalled her father’s terrifying glare. Kyŏnghŭi was lost in thought: “Yes, Father is right. I am indeed useless. Am I not aping others’ words? Ah, ah . . . it’s not easy for women to live like human beings. Only exceptional women succeed in carrying out their tasks like men. It takes women of brilliant scholarship and extraordinary talent to

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break away from four-thousand-year-old Korean traditions. Such a feat can be accomplished only by intelligent women such as Madame de Staël, who, with her delicate discernment and power of eloquence, moved the hearts of all Parisians during Napoléon’s times.12 Such an exploit will require the indomitable courage and sacrifice of a Joan of Arc, who rescued Orleans in life and saved France through her death. It will call for the lucid logic and iron willpower of Mrs. Webb—the brave champion of British feminism, an accomplished essayist, and a renowned writer of first-rate books on economics.13 Ah, ah, as I can see clearly, these women’s accomplishments are heroic acts. Such acts will require unquestionable competence and self-sacrifice.” When Kyŏnghŭi carefully examined her education up to now, she was surprised to find nothing there. Her idiotic dull sensitivity had prevented her from true enjoyment and appreciation of dance and musical performances. She was poor at speech, often at a loss for a good answer and unable to articulate her thoughts. She had a fastidious disposition, complaining about the smallest pain and wailing at the slightest rebuke. She lacked backbone, was too easily swayed by others, and was hopelessly feeble-minded. She wondered, “Am I truly a human being? Is it impossible for someone like me to live as a human being? All I have is a piddling, elementary education—something everyone has anyway. My education is nothing but how to hold a spoon in the right hand for eating rice that everyone knows how to prepare. It’s all pointless. If great enterprising women of the past were to find out about me, wouldn’t they laugh at me? It’s pure nonsense. Oh dear, what should I do?” Such self-scrutiny led Kyŏnghŭi to feel sorry for Judge Kim’s family, which was trying so hard to win her hand as wife to their eldest son. When such a rich and distinguished family wants to take in an idiot like her, she should accept their wishes in humble gratitude and get married without complaint or delay, perfectly happy to offer up her maidenhood to them. Her rebuff was simply outrageous, even to herself. Suddenly it seemed perfectly reasonable to Kyŏnghŭi that her parents, grandmothers, aunts, and other relatives expressed their concerns about her marriage every time they saw her. Until now, Kyŏnghŭi had taken pity on married women, their hair done up in buns and decorated with ornamental hairpins. She looked at them contemptuously, thinking, “You women have aged for nothing. Look how dull your lives are, following your instincts like animals, without any love for your husband! Stuffing your children with rice and meat is your way of expressing your love, while you remain totally ignorant of their need for a good education. Women of your sort are mere nothings, not human beings at all.” Today, however, for some reason, such women appeared remarkable to Kyŏnghŭi. Even Siwŏl, doing the dishes with her hair done up in a bun, seemed

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far superior to herself. The cries of farmers’ children from beyond the walls of her house seemed to speak of a world far different from and better than her own. Kyŏnghŭi felt that in all probability she could never be a woman of that world and bear children as those women do. She wondered, “What prompts these women to get married in droves, while I find it so difficult to accept such an idea of marriage? How can they lead such a life of ease, while I trouble myself about children’s education?” Kyŏnghŭi felt like a nobody when compared with these women. They seemed many times better than she. Kyŏnghŭi felt amazed: “How in the world can those women get married with such ease? They go on living in peace, bearing any number of children. How unbelievable they are!” The more Kyŏnghŭi considered them, the more admirable they appeared. And she couldn’t quite figure out why she found it so difficult to get married. She puzzled, “Are these women extraordinary? Or am I? Are they real human beings? Or am I?” These perplexing doubts actually kept Kyŏnghŭi from sleep at night. The question “What then makes a person’s life significant?” tormented Kyŏnghŭi. “Oh dear, what am I supposed to do?” Now Kyŏnghŭi had rephrased her lament: “Oh dear, I had no idea I would come to this pass.” Suddenly Kyŏnghŭi felt her hair stand on end. She felt as if her large face, big mouth, and lanky limbs had all vanished. She glimpsed something like a flame floating in the air—like a spark at the tip of a small straw of wheat. The room grew hot and stuffy. Not fully aware of her action, Kyŏnghŭi threw open all the windows. Blazing hot sunlight poured in with a fierce intensity, like two groups of ruffians charging at each other with their six-cornered cudgels and shouting, “Come on!” Over the many-hued crepe myrtles and small-leafed lotus blossoms, large-spotted butterflies and yellow butterflies flew with abandon. In the magpie’s nest on the pear tree, small black heads of chicks bobbed in and out, waiting for their mother to bring food. The potbellied family dog was snoring away, sprawled in the shade under the bush clover plants. About half a dozen chicks followed after their mother hen as she searched for grubs under the hedge. Watching the scene, Kyŏnghŭi’s mind suddenly emerged from its stupor. She shouted, “That’s a dog over there! That’s a flower, and that’s a hen. That’s a pear tree. And those hanging on it are pears. That’s a magpie flying in the sky. That’s a jar, and that’s a mortar.” In this manner, Kyŏnghŭi began to call out the names of things as they came into view. She even touched the bedside chest next to her and stroked its folded silk bedding. “Then what is my name? It’s ‘human being’! I really am a human being.”

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Kyŏnghŭi gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. She tried to open her mouth, blink her eyes, raise her arms, and stretch out her legs. It was clear to her she had a human shape. Then she compared herself with the dog lying on its belly, the roaming hen pecking at grubs, and the magpies. These are animals—that is, they belong to the lower order, as Kyŏnghŭi had learned in zoology class. But she was also taught that living beings like her, who wear clothes, know how to speak words, walk around, and work with their hands, are human beings—the lords of all creation. Kyŏnghŭi came to the quick conclusion that she herself was one such precious human being. Kyŏnghŭi cried out, “Ah, ah . . . I think I’ve given Father a correct answer!” When her fearsome father said, “If you marry into this family, you will live a good life, well-fed and well-clad for the rest of your life,” for the first time in her life, and trembling with fear, she had snapped back at him: “Father, you know Confucius’ disciple Yen Hui said that one can find happiness even in a handful of rice and a small amount of water in a gourd.14 If we live only for food, we are dumb animals, not human beings. I believe that, as human beings, we must earn our food with our own hands, even if it turns out to be only a bowl of coarse barley. Women who live off their husbands, who in turn live off inheritances from their ancestors, are no different from our dog.” Thus Kyŏnghŭi’s thoughts continued: “Yes, if human beings live only for food, they are like beasts of a lower order. Besides, all sorts of tragedies take place in rich families whose male members squander the property they have received from their ancestors, without having lifted a finger, on drinking and kisaeng. These men don’t know how to use their inheritance, let alone how to make one themselves. They are not human beings but animals who die after a life of fulfilling their appetites. There are numerous men who lead low lives like animals. Such men are not human beings but animals in human skin. If these men should attempt to take a rest under the bush clovers, even the dog would laugh at them, saying the shade is too good for them.” Kyŏnghŭi continued thinking: “So it is! What differentiates human beings from animals is that the former know the principle of ‘Hard work is repaid’ and ‘Happiness follows tears.’ Human beings have thinking and creative faculties, which animals lack. The difference between human beings and animals is that the former pursue their goals on their own initiative and achieve them, whereas the latter depend on human beings for food, expecting leftovers from them, and feel happy when they are fed. This is the indisputable difference between a human being and an animal and is an unquestionable truth.” Finally, Kyŏnghŭi declared: “First of all I am a human being. Then I

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am a woman. This means that I am a human being before being a woman. Moreover, I am a woman who belongs to the universal human race before being a Korean woman. I am God’s daughter before being the daughter of Yi Ch’ŏrwŏn and Lady Kim. After all, I was born with a human form. This form, which includes not only the outer skin but also the internal organs, is definitely human, not animal. Without a doubt, I am a human being! If I, as a human being, don’t choose untraveled, rough roads, how can I ever ask that of others? Human beings are expected to achieve high goals and be proud of them, as if they were standing on a mountaintop and looking down below. Indeed, what do I need these arms and these legs for?” Kyŏnghŭi raised her arms and leapt up. The burning sunlight softened. Slowly, dark clouds began to cover the deep-blue sky. Southern winds, scented with fragrance, wafted in gently, carrying pollen. Kyŏnghŭi saw a flash of lightning, followed closely by claps of thunder. In no time, a summer shower would come pouring down. Kyŏnghŭi was ecstatic. She suddenly felt as if she had grown taller, lengthened like a piece of taffy. Her whole face seemed to have turned into one large eye. Kyŏnghŭi fell to her knees and offered a prayer, her hands pressed together: “Dear God, here is your daughter! Father, thank you for your grace! “Please look at my face, glowing with life. “Dear God, please give me eternal glory and strength. “I pledge to do my best. “Please make use of me. I’m at your disposal, for you have the power to either reward or punish me.” [First published in Yŏjagye (Women’s world), March 1918]

Analysis of “Kyŏnghŭi” The longest of Na Hye-sŏk’s fictional narratives, “Kyŏnghŭi” (1918) is also considered her finest in terms of narrative strategy, structure, character choice and delineation, and thematic conceptualization. Autobiographical in origin, “Kyŏnghŭi” is the author’s careful articulation of a new paradigm for modern Korean women, which is undergirded by her feminist visions and commitment to changing the lives of contemporary Korean women. Representing Na’s reformative agenda, the story challenges the oppressive realities and mistaken notions about Korean women—both modern and tradition-bound—and to proffer new views about these women’s self-identity and

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meaning in life. In a sense, “Kyŏnghŭi” is Na Hye-sŏk’s feminist-informed response to the growing controversy over the “woman question” in Korea, especially Korean society’s criticism of the so-called sinyŏsŏng (new women). Kyŏnghŭi is an idealized figure. An artistically gifted daughter of an upperclass family, Kyŏnghŭi possesses an aesthetic sensitivity that even reaches the mystical dimension of synesthesia. Though a product of a privileged education, Kyŏnghŭi is no snob. Her character traits—diligence, understanding, practicality, discretion, modesty, and a maturity beyond her age—draw the composite picture of a woman of integrity and warmth, something clearly revealed in her dealings with her homebound sister-in-law and with the family maid, Siwŏl. Kyŏnghŭi puts into practice what she has learned at school, voluntarily takes up thankless household chores to improve her family’s living conditions, and develops self-sufficiency and self-knowledge. In this connection, the embroidery skills Kyŏnghŭi cultivates on her own initiative convey Na’s farsighted view—even by today’s standards—that a woman’s true empowerment and value come with her economic independence and a financially compensated profession. In essence, “Kyŏnghŭi” argues against the prejudicial image of “new women,” who were popularly perceived as a troubling demographic group, destroying traditional female morality, even rending the Korean social fabric itself. They were considered mindless followers of Western fads and the emblem of indolence, vanity, moral laxity, and the pursuit of easy money. By contrast, Kyŏnghŭi’s personal qualities diagnostically differ from those attributed to the sinyŏsŏng. Her education has perfected rather than spoiled her. Kyŏnghŭi, therefore, is a testimonial to the success of modern Korean women’s education and a symbolic rebuttal to the mounting criticism of such educational undertakings. The key mark of Kyŏnghŭi as a real “modern” woman, however, is her refusal to reproduce the sanctified patriarchal gender ideology that relegates women to the biologically determined roles of wife and mother. Instead, she looks for ways to lead a life as a nongendered human, attempting a radical departure from the traditional womanly life course. Kyŏnghŭi’s refusal to submit to her father’s order to accept an arranged marriage proposal is therefore no less than a frontal challenge to the “Father’s Law,” both literally and figuratively, and, by extension, signals the destabilization of the orthodox patriarchal canon that circumscribed Korean women’s choices and destiny. Thus “Kyŏnghŭi” presents a model of a genuine new woman—a self-determining subject—who follows the dictates of her own soul. Kyŏnghŭi’s story, however, makes it clear that becoming a new woman is no small feat. As her struggle illustrates, it demands a ruthless soul-searching,

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true self-knowledge, and deep conviction. The weightiest part of “Kyŏnghŭi” is devoted to her grueling self-analysis to ascertain her limitations as well as the genuineness of her aspirations and her commitment. This process of selfscrutiny also involves Kyŏnghŭi’s effort to make sure that her quest for a new womanhood is neither a superficial imitation of Western feminist exemplars nor a simple dismissal of the Confucian traditions of her society. She has to take careful stock of both native and foreign feminine ideologies before arriving at her own version of the new woman. Thus viewed, “Kyŏnghŭi” serves a double-edged purpose: a refutation of the popular misconception of sinyŏsŏng as a frivolous and superficial mimicry of its Western counterpart, and a word of warning to Korean women who have construed unscrupulous ideas about sinyŏsŏng. “Kyŏnghŭi” is an artfully fashioned text. Consisting of four sections and told by an omniscient narrator, the story covers only a few days and involves a small cast of family members and visitors who play out their roles within the inner quarters of the heroine’s house. Almost nothing extraneous to the development of the narrative intrudes. This constricted temporal and spatial framework of the narrative helps heighten the tension and intensity of the issues the protagonist has to grapple with. Structurally, each section introduces different sets of characters close to Kyŏnghŭi, who serve as mirrors to show her personal merits. The interactions among these characters also permit a rare glimpse into the intimate space of women’s domestic culture and the enclosed nature of Korean women’s experiences within a tightly knit family and human network. At the same time, Kyŏnghŭi’s appraisals of these dramatis personae contribute to revealing problematic issues of Korean society such as the arranged marriage, in-law relationships, concubinage, rumors about sinyŏsŏng, and the class divide, to name a few. A unique literary technique in “Kyŏnghŭi” is the use of verbal tense. Apart from a few flashbacks, the entire story is told in the present tense.15 This device engages readers in the unfolding events of the narrative as actual witnesses and makes them experience the protagonist’s story as a timeless drama reenacted in the present, not as a concluded past. The case of Kyŏnghŭi is thus set in an eternal present, in which she becomes “everyone” and her experience takes on unchanging and universal implications. Na Hye-sŏk’s technical virtuosity in this story is at its best, as shown in her choice of the dark storage room as the crucible for the heroine’s self-examination, from which she emerges as an authentically transformed modern woman after a moment of visionary revelation. The author’s adoption of this timeless archetypal image of cave or womb to convey a spiritual rebirth points to

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her literary ingenuity and sophistication. Furthermore, Kyŏnghŭi’s extended interior monologue in the final section of the story expertly highlights the narrative’s emphasis on the need for individual women’s private, in-depth introspection—a prerequisite for launching and completing the difficult project of self-metamorphosis into sinyŏsŏng. In this sense, Na Hye-sŏk’s thematic concerns and narrative techniques reinforce each other, making the novella one of the best examples of early modern Korean literary ventures.

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Three

Awakening (1926) Kim Wŏn-ju

Better known by her pen name, Iryŏp, Kim Wŏnju (1896–1971) was born in the village of Dŏktongni, near the port city Chinnamp’o in South P’yŏngan Province, the first daughter of a Protestant minister. Her mother, although uneducated, was the primary influence on Kim’s formative years, proudly supporting her daughter’s education, but Kim suffered the loss of her mother in her early teens. Kim’s caring father continued her mother’s enthusiasm for education by sending Kim to Seoul in 1913 to study at Ewha Girls’ School, which had been established by an American Methodist woman missionary in 1886. In 1915 Kim’s father passed away, leaving her the sole survivor of her immediate family. Later Kim memorialized her parents in her works. Thanks to financial support from her maternal grandmother, Kim studied at Ewha Womans College, where she read extensively and participated in the activities of the school’s literary club, Imunhoe. Reportedly, Kim was an avid reader of both Ch’oe Nam-sŏn and Yi Kwang-su. Eventually Kim and Yi established a close professional and personal association.1 After graduating from Ewha in 1918, Kim married Yi No-ik, an Americaneducated professor of chemistry at Yŏnhŭi College (present-day Yonsei University) who was some twenty years her senior and suffered from a physical disability. During the March 1919 Independence Movement, Kim took part in covert anti-Japanese activities and narrowly escaped arrest by the police. Later that same year, she left for Tokyo, where she briefly attended the Tōyō Eiwa Girls’ School.2 Upon her return home, Kim organized a group called Ch’ŏngt’aphoe (Bluestockings) with the help of Na Hye-sŏk, apparently in imitation of the feminist group Seitō in Japan,3 and in March 1920 began the publication of Korea’s first feminist monthly journal, Sinyŏja (New woman). Serving as the journal’s 55

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editor, Kim used it as a platform in her crusade for feminist causes, contributing a number of articles on the necessity for women’s education and their selftransformation. Sinyŏja also provided literary and artistic channels for her women friends, such as Na Hye-sŏk. Kim’s first short story, “Ŏnŭ sonyŏ ŭi sa” (Death of a girl), which denounced the practice of concubinage and the abuse of parental authority over children, was published in Sinyŏja in April 1920. Sinyŏja’s fourth issue was its last; the journal folded in June 1920, suppressed by Japanese censorship. One month later Kim Wŏn-ju joined with Na Hye-sŏk to become the founding members of the literary circle P’yehŏ (Ruins), whose membership was mostly male. After a brief visit to Japan in the late spring of 1921, Kim published “Hyewŏn” (Sinmin kongnon [New people’s public opinion], June 1921)—a short story about the betrayal of a woman writer by her boyfriend, who pursues moneyed women. Kim’s debates with Na Hye-sŏk about Korean women’s clothing in a series of articles published in Tonga ilbo in September 1921 contributed to raising the national profiles of these two women as cultural critics and public figures. By then, Kim had become a pioneer in the bourgeoning literary and pro-women movements, and her writings, usually in a feminist vein, were sought after by Tonga ilbo. After separating from her husband in 1921, Kim chose to study in Japan, where she met Ōta Seizō, a Japanese law student at Kyushŭ Imperial University who came from a wealthy and powerful family. In September 1922 a son was born of Kim’s relationship with Ōta, but soon thereafter Kim returned to Korea, having rejected Ōta’s insistent proposals of marriage and leaving her infant son behind with Ōta.4 Sometime in late 1922 Kim’s first marriage was finally dissolved, and from 1923 on, she began to develop an interest in Buddhism under the tutelage of the renowned Zen priest Mangong (1871–1946). From 1925 to 1928 she worked as a literary reporter at Tonga ilbo as well as a grade school teacher. The year 1926 proved the peak of Kim Wŏn-ju’s career, marked by the publication of four poems and three short stories, “Sunae ŭi chugŭm” (Death of Sunae; Tonga ilbo, January 31–February 8, 1926), “Sarang” (Love; Chosŏn mundan, April 1926), and “Chagak” (Awakening; Tonga ilbo, June 19–26, 1926). In 1927 Kim created a public uproar with her article “Na ŭi chŏngjogwan” (My view of sexual purity; Chosŏn ilbo, January 8, 1927), in which she spoke out about her radical idea that the spiritual, rather than sexual, purity of women is the most important element in a love relationship. The clamor resulted in Kim’s reputation as the epitome of sinyŏsŏng—a social rebel—and the article became her hallmark. The same year, Kim began to serve as the literary editor for Pulgyŏ (Buddhism), a Buddhist magazine, in which she published most of her later work, mostly poems.

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Her devotion to Buddhism deepening after years of practice and study, in 1933 Kim finally entered Sudŏk Temple of the Zen sect in South Ch’ungch’ŏng Province, taking the tonsure as a disciple of Mangong. Until her death in 1971, Kim lived as a Buddhist nun secluded in the same temple, burying her secular fame as Korea’s earliest feminist. Although she had made a vow to her mentor, Mangong, not to write, she left a sizable collection of short poems, essays, and Buddhist tracts, which, together with her other work, was published posthumously in two volumes in 1974.

Awakening [1]

What happened to me was so unexpected and unbelievable that I thought it best to keep it to myself. But, my friend, since you keep asking me about it, I am going to jot it down just as it happened. It was around this time two years ago that my husband left for Japan for the first time. I can remember the date clearly. At first he had planned to go a few months earlier in order to prepare for his studies before the school year began. But his plan was delayed, first because of his father’s birthday and then because of a cold. So it was toward the end of December that he was finally set to leave. The night before his departure, he spent time at the farewell party thrown by his friends and came home around two o’clock in the morning. His face was all flushed, apparently from drinking wine, although he was never a drinker. An awkward smile on his face, he came into the room and said, “It’s so late and you’re still up?” Then, only throwing off his hat and overcoat, he slipped into the bedding I had spread out for him. When he looked up at my teary eyes from his bed, he too became sad. “Now, hurry and get undressed, and come lie down beside me,” he said. Then, from his bed, he stretched out his hands toward me and untied the strings of my blouse. I burst into uncontrollable tears again and threw myself onto him, sobbing. Sitting up halfway, he said, “What’s the matter? Shouldn’t you be happy for me that I’m going away to study? Besides, it won’t do you any good if I stick around here at home. No matter how much I feel for you in my heart, it comes

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to no good. Don’t you see it’s best for me to finish my studies as fast as I can and return home to support you with the money I earn, freeing you from this complicated, irritating, and confining household? So just close your eyes to everything and be patient with me for three or four years. Now, come lie down here.” And he held me tightly. That night, it was the warmth of his deep affection—not the sorrow of parting—that kept me crying uncontrollably. We ended up staying awake all night, talking about the sadness of separation, about our love and our hopes. I rose early in the morning, tearing myself away when he tried to keep me in bed a little longer and for the last time. Knowing he would miss Korean food once he went off to Japan, I put my whole heart into fixing his breakfast and hurriedly brought it to him so he wouldn’t be late. I was disappointed to see that the breakfast table I had prepared for his full enjoyment was sent back, its dishes hardly touched, but I simply thought he was in too much of a hurry. I had been preparing for his departure myself, even before his parents had given him permission to leave. I tried my best to do everything I could for him, since I knew he would need a number of things while away from home. I had heard that the rooms in Japan didn’t have heated floors like those in Korea, so besides preparing the usual essentials, I took every care to get things ready that would keep him warm—even those he thought unnecessary. I also prepared a variety of Korean foods, packed them in leakproof containers, and put them in his luggage. After all his luggage had been carried out and loaded, his father and all his friends lined up outside. As I was not supposed to go out and join them, I was standing in the corner of my room weeping when I heard him stamp toward my room, saying, “I forgot something.” Quickly wiping away my tears, I stammered, “What . . . is it?” He smiled, “Nothing, of course, you silly! I came back in to see you once more. Now let’s shake hands. And while I am gone, please take heart. Just trust me.” He shook my hand firmly and went out. With no one around to notice, I slipped out through the back gate and, standing hidden at the corner of the wall of the house behind ours, tried to catch sight of him once more as he went away.

[2]

The steady snowfall covered the roads, filling in footprints and making repeated sweepings useless. My husband plodded on his way with K, his closest friend, leaving new footprints on the smooth snowy road. Our family dog, which was so fond of him, trailed behind. So preoccupied was my

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husband as he talked with his friend that he didn’t notice the dog following him and went away without even looking back. Not heeding my sister-in-law’s repeated summons, the dog just glanced back at her and then kept following my husband. Finally, my husband hurled a stone at it and chased it away. I felt so sorry for the dog as it came tottering back, shooed away by its master, that I wanted to hug it and weep from my heart. After my husband disappeared into the spaces between the many houses, I hurried back home, for fear my mother-in-law would be looking for me, all the while feeling choked and heavy at heart. Although the empty house was in total disarray, I did not feel like doing anything. I went into my room and sat there vacantly, as if bereft of my senses, when I heard my mother-in-law’s yell, “You! Where have you been? Don’t you even know how to tidy up this mess all over the house?” Startled back to my senses, I sprang to my feet and went through the motions of putting things in order; then I returned to my room, only to lose myself in thoughts of my husband. I felt very fortunate that it was winter, because I could close the door and, with no one peeking in to see whether I was working or sleeping, could sit idly and give full reign to thoughts of my husband. I drew a picture of my life all the way from our early days of marriage to the time when he would graduate, establish himself socially, and gain full economic independence so that I could make a beautiful new home. Then, returning to the present, my soul would follow him aboard trains and ships, crossing waters and climbing mountains. As I lay listless, without desire to eat, work, or even move around, I hoped my soul could continue to travel along with my husband, unimpeded by obstacles. But to my chagrin, I was unable to remain free of interruption because my mother-in-law constantly stirred things up, and I had also to fix meals for many other family members. As you know, once your soul wanders off, your body cannot carry on its work properly. My mother-in-law scolded me several times a day for not sewing my parents-in-law’s clothes in time or for not seasoning side dishes tastily. On occasions when I broke dishes, I secretly dumped them into the stream to keep my mother-in-law from finding the broken pieces. In those days, my husband was the center of my life. Whether I was awake or asleep, working or resting, my mind was filled with nothing but thoughts of him.

[3]

When I happened to cook my husband’s favorite dishes, anxious thoughts about him rose up. When it grew cold in winter, I worried about his suffering from the cold in a foreign country. When it rained in summer,

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I wondered whether he would have trouble getting to school, even though I knew very well that the weather hundreds of miles away in distant Japan could never be the same as it was at home. His friends’ visits to our home unbearably deepened my yearning for him. Whenever I came upon his clothes while putting the chest of drawers in order, it would make me happy to stroke them over and over. My ears would perk up at the sound of the words “studying in Japan,” and for no reason I would get excited about any visitor who had been to Japan, trying to peep at the person through a small opening in the door. And I was anxious to find out whether my husband’s parents had sent money to him and answered his other requests. I used to stay up all night thinking of him and finally fall asleep around dawn, only to be awakened by my mother-in-law. I was put to work all day long like a donkey working a millstone, whipped by my mother-in-law’s scolding and stabbed by her scowls. Outwardly I did all I could to obey her and plugged away. No matter how physically draining and painful the chores were to me, I never once lay down to take a rest. But if I was just a little slow in answering her call, my mother-in-law would kick up a fuss, lashing out at me by saying that I had become spoiled in my husband’s absence. I became fed up with her saying, “Young things these days think that a husband and wife have to tag along all the time. When we were young, we faithfully served our in-laws and kept house well, even if our husbands had gone far away to the countryside on official duty and even if they left home to live with their concubines for scores of years.” Ah, my friend! How can I tell you all the miserable stories about my married life in my in-laws’ home? A whole bagful of millet wouldn’t be enough to count them. You won’t be able to imagine my sufferings at the time—what with my heart restless from longing for my husband, and my body worn out from work, and my spirit racked by my mother-in-law. My body, frail enough to begin with, withered like a chrysanthemum leaf nipped by frost. Yet my husband’s letters gave me fresh joy and energy amidst such pain. Since I was living with his parents, he couldn’t send his letters directly to me, and he used to put them in envelopes addressed to his younger sister. She used to hand the letter to me with a sneer on her face, snickering, “I’ve brought something you’ll like.” I would receive the letter from her and, out of embarrassment, set it unopened beside my sewing basket until she left after a few moments of heartless banter. Then I would immediately tear the letter open. My husband loved literature and was a talented writer, so his letters were always endearing, interesting, and gracious. He recorded every detail of his daily routine and described the places he had visited, leaving nothing out. At the time, I thought no one in this world could be as affectionate and skilled in

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writing as he was. His letters, like the one below, gave me the greatest strength and courage at that time.

[4]

“My dear wife! What can I possibly say to you, who work your fingers to the bone serving my parents and siblings, who have no understanding or sympathy for you? Should I say I’m sorry, or should I say I’m grateful? All I can say is that it’s for your sake that I keep studying and cultivating my mind. My beloved wife! Please don’t laugh at me, but when I really miss you, I often think I should stop studying just for a few days and . . . You should understand that, if in nothing else, I can at least match you in self-sacrifice. And I’d like you to remember that your letters are living water in my dreary life.” At that time, were it not for his letters three or four times a week, I might have either strangled myself or thrown myself into the river. If his letter failed to arrive on the expected day, I would naturally become very dejected. So during my husband’s absence, my feelings of hope or despair, happiness or sadness, depended on his letters. In the summer he used to return home, and although his stay was short, those days and nights were our sweetest and happiest. When I had him put on the Korean clothes I had sewn with all my heart, he stroked them gently, saying they felt cool and comfortable on him. It was no small joy for me, too, to watch him appreciate and enjoy the cookies and fruits I had saved for him. During such summer vacations, there were times when we stood together under the zelkova tree in the backyard or climbed up on it to talk through the night about our love—the tree on which I used to climb alone to heave such yearning sighs for our good olden days together. The fine gifts my husband brought me from Japan were hidden away one by one in my chest of drawers, kept secret from my mother-in-law and sister-in-law. Even at that time, I heard now and then how some of his friends had divorced their wives without warning, rejecting them as old-fashioned. But I said to myself, “There must be good reason for it. Who knows what may have gone wrong between husband and wife?” In any case, I never doubted that, even if the whole world were shattered by acts of betrayal, my husband would remain faithful, and I never tried to pry into his life. He told me how all his friends seemed to have eyes for girl students, but added emphatically that he had never felt any attraction toward such girls, as they were vain, conceited, empty-headed, and impatient. He also said that even though I had not received a modern education, I had as much intelligence and understanding as those girls. And he seemed perfectly satis-

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fied with me, as if I were the sole object of his love. So my relatives praised him for his good behavior, and I became the envy of my friends. Can you imagine how happy I was with my husband and how grateful I felt toward him? In order to become worthy of his love, I looked after and served my unappreciative in-laws to my utmost. That wasn’t all. I bought school textbooks and studied them diligently at every spare minute in order to understand my husband just a little better. Although I endured quite a lot at my in-laws’ home, for two years I managed to cope, full of hope even while under enormous strain. Who, however, could have foreseen such a turnabout? I had been impatient for the joy of my husband’s glorious return home after graduation, wishing a month would pass as quickly as a day, and a year as quickly as a month. Yet even before his long-awaited graduation day arrived, a piece of shocking news was passed on to me like a death sentence. As the saying goes, “Even a tower built over ten years crumbles in one morning”; my hard work over six, seven years of marriage was shattered to pieces overnight.

[5]

My friend! I haven’t written you for a long time. My life and way of thinking have completely changed now. Looking back, I find my story written down for you earlier totally unworthy of such long and tedious elaboration. But I’ll go on and wrap it up. Compounding my misery, I was eight months pregnant at that time. I felt heavy and painful, all the more sensitive to my long suffering at the hands of my in-laws. I got very irritable and often struggled to calm myself while standing in a kitchen corner, tearing at my hair. While all others were fast asleep, I spent many a night alone in my bed, weeping bitterly and writhing in pain that stung every joint in my body. Moreover, I had to smother in silent tears the agony of my intense cravings for certain foods. Yet I held on to that single hope of eventual reunion with my husband. For some reason, however, he didn’t write to me for several months. All sorts of thoughts crossed my mind, but I waited every day in the belief that his letter would arrive in a day or two. The much-awaited letter did arrive in the end. But it was the exact opposite of what his letters used to say. It was a notice of divorce, so to speak. Who could possibly measure the shock and grief I felt, especially at a time when I was a nervous wreck inside and out? It seems incredible that I didn’t pass out at that very moment. The letter ran roughly as follows: As his parents had coerced him into

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marrying me, he was not responsible for our marriage; he had stayed married to me up to that point, pressured by social conventions and moved by pity for me; he’d appreciate it if I decided the future course of my life by myself, leaving him out of it. Soon I heard rumors he was carrying on with an older spinster, a student in Japan, sweet-talking her, telling her I was a wife in name only, that he had anguished from the beginning over his inability to love me, and that after meeting her he had finally come to know what real love was. I also heard that the woman regarded me as an ignorant, stupid, and insensible wife just because I hadn’t received a modern education. Indignation and resentment engulfed me, but I clenched my teeth and pulled myself together. Once I was awakened to the ways of the world and understood the fickleness of the human heart, I knew I couldn’t waste even a minute in hesitation. I hit upon a scheme of writing a letter to him that would outwit his: I clearly understand the meaning of your letter. I’m glad that you beat me to it. I have long grieved at the misfortune of my extraordinary suffering caused by a miserable married life with you, who are not my ideal type of a husband. Yet being a woman, I couldn’t release myself from this wretched bond. I will send you the child upon its birth, regardless of whether it is a boy or a girl, as I believe the responsibility of raising the child would hamper my effort to make my own way through life. But please remind the child that there is another person who wishes its happiness more than anyone else in this world. Good-bye. Yours, Im Sunsil, June 18th.

[6]

At first, I intended to take the time to pack for travel and leave my husband’s house. Ironically, the persistent persuasion on the part of my inlaws—who valued keeping up appearances more than moral principles or kindness—that they’d keep me drove me to leave their house without preparations and to return immediately to my parents’ home. My friend! When you hear about this action on my part, you may wonder whether I really loved my husband. But the fact of the matter is that, no matter how much pain I felt in my heart, I could never bring myself to beg him for love and humiliate myself. Of course, my parents made a great fuss about me as if some major disaster had happened, but I explained everything to them in detail, quietly and coolly recounting what had happened. I also told them I

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had made up my mind to go to school after giving birth. My father gave me a long lecture on the old rules of propriety and morality and tried to drive into me the stern message that a woman who left her marriage was totally ruined and without future. But to me, who was so determined, his words meant little. Besides, my mother, although aged and old-fashioned, was rather accommodating and even possessed a measure of understanding. She soundly told my father off: “Even though she is our only child, you refused to send her to school and, while claiming to give her an education yourself, ended up giving her away in marriage without a second thought. Are you still against her going to school?” Thanks to my mother, I managed to go to school. That was already three years ago. I will be graduating this coming spring. My dogged perseverance helped me get high marks. Now, I make little of my ex-husband or my life in my former in-laws’ home, which seems as unreal as a dream. However, whenever I hear about my child, I get a lump in my throat. He is now four years old, and I hear that he is bright, good-looking, and quick at words. Sometimes I miss him so much that I feel like sneaking up to the gate of my ex-husband’s house to steal a quick look at him, but I control myself. I guess the human heart is such that if I were to see my child once, I would want to see him again, and then more and more often, until I would want to have him with me for good. Then I would have to reestablish connections with the child’s father, which would completely destroy my self-respect and character. I can never sacrifice my whole life for the love of my child. I cannot allow myself to get mixed up with my child’s life and be thrown into confusion. Of course, parents are expected to raise and educate their children to become fine human beings. But as long as the child’s other parent—his father—can bring him up well, I don’t want to subject myself to indignity by undertaking the task of raising him just because he is my child. Therefore, when the child grows up and seeks his mother, I will see him, but if he does not, so be it.

[7]

Although my decisions were correct in that they were made to protect my pride and personal honor, secretly I have been in deep agony for the past few years through seasonal changes and events. My friend, I trust that you’ve already grasped my meaning by reading my letter. To be frank, when I first wrote you, I still had lingering feelings for my husband. That’s why I spun out such a meandering story about my warm and happy times with him. But once I’d come to regard them as some fleeting dream, I couldn’t work up any interest to write you again and so have kept silent for quite some time.

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Anyway, as I now look back, my ex-husband wasn’t the ideal man for me. He was weak and spineless. Although he liked women, he did not treat them with respect, and he had no understanding of the fidelity required of a man married to a respectable woman, no matter what. The love I had for him was at first merely fondness for a man who treated me nicely—a natural feeling of a woman who hadn’t had much contact with the opposite sex and had married blindly on her parents’ order. Soon after I left him, he sent me a letter of apology, pleading with me to come back. Last fall, however, he sent messengers, and then he himself called on me a few times to beg for reconciliation. Each time I treated him nicely and then turned him down with good grace. Thereafter he kept sending me letters with the same message—I don’t remember how many times—but I left them unanswered, as I didn’t even feel like writing back to him. He pestered me so much that finally I wrote to him something like, “Do you think that I’m like an idiotic and frivolous plaything that comes and goes at your beck and call? Do you think I am a half-witted woman who melts into smiles every time her husband fondles her hands, even after he’s run around with a lot of women and mistreated her for many years? I am no such slavish woman that abjectly submits to her heartless husband’s abuse and beating, single-mindedly sticking it out till death. I think it’s foolish for you to expect me to return to you, who know full well that I hate indignity more than dying ten times over.” Thereafter he couldn’t directly send me messages, and I heard rumors that he was very much in distress. In any event, his problem is none of my concern. Now that I have escaped from a life of cruel slavery, I have the choice to be a full human being, leading a worthy and meaningful life. And I am going to look for a person who will take me as such. [First published in Tonga ilbo (Tonga daily), June 19–26, 1926]

Analysis of “Awakening” Kim Wŏn-ju’s final piece of fiction with a feminist agenda, “Awakening” (Chagak; 1926), is a memoir in miniature of its female protagonist. Presented in epistolary format, the narrative consists of undated letters from a young divorced woman to her unidentified female friend concerning her married life and its demise. As the opening sentence indicates, the heroine, Im Sunsil, is at first reluctant to divulge her painful experiences. But goaded by her friend, who remains a silent listener throughout, the narrator pro-

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ceeds to unburden her heart. She reveals the intimate details of her conjugal life: a couple’s mutual affection, the anguish of separation caused by the husband’s departure to study in Japan, the difficulty of life with her in-laws during his absence, the joy of the temporary reunion during her husband’s summer vacation, her high hopes for a permanent reunion at the end of her husband’s schooling, and the destruction of her dreams by her husband’s infidelity. These revelations constitute the deepest secrets of her life, something she could reveal only to a trustworthy and understanding friend, and without fear of judgment or rejection. In this sense, “Awakening” is an example of first-person confessional fiction. The main point of “Awakening” is to show how even a kuyŏsŏng (tradition-bound woman) placed in an adverse situation can transform herself into a sinyŏsŏng and lead a life with a new self-image and purpose, overcoming indignity and humiliation. The key to this metamorphosis is education, which empowers women to reconstruct themselves, retrieve self-esteem and dignity, and in the end, pursue an independent life of their own design. In presenting this portrayal of the protagonist’s success in self-reinvention, the story emphasizes women’s awakening to the ills of their condition, accompanied by their will and courage to correct them. That is, the birth of a new woman is a matter of inner change—not merely the surface changes often wrongfully equated with sinyŏsŏng. In close thematic parallel with Na Hyesŏk’s “Kyŏnghŭi,” “Awakening” thus represents a revision of traditional womanhood and a lesson on how a real new woman is made. “Awakening” basically adopts the classic romance formula of a woman’s fate going from happiness to tragedy. For a few years, the heroine enjoys a life of mutual love with her husband, placing complete trust in him. But the husband goes astray and in the end divorces her without even providing her with any means of living. The main thrust of “Awakening,” however, comes from a spin that is added at the end of this often-recycled setup: the jilted wife, rather than wallowing in her misery, picks up the pieces and succeeds in reclaiming her own life—the best vindication possible. This strategic narrative ending subverts the customary views of women as victims. Within this revisionist narrative framework, “Awakening” sustains critical feminist discourses that address the realities of contemporary Korean women. The story condemns Korean society’s gender asymmetry; oppressive role expectations of women; the hierarchically arranged family, with its focus on male sexual privilege and irresponsibility; the victimization of the daughterin-law by members of her husband’s family, the mother-in-law in particular; and prejudice against divorce, as testified by the suffering of the near-perfect heroine as wife and daughter-in-law. The heroine’s success in overcoming

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these formidable social obstacles demonstrates the possibility of eliminating such gender ideologies and practices—most of all, by women themselves. In the history of Korean literature, “Awakening” is the first work about a divorced woman’s self-validation addressed from the woman’s perspective. What makes the story believable and appealing may stem from the heroine’s initial resolve not to disclose her story, even to her friend. Her reserve serves as an indication of her judiciousness and discretion and leads the reader to trust what she has to say. In addition, her laudable qualities—most notably, her unwavering devotion to her husband and his family despite the odds against her—highlight the unfairness of her treatment, justifying her decision to leave her marriage. Such character traits of the heroine also authenticate her story, even though the narrative is rendered solely through the protagonist’s one-sided perceptions and interpretations. Likewise, the narrator’s precision in describing the fine shades of her emotions not only ensures the truthfulness of her account but also underscores her intelligence. The narrative’s treatment of time is also worth noting. The story opens with the heroine’s letter written around the time of her husband’s infidelity—somewhere about the sixth or seventh year of her marriage. At the time, the heroine is expectant with her first child. Then the heroine stops writing to her friend. When she resumes her communication, she retraces her life since her last correspondence, bringing it up to the present, with her son now four years old and her graduation forthcoming. This makes the short story an autobiographical reminiscence, recounted from the vantage point of a present in which the narrator has undergone a total self-transformation through education. At the same time, this temporal lapse functions to distance the narrator from her agonizing pains and helps lend objectivity and detachment to the essential truths she wishes to communicate to her implied audience. Furthermore, the epistolary narrative structure and the foreshadowing technique (the husband’s mistreatment of the dog and his inflated vows of fidelity) make “Awakening” a well-crafted piece of fiction.5

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Four

Hydrangeas (1949) Han Mu-suk

Han Mu-suk (also spelled Hahn Moo-Sook; 1918– 1993) came from a family belonging to Korea’s modern-educated class, which produced elites highly knowledgeable in Western thought and culture. Han’s enlightened, Western-oriented, and well-to-do family environment favorably affected her personal development from childhood into young adulthood. Given the Confucian-dominant, conservative milieu of her society, Han’s progressive and nurturing upbringing and extensive exposure to a wide variety of educational and cultural opportunities were exceptional and contributed to her later literary development into a well-informed and productive writer. Han’s artistic talent was discovered when she was young, and her parents provided her years of private lessons in Western painting. She graduated from Pusan Girls’ High School, and at age nineteen she was given the privilege of illustrating the text of Millim (The jungle, part 2; 1937–1938), a novel by Kim Mal-bong (1901–1962), which was serialized in the newspaper Tonga ilbo. However, Han’s ill health from her early years cut short her budding career as a painter and ended her formal education at the high school level. Yet during her confinement at home due to poor health, Han devoured the Western literary masterpieces of her family’s well-stocked library, reading such authors as Anton Chekhov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Leo Tolstoy, Thomas Mann, André Gide, Maksim Gorky, and Nikolay Gogol—mostly in Japanese translation. She also taught herself how to write stories. The basis of Han’s literary career—her second vocational choice—was thus fortuitously formed through her struggle against illness and even death. In 1942, during the Japanese occupation, Han, by then the mother of an infant and the daughter-in-law of an extended conservative Confucian

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family, made her debut as an author with her first novel, written in Japanese, Tomoshibi o motsu hito (The woman carrying a lamp), which won first prize in a magazine competition.1 Her postliberation literary breakthrough came when her second novel, Yŏksa nŭn hŭrŭnda (And so flows history; 1948), won another competition.2 A long, winding saga, the novel maps out the fates of highborn Korean families intertwined with those of their lower-class servants amidst political and social turbulence from the late nineteenth century to Korean liberation. Han’s acute historical consciousness, clearly demonstrated in And So Flows History, compelled her to examine the intricate relationship between the unfolding of Korean society and the destinies of individuals and became the leitmotif of her corpus. Han’s short stories and novels often deal with characters and situations involving Korean classical or traditional aesthetics, modes of thinking, and practices—particularly as they related to women. Well-known examples are “Yusuam” (The running water hermitage; 1963), “Yi Sajong ŭi anae” (The wife of Yi Sajong; 1978), and “Saeng’in son” (The boil at the fingertip; 1981). Yet works such as her novel Sŏngnyu namujip iyagi (The tale of the house with pomegranate trees; 1964) also serve as carefully wrought and consistent testimonies to Han’s eclectic vision to accommodate elements of modern Western culture within the framework of Korean traditional culture. Spanning more than four decades, Han’s creativity flourished well into the 1980s, culminating with her last novel, Mannam (Encounter; 1986). Another family epic, involving Chŏng Yag-yong (1762–1836; pen name, Tasan) of the Chosŏn dynasty, the greatest scholar of Practical Learning, Encounter delves into the complexity and far-reaching tragic impact of the Catholic persecution of Chosŏn intellectuals in the nineteenth century. In 1992–1993, a tenvolume collection of Han’s work, ranging from novels and travelogues to essays, lectures, and interviews, was published, showcasing her lifelong literary accomplishments and versatility. It is illuminating, however, that Han Mu-suk never ceased to cultivate her first love, painting, as is evident in her three personal exhibitions in 1976, 1985, and 1990. Some of the most distinguished awards Han received include the Grand Prix of the Republic of Korea Literature Award (1986), the Samil Culture Award (1989), and the Korean Academy of Arts Prize for Literature (1991). While raising five children, Han served as president and representative of Korean literary organizations, such as the Korean Association of Women Writers and the Korean PEN Club, and also lectured on Korean literature during her extensive overseas travels later in life.3

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Hydrangeas “Oh dear! I’m really sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Myŏnghŭi to her friend Chŏngsun with genuine sincerity, not for mere form’s sake. She was having a busy day. She kept giving orders to the maid: “Suni’s Mom, would you put the meat and fish into separate wicker baskets, and trim and wash the vegetables? Oh, pour the flour into a glass jar so it won’t spill, please.” Then she changed into a Korean-style blouse of white calico and, letting out a deep sigh of relief, sat down to face Chŏngsun. “I had to shop around for quite some time in the market, trying to find shrimp,” Myŏnghŭi said, with a delicate frown on her flushed face. “What an adorable wife! A devoted wife, always cheerful and lovely!” A flash of admiration for Myŏnghŭi passed through Chŏngsun’s mind. “Right! Fried shrimp is a favorite dish of your husband’s, isn’t it? You are truly a wise wife,” Chŏngsun said with a laugh. Then, turning her eyes toward the garden, she said, “Your hydrangeas are gorgeous.” “Aren’t they? They’re the pride of our house.” Myŏnghŭi took her apron off the hook, tied it around her slender waist, and turned toward her friend. “You know, I put ten years’ effort into them.” “Ten years?” “That’s right. Today is our tenth wedding anniversary, and that means the hydrangeas have been with us exactly ten years.” “Has it been that long already? Myŏnghŭi, but you haven’t changed at all— still a sweet, young wife!” Gently brushing her friend’s arm off her shoulder, Myŏnghŭi said, “You silly . . . ,” and blushed like a young girl. She had such clear and transparent skin that it seemed as if even the slightest agitation in her heart would show through. “I wonder why newlyweds would choose a hydrangea as the first flower to bring into their home,” Chŏngsun said. “What’s wrong with that?” Myŏnghŭi asked. “You do know the meaning of the hydrangea, don’t you?” “Ah, you mean fickleness?” “Uh-huh.” “The hydrangea may have such a reputation because its flowers change colors, but I don’t agree. Look at its large and dignified leaves, its charming

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clusters of flowers billowing up like clouds, and its subtle shades of color. It’s hardly glamorous, but it keeps our garden alive throughout the summer—just like a devoted housewife.” “Well . . .” “I think the change in color is only a natural process and has nothing to do with fickleness.” The maid called out from the wash area, “I’m finished with the washing, ma’am!” “Okay. Please take it into the kitchen. We will be there shortly,” Myŏnghŭi shouted back. She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only eleven in the morning. “We’ve got plenty of time. The party begins at seven.” “May I ask who your guests are?” “Mr. Kim Chŏngmok, the police chief, and his wife; Dr. Yu Hŭiguk, the pediatrician, and his wife; Mr. Sim T’aehun, the draper, and his wife; and Mr. Chang Myŏngsik, the middle-school teacher, and his wife. All of them are my husband’s old hometown friends from primary school days.” “Are you expecting them all to come?” “Yes, of course. Among these guests, we were the last couple to marry. When we did, his friends in Seoul got together and threw us a party.” “I bet today means a lot to you. Are tonight’s guests all from that group?” “Uh-huh, except for Dr. Yu Hŭiguk. He got divorced and remarried last year, I heard.” The maid called out again, “Ma’am, I’ve cleaned the vegetables and put them in the kitchen!” The two friends went down to the kitchen. Myŏnghŭi’s menu was colorful. For the warm dish, she had prepared a hot pot in which a variety of ingredients were carefully arranged in a beautiful color scheme. Then there was a sea bream, steamed whole and decorated with various garnishes, along with seasoned and steamed beef ribs, shrimp gratin, and sweet-and-sour pork. Cold dishes included a salad served on fresh green lettuce leaves, sliced boiled beef and boiled pork, and calf ’s-foot jelly. As for fruits, there were cream-colored peaches in a lavender cut-glass bowl that complemented them in color, as well as red strawberries on a snowwhite china plate. The fresh, sweet soft drink tasted like an early summer evening. Myŏnghŭi was blissfully picturing her dinner party, complete with this feast that would elegantly satisfy the appetites of her guests, seated around the candlelit dinner table covered with a white tablecloth. She brimmed with happiness. Myŏnghŭi had a loving and successful husband. Dignified and trustworthy, he was a smart businessman yet a gentle husband. And he and Myŏnghŭi

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were parents of adorable children. Their oldest son, eight-year-old Hyŏk, was gifted in science, according to his homeroom teacher. Nothing escaped his eyes, and he was inquisitive and studious. Six-year-old Ina was a promising beauty—lovely like a doll—and her voice was as fine and pleasing as the tinkling of a silver bell. Chin, the youngest, was a rascal, an adored tyrant. Myŏnghŭi always had plenty to report about her children to her husband when he returned home late at night from work. “Hyŏk got a perfect score in math today”; “Chin mispronounced ‘bad’ as ‘busy’”; “A painter passing by on the street asked if he could use Ina as his model”; and so forth. Myŏnghŭi’s husband would smile or burst into laughter as he changed his clothes. Such exchanges were the sources of their happiness. Myŏnghŭi’s husband, Kang Minho, was the president of a large flour mill company, and the family was well-off. Although the couple had been married for ten years, they had never been bored with their life together. They were a couple who, shored up by mutual understanding and enthusiasm, were solidly united in their will to be successful in life and blessed with happiness. Myŏnghŭi had once had dreams of love and marriage as lofty as the next person’s, but in the end married passively, like a doll. She had felt neither love for Kang Minho nor held any special opinion of him. She simply surrendered herself to fate, eyes closed, because as a daughter she hadn’t the courage to go against her parents’ will. Kang Minho was but a poor, ordinary young man, and she could hardly understand what it was that her father, a man of considerable social position, saw in his future son-in-law. Soon after her marriage, Myŏnghŭi’s greatest disillusion was her husband’s insensitivity. He was too rough-hewn. Unable to understand the delicacy of a woman’s deep, hidden emotions, he couldn’t strike the right chord in Myŏnghŭi’s heart. Focused only on concrete action, he was continually destroying the dreams of his romantically bent wife. In due course, she abandoned her dreams, regarded herself as an “unhappy wife,” and found in this label a bittersweet consolation. One day about three months into their marriage, Myŏnghŭi was giving a brushing to a suit her husband had taken off. Casual by nature, he had a habit of stuffing his pockets with things, which ruined the shape of his suit and irritated Myŏnghŭi. As she went through the pockets, she discovered a bunch of newspaper scraps. Casually unfolding them, thinking they were mere wastepaper, she noticed they were all advertisements for medicine for stomach disorders. She was thunderstruck. Medicine ads for stomach trouble! Her husband was paying attention to the newspaper ads out of concern for his mother, who had long been suffering from stomach ailments. It never occurred to Myŏnghŭi that her husband, whom she had thought insensitive,

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brusque, and self-centered, was so devoted to his mother and had such a delicate, caring side. Myŏnghŭi felt ashamed. She recognized her own shallowness that led her to self-pity whenever she’d heard people say, “The new bride is so lovely, but her husband is so unrefined!” That night, and for the first time in her married life, Myŏnghŭi finally felt happiness in her husband’s embrace. Even when in needy circumstances, Myŏnghŭi and her husband kept peace with one another, and they never lost hope in the midst of numerous setbacks. Life might be a game played by its creator, but it was also a onetime chance for everyone to experiment. Myŏnghŭi and her husband were determined to put up a good fight and overcome life’s difficulties. Their goal to secure stability was very ordinary, perhaps even trivial, but they sought to find the value of their lives in the quest for this goal. Their life’s course was anything but smooth, but behind the figure of her husband were Myŏnghŭi’s self-effacing wifely devotion, hard work, and love. Most of all, there was her complete trust in her husband. Now that he had attained social recognition as a successful man, Myŏnghŭi sometimes felt apprehensive of the great happiness she was enjoying. It is true that one of life’s joys for a married couple is to live in mutual respect and understanding in a fine, well-kept home, tastefully and handsomely decorated, and to enjoy watching their precious children grow. Myŏnghŭi and her husband were still young and accordingly had high hopes. “Oh my, since when have you collected so many plates?” asked Chŏngsun, looking wide-eyed into the cupboard she’d opened. She felt proud at the growing stock of Myŏnghŭi’s household goods, for she had loved Myŏnghŭi like a younger sister ever since their high school days. To Chŏngsun, Myŏnghŭi was too artless and innocent to be the object of jealousy, and her love for Myŏnghŭi was too great to allow envy. In fact, married during the most trying war years at the end of the Japanese occupation, Myŏnghŭi and her husband had begun their life together with little more than a pot, a cooking brazier, and a handful of bowls, and it took a lot for Myŏnghŭi to acquire even these kitchen wares. Each and every one of the utensils bore traces of a frugal wife’s sweat and devotion. For her, every single coffee cup, soup bowl, and piece of cut glass was fraught with memories. They were Myŏnghŭi’s treasures. “You know what? Once in a while when I break one of them, I feel a real physical pain, as if I’d cut my own flesh,” Myŏnghŭi said with a laugh. As Chŏngsun watched Myŏnghŭi’s nimble fingers wield the knife, she felt anew that those hands were much older and rougher than Myŏnghŭi’s face. Myŏnghŭi suddenly smiled to herself as if she had remembered something, and asked Chŏngsun, “Would you like to hear a story?”

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“One evening during the Pacific War,” Myŏnghŭi began, “the group coming tonight was gathered in our house. As you well know, that’s when the blackout was in force. Our guests drew the air-raid curtains together and shaded the electric bulb with a black cloth as if they were holding a secret meeting, and they began to have drinks. In between serving the guests, I sat knitting in the inner room. Suddenly I smelled something burning. I looked around and noticed that the guest room was filled with thick smoke. Wondering what was going on, I rushed over and found that the black cloth placed over the electric bulb had caught fire. “A commotion broke out. The guests panicked and kicked up a row, but didn’t do a thing to put out the fire. Finally, my husband pulled the burning electrical cord from the outlet and hurled it out into the yard. By that time the drinking party turned into pandemonium. “After I cleaned up the drinking table and lighted candles, the group resumed its partying. Then Mr. Kim Chŏngmok said, ‘Look, we shouldn’t be so careless. The whole point of covering the electric bulb is to avoid air raids and fire.’ “Thereupon Mr. Sim T’aehun, feeling bad about the burned cloth, said, ‘It’s terrible! These days it’s so hard to get fabric.’ “Then Dr. Yu Hŭiguk turned to me and said, ‘Mrs. Kang, you must’ve been frightened.’ “Then Mr. Chang Myŏngsik chimed in with ‘What’s all this fuss over nothing! Come on, bottoms up!’ and filled the wine cups.” Myŏnghŭi laughed softly and said, “When I later recalled what everyone had said, I was amazed how much casual remarks can reveal people’s personalities.” “Is Dr. Yu Hŭiguk the pediatrician who got divorced?” “Uh-huh. I’m rather puzzled. He was a feminist and loved his wife very much.” “There must be some reason, though.” “We thought his wife was a fine person too.” “Well, it’s not always personal failings that cause such misfortune, you know. Married couples break up simply out of change of heart,” Chŏngsun said, sighing. Chŏngsun was fully aware of her husband’s affair with the kisaeng Ch’uwŏl. When Chŏngsun realized that she, as his wife, was still under his control, she shuddered with humiliation, as if she herself had been defiled. She had thought many times about leaving such a loathsome marital relationship, but to her despair, it was not so much a matter of courage as one of power. When she tried to realistically picture herself standing on her own without her husband’s protection, she saw only a helpless woman with absolutely no

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means of supporting herself. Moreover, concern for her children stood in the way of her desire to sever her conjugal ties completely, however rotten those ties were. Myŏnghŭi stopped her egg-beating and, glancing at her friend’s face, said, “I wonder who would want to get married when the wife’s position is so insecure and powerless.” “Even so, that’s the reality, and what can you do?” Chŏngsun snapped back, adding, “Do you remember Yi Myŏng’ok? You know—the girl famous for her passionate marriage for love. I heard she got divorced recently.” “You don’t say! Are you sure?” “I didn’t believe it either at first.” “Unbelievable.” “That’s why it’s so incredible. Basically men are wild, and what’s worse, these days they have too many chances to meet other women.” “Why do you see everything so cynically?” “You see, husbands with wives like you won’t ever go astray, but I think women are born temptresses, no matter who they are.” “That’s going too far!” “Why, it’s true! I once played silly games myself. You see, women get cruel pleasure from tempting men.” “Do you mean it?” “Oh yes. In my younger days, my mother had a Mister Right in mind for me. Since I already had a boyfriend—who later became my husband—I had no intention of marrying the fellow. But because of the pressure, I was obliged to have a blind date with him. I put on elaborate, eye-catching makeup and went out to see him.” “How could you!” “The fellow fell for me.” “Ha, ha! How funny!” Chŏngsun didn’t laugh. Instead she kept skinning the green onions—needlessly roughly. Chŏngsun had learned from the fellow’s younger sister, whom she got to know by chance, that he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Thereafter Chŏngsun felt pangs about the man, of whom she had almost made a fool. Chŏngsun regarded it as an ironic trick of fate that she, a wretched wife who had lost her husband’s love to a mere kisaeng, still remained alive in another man’s heart as his eternal love. “Isn’t it true then that the beauty of eternal love lives only in parting?” Chŏngsun felt warm tears welling up in her eyes. “Mom! Mom!” Hyŏk and Ina rushed in. At the same time, Chin waved his arms and cried out, “Mommy, mommy!” as he was carried in on the back of

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his nursemaid. Myŏnghŭi handed each child a peach and kissed Chin on his forehead. “My beloved children!” A smile, like that of a spoiled girl’s, floated across Myŏnghŭi’s lips. For the evening party, Myŏnghŭi had made plans. In place of an opening speech, her family would join in singing “Home, Sweet Home.” She thought there was nothing improper in showing off her happy family to her husband’s close friends. As she recalled how much she had both laughed and labored as she tried to teach the song’s melody to her tone-deaf husband, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. “Ding, ding, ding—” The heavy-looking clock on the hallway wall gently struck six o’clock. All the cold foods were neatly arranged on the plates, while steam rose from the hot pots, awaiting the guests’ arrival. Myŏnghŭi gathered her children together and bustled about washing and dressing them. After freshening herself up, she began her own careful grooming. She rouged her cheeks—a dash more thickly than usual—penciled her eyebrows carefully, and then applied heavy lipstick. She put on a Korean dress made of cream-colored lace, slipped an Alexandria amethyst ring on her finger to match her dress, and tucked a spray of lavender lilac into her glossy hair. “You are exquisite! You look as pure and beautiful as a bride right after her wedding,” exclaimed Chŏngsun in admiration. Myŏnghŭi smiled at Chŏngsun in the mirror and felt a rush of self-satisfaction. The two went to the drawing room. The sweet-scented early summer breeze wafted in through the wide-open windows, carrying the fragrance of acacia and lilac blossoms, and made petals fall from the white roses in the Koryŏ celadon vase on the black piano. On the bookcase, the clock in the shape of Atlas holding up the earth showed ten minutes to seven. The phone rang. Myŏnghŭi picked it up. “Hello, yes, yes. Is it you, honey? Why? Oh dear, that’s too bad! Okay, okay. Then please come home as soon as possible.” A shadow passed over Myŏnghŭi’s face as she put the receiver down. “Was it your husband? Did he say he’d be late?” “Uh-huh. He’ll be a little late because of urgent business.” “Today of all days!” “Well, what can I say?” “Ring!” This time it was the doorbell. Myŏnghŭi rushed out. “How do you do?” “How are you?” Yu Hŭiguk was the first guest to arrive. His voice sounded

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like a gentle embrace. His wife, who was far younger than he, only smiled and bowed her head. “I suppose Chin is doing fine these days?” he said. “Yes, thanks to you.” Myŏnghŭi was close to Yu Hŭiguk, more as her children’s doctor than as her husband’s friend. “I guess no one is here yet.” He sat down on the sofa and looked at the framed calligraphy of Ch’usa on the wall.4 As a medical doctor, Yu Hŭiguk appreciated mothers like Myŏnghŭi, young mothers who paid close attention to their children’s health. The doorbell rang again exactly when the hour hand of the clock pointed to seven. Myŏnghŭi rushed to the hallway. “You see, it’s exactly seven o’clock,” Chang Myŏngsik said proudly as he looked at his wristwatch. Standing beside him, his wife said curtly, “What’s the big deal about being on time, when it’s common sense for educated people to be punctual?” Everyone burst into laughter. Mrs. Chang was a cheerful, funny, hardworking, and entertaining woman, although she was no beauty, with her high cheekbones and thick eyelids. When Chang Myŏngsik was told that Myŏnghŭi’s husband would be a little late, he said, “How come? No host?” Once inside the living room, however, he went on chatting with Dr. Yu Hŭiguk. The knowledgeable Chang Myŏngsik loved to talk and had plenty to say on any number of topics. He explained in detail to Dr. Yu about the accidental discovery of penicillin and stressed that Korean doctors should pay more attention to such mysteries hidden in nature rather than trying to get academic degrees by simply conducting experiments on guinea pigs. Dr. Yu Hŭiguk, every inch a medical doctor, simply listened to his friend’s chatter, with his clean, long fingers clasped, a wry smile floating across his lips. “Look at him! Why, he is teaching the Buddha how to make an offering,” Mrs. Chang Myŏngsik said, laughing and poking Myŏnghŭi in the side. Her remark made even the prim Mrs. Yu smile. The doorbell rang again around seven thirty, and the stout, beardless Sim T’aehun showed up with his wife. Both were dressed in Korean-style clothes. He wore a brand-new ramie overcoat, complete with his trouser cuffs tied with jade-blue bands. His well-groomed wife had on an indigo skirt with a silver-hued blouse accented by ornamental sleeve trimmings. A decorative garnet hairpin peeked out of her hairdo. Sim T’aehun had a habit of agreeing with everyone, saying “Right, right” and bursting into boisterous laughter. Except for Mrs. Chang Myŏngsik, all the other wives were quiet. Mrs. Sim had her silky hair done in a neat chignon with a maroon ribbon twisted into it.

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The young Mrs. Yu let her wavy, permed hair hang loose over her shoulders, without tying it up. She and the simply dressed wife of the middle-school teacher didn’t mix well as the male guests did. The host and last guest were still missing even as it approached eight o’clock. Signs of boredom began to appear on the guests’ faces. Finally a car stopped in front of the gate, followed by the ringing of the doorbell. Myŏnghŭi went outside and greeted Police Chief Kim Chŏngmok, who was surrounded by police guards. He made a hand salute to Myŏnghŭi in a self-possessed manner. His wife, with thick makeup on her finely wrinkled face, clung to him tightly and said in a haughty tone as if she were bestowing a favor rather than making an apology, “We are sorry for being late, but my husband just managed to get away from his work.” Myŏnghŭi felt all the more flustered at her husband’s absence now that all the guests were gathered. Chang Myŏngsik loudly rebuked the host, looking at his watch several times, while Dr. Yu sat silent. The police chief ’s wife grumbled as if someone had slighted her husband: “He barely made it to this party, but . . .” Chŏngsun left for home at eight o’clock, saying that her children were waiting for her. Hyŏk and Ina sat dozing off, dressed in their best outfits and waiting for a chance to sing “Home, Sweet Home” in chorus. Myŏnghŭi became more and more heavyhearted. In fact, she no longer had any desire to sing “Home, Sweet Home,” even had her husband appeared at that very moment. The guests Myŏnghŭi had waited for so eagerly turned out to be no more than cold strangers. The police chief ’s smug wife was humoring her stuck-up husband in an almost servile manner. The schoolteacher’s wife, who had no qualms about snubbing her husband in front of others, irritated Myŏnghŭi. Mrs. Sim, with her classic looks, seemed to be living worlds apart from her husband, and the young Mrs. Yu looked like her husband’s toy. No genuine human interaction seemed to be going on among them. Myŏnghŭi began to yearn for her husband. It was ten past eight. The atmosphere among the guests grew more and more strained. At that moment, a car horn sounded in front of the gate. Myŏnghŭi kicked open the front door and sprinted outside of the gate as if catapulted from a steel spiral. She was too anxious and impatient to wait for her husband to enter the house, and she wanted to throw herself into his bosom without any attention to the others. It was a beautiful evening filled with the fragrance of flowers. Myŏnghŭi went to her husband’s side as he got out of the car, and clung to his arms. “What has kept you so late, honey?” Myŏnghŭi asked tenderly, as she

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looked up at him. But he didn’t answer her. Instead he said, “Won’t you come on in for a while?” “No, I’d rather not,” answered the coquettish voice of a young woman. Myŏnghŭi’s husband turned around and said to Myŏnghŭi, “You know my secretary, Miss Wŏn Chaeok.” Finally the woman in the car bent forward and said to Myŏnghŭi, “How do you do?” Myŏnghŭi suddenly felt tongue-tied and could hardly say hello. But she noticed instantly that the heavily made-up woman in the car was extremely good-looking. A terror ran through Myŏnghŭi as if the ground had opened under her feet. “Why don’t you come in for a short visit?” said her husband gently. “No, thank you,” said the woman, stubbornly refusing his invitation. “Well then, please make sure to phone Mr. Pak regarding those matters, although I’ll come to the office early tomorrow. When Mr. Myŏng calls on me, please ask him to wait.” Myŏnghŭi’s husband gave his secretary instructions on matters Myŏnghŭi didn’t comprehend and then closed the car door for the woman. When Myŏnghŭi was about to enter the house ahead of him, her husband for some reason stopped the car as it pulled away and, clinging to it, whispered something in a low voice. His profile, with his soft-gray hat, his long legs bent, and his jaw cupped in his hand—everything appeared to Myŏnghŭi as though he was saying, “I love you.” The woman in the car suddenly looked up and flashed a smile. Her pretty lips moved slightly. Myŏnghŭi imagined she heard the woman’s soundless voice saying, “I do too.” Myŏnghŭi felt as if a pitch-black darkness were descending upon her. She thought her heart had broken open and its blood was gushing out in torrents. As soon as the car left, her husband turned toward Myŏnghŭi, grinned awkwardly, and then dashed into the house ahead of her. Drained of all her strength, Myŏnghŭi found it difficult to control her body. She stood in the darkness in front of the entrance hall and listened blankly to the increasingly boisterous laughter coming from the living room, as if it were from a totally alien world. “Honey, where are you?” The loud voice of her husband looking for Myŏnghŭi reached her. Myŏnghŭi trembled like a leaf. “I’ve got to get a grip on myself.” Clenching her teeth, Myŏnghŭi went inside. The last drop of strength squeezed out of Myŏnghŭi—a cruelly humiliated and dispirited wife—and propped her up, braced by her wifely pride and

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pathetic bravado. More than anything else, she hated betraying to the guests, there to celebrate her and her husband’s anniversary, her suspicion that her husband might have been cheating on her. Myŏnghŭi entered the drawing room with a soft smile on her face, as if she were joining the guests again after having interrupted her food preparation. Leaning against the back of an armchair, her husband was carrying on, talking and laughing. When laughing, his protruding tooth showed, which added an unexpected attractiveness to his husky build. To Myŏnghŭi, her husband, with whom she had lived for the past ten years, now looked like a stranger she was meeting for the first time. Particularly tonight, he appeared to Myŏnghŭi even more muscular, dignified, and distinguished. Broad-shouldered with a full and well-formed body, long, straight legs, and fine conversational skills— he, in his thirties, seemed to have all the assets of a man in the prime of life. Even his plain-looking face now seemed to have a masculine appeal. As if she were going through a strenuous ascetic practice, Myŏnghŭi put all her effort into serving the guests at the party, which finally came to life. Her head burning intensely as fire, she could not discern one thing from another, and she felt as if her nerves, strained like a thread pulled taut, would snap at the slightest touch. “Is this the so-called jealousy?” Myŏnghŭi wondered, because she had never experienced such a violent emotion before. After all the guests had gone, her husband went straight to bed. Myŏnghŭi sat in front of her dressing table, her heart still pounding. Her thoughts wandered: “Weren’t we the happiest couple among those gathered tonight? Is a wife’s devotion, no matter how great, worthless? Is this the kind of reward for the wife who selflessly sacrificed her youth and beauty for her husband? Is inner beauty of character so powerless, and is demonic external beauty so powerful that it trumps all other virtues?” They say that jealousy stimulates love, but Myŏnghŭi thought that at least she and her husband hadn’t led such a stagnant and perfunctory married life as to require such stimulus. The woman in the car possessed the seductive attractiveness Myŏnghŭi had already lost, the kind that could easily capture a man’s heart—a woman who knew about the business of Myŏnghŭi’s husband and who aided him on matters Myŏnghŭi knew nothing about. Then wasn’t Myŏnghŭi only a hateful obstacle to her husband, blocking his happiness? Myŏnghŭi recalled a comic skit she had seen some while ago in the countryside, performed by a traveling troupe. The entertainers had staged the story of the ugly, bungling, and dull-witted wife of the country farmer

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Pak, who—with her horrid face patched with powder—was madly jealous of her husband’s nimble, deft, and pretty mistress. Myŏnghŭi now wondered, “If a concubine, who is looked down upon with hatred by other people, has such an absolute and bewitching power over Pak, then Pak’s wife—his lawful wife—is simply a ludicrous and worthless being, the object of pitiful smiles. Isn’t she? Then aren’t all men fiends, so cruel and wicked?” Myŏnghŭi gathered that she and her husband would at least avoid an official split, because he wouldn’t go so far as to lose his reason. Yet Myŏnghŭi felt she was too pure to allow her husband to hold her in his arms again, while he was embracing the image of another woman in his heart. But she also knew she didn’t have the courage to leave her marriage, abandoning her lovely children, Chin, Hyŏk, and Ina. Her only hope was that this was all simply a nightmare conjured by her misunderstanding. However, the awkward smile on her husband’s face, which he’d shown her after he sent the car away, was a complicated expression of his conscience-stricken heart that could soon change into hatred. Myŏnghŭi felt that her heart was going to burst. Suddenly her self-respect as a wife, her joy and pride as a mother, became burdensome to her. She stood and opened the window. In the silvery, moonlight-drenched garden, the clouds of hydrangea clusters were wearing pallid smiles, embracing the moonlight. [First published in Hŭimang (Hope), December 1949]

Analysis of “Hydrangeas” In “Hydrangeas” (Suguk; 1949), Han presents a poignant picture of a woman’s midlife crisis, which disturbs her complacency as a full-time upper-middle-class housewife and makes her question her self-identity and the meaning of her life. The shock is occasioned by suspicions about her husband’s relationship with his attractive young secretary. Myŏnghŭi, the protagonist, is a perfect housewife with an enviable social standing and economic security—the rewards of a strong marriage that she believes she and her husband built together with accord. In her opinion, even her children are flawless. The heroine thus personifies the aspirations of middle-class women, while her home represents the realization of the bourgeois dream. Myŏnghŭi’s meticulous preparations for a dinner party are nothing but an effort to show off her impeccable domestic and conjugal bliss, but her inflated hopes are dashed by the shocking discovery of her husband’s interest in some-

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one other than his wife and family. The glamorous secretary represents a new type of woman with membership in the larger business world outside the home, characterizing Myŏnghŭi by contrast as a domesticated, uninformed outsider, excluded from a professional life. The secretary is also an intruder— an insidious threat to Myŏnghŭi’s marriage and family. Most important is that, to Myŏnghŭi, her husband seems to be an accomplice of his secretary, in a liaison that threatens to destroy what Myŏnghŭi has so zealously worked for. She feels betrayed, helpless, and lost in her own world as her self-created “feminine mystique” is mercilessly destroyed, leaving her a tortured woman caught between the sham of her publicly projected happiness and a private nagging sense of failure. The main thrust of “Hydrangeas” is crystallized in the heroine’s epiphany when she realizes the limitations of a selfless homebound life that has abandoned her in a stagnant and constricted domesticity and has potentially put her wifely rights and privileges in jeopardy. In this story Han effectively uses a number of techniques and devices for foreshadowing and for creating an ironic tone. First, the image of the hydrangeas, whose name means “infidelity,” warns of what the heroine will eventually experience, adding poignancy to the twisted turn of events. Repeated references to the song “Home, Sweet Home” also enhance the foreshadowing and irony. Further, the subnarrative of Chŏngsun’s marital trouble functions to bind Myŏnghŭi to the common lot of betrayed wives, while puncturing her hidden superiority over her old friend that largely derives from her false sense of marital bliss. Actually, Myŏnghŭi’s misery is more devastating, as her husband is the only man she has ever known—in mocking contrast to her friend’s unhappiness, for Chŏngsun still has a secret admirer from her youth. Han’s narrative skill is evidenced in her dramatic buildup of tension, which steadily increases during the anticipated but prolonged delay of the arrival of Myŏnghŭi’s husband, until the story reaches its climax with his appearance in the company of his secretary. Then the story is swiftly brought to its denouement, intensifying the crushing emotional impact on the heroine. In addition, Han Mu-suk’s masterful use of conversation, internal musings, and analysis of characters through their physical traits, personal carriage, interactions, and gestures discloses her cast’s temperaments, states of mind, and strengths and weaknesses. The author’s aesthetic sensibility, as revealed by her attention to the minute details of the home, the dinner menu, the table settings, the interior of the house, and even the clothing and accessories of the characters, is a notable quality stemming from Han’s early training in art.

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The Mist (1950) Kang Sin-jae

A Seoul native, Kang Sin-jae (1924–2001) was the eldest child of a medical doctor and a kindergarten teacher. In her early childhood, her father’s job took the family to Ch’ŏngjin, in rugged North Hamgyŏng Province. The cold weather, harsh landscape, and wild seas of the region made a deep impression on the bright and sensitive Kang, who later used such natural scenery as the background in her writings. After her father’s unexpected death when she was a fifth grader, her widowed mother, with four young children in tow, returned to the capital of Seoul for the sake of their education. Kang’s literary talent was discovered by her primary school teachers, who encouraged her creative writing, and in her early teens she won first prize in national student literary competitions. By the time she graduated from Kyŏnggi Girls’ High School and entered Ewha Womans University in 1943, Korea had become a supply base for the Japanese war effort. Though wishing to major in English, Kang was forced to change to home economics because studying English in the war years was considered by university authorities to be cooperating with Japan’s enemies. Kang’s college days were filled with discontent, frustration, and boredom with the Japanese-controlled curriculum and school activities. Reading became her only escape from disillusionment and a way to fill the educational vacuum. Toward the end of 1944, she quit Ewha and married a Korean college student who was drafted into the Japanese army. After liberation, Kang was reunited with her husband, but she had lost her chance to complete her college education. 83

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Kang debuted in 1949 with two short stories, “Ŏlgul” (A face) and “Chŏngsuni” (The girl Chŏngsun). Kang’s primary interest lay in portraying pure love, understanding, and human warmth. The majority of her protagonists—usually sensitive and refined—live in hostile or conflict-ridden circumstances that pose obstacles to their aspirations and pursuit of happiness. Eventually, however, the main characters transform their struggle into one of rare beauty and elegance, even if their lives end in tragedy. Kang also deploys shady and detestable secondary characters to form a contrast to these protagonists and bring out their admirable inner qualities. In presenting her characters, this author displays a refinement in craftsmanship, by maintaining distance and objectivity, and succeeds in creating dramatis personae that remain in control of their emotions and actions. Kang’s signature work is unquestionably “Chŏlmŭn nŭt’i namu” (Young Zelkova; 1960)—a provocative story about a love between a stepbrother (college student) and a stepsister (high school student) living under the same roof. The impact of the story’s innovative view of morality—the relationship was legally (though not biologically) incestuous—on contemporary Korean society led to its being made into a film in 1968. Even today the challenge and popularity of the story continue, as revealed in the extensive academic research on it. Kang’s major works include Imjingang ŭi mindŭlle (Dandelions on the Imjin riverbanks; 1962), a tragic love story of a woman and her family’s hardships set against the backdrop of the Korean War. Another of Kang’s novels, P’ado (Waves; 1963), is an episodic narrative concerning the complicated life stories of a number of people living in a northern port, with a young, rough-hewn but curious and extroverted girl as its unifying focus. The novel reflects a strong regional flavor derived from Kang’s childhood experience in Ch’ŏngjin. In 1974, Kang Sin-jae became the first Korean woman writer to have her works published in a multivolume collection. From the late 1970s, Kang began to turn to the historical genre and produced such serial novels as Sado sejabin (The wife of Prince Sado; 1981, three volumes) and Myŏngsŏng wanghu (Queen Myŏngsŏng; 1991, three volumes). Kang served as president of the Korean Association of Women Writers (1982–1984) and in 1983 became a member of the Korean Republic Academy of Arts and a representative of the Association of Korean Writers. She has received the Association of Korean Writers Award (1959), Women’s Literature Award (1967), the Chung’ang Cultural Grand Prix (1984), the Korean Republic Academy of Arts Award (1988), and the Samil Culture Award (1997).

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The Mist Sŏnghye was sitting at her desk, vacantly facing a wad of money— ninety 100-wŏn notes in mint condition—placed on top of a new issue of the blue-covered magazine in which her story was published. An errand boy from the publisher had delivered the money and the magazine. Sŏnghye received them with wet hands, as she was doing laundry at the public tap-water area. She carefully tucked the magazine under her arm so as not to soil its blue cover and walked all the way home ebullient with pride and joy, her heart beating wildly. Gently biting her lips and quietly smiling to herself, Sŏnghye tried to keep her exhilaration, buoyant like a young girl’s, in check. But after she’d again locked the front gate and returned to the tap-water area to finish her wash, dark clouds had begun to gather and whirl about in her mind. As time passed, she felt her gloom increasing. The story published in the magazine was a product of Sŏnghye’s hard work—the result of untold anguish and dogged perseverance. It also meant her first victory after a long, nerve-racking and lonely struggle. Given that her work had made it into this leading magazine, anticipating the public’s attention—no matter how small it might be—was enough to stir up powerful, inexpressible emotions in Sŏnghye. Her joy was like a warm spring breeze in which she would like to indulge herself, forgetting everything. On top of this, the stack of ninety crisp bills came in so handy to Sŏnghye— a lucky break for her at the moment. For the past two or three years, Sŏnghye and her husband had had no easy way of making money other than taking out their own overcoats, jackets, books, or whatever else they had and pawning them for cash. This payment would give Sŏnghye a timely excuse to escape her unbearable daily routine, sitting, rain or shine, in her dark cubbyhole of a room and sorting out bundles of tangled threads—a paid job brought in by her husband, Hyŏngsik. As the cash payment would make their lives easier for some time, it ought to have brought a glow to Sŏnghye’s face. Instead, as Sŏnghye sat at the desk in her room after finishing her wash, her face grew ever cloudier. The image of Hyŏngsik’s face began to trouble her and wouldn’t ease up. As she pictured the ugly scene that was sure to follow upon Hyŏngsik’s return home, she already felt sick at heart. The thought that she would have to take the trouble to explain herself and apologize for having written stories, and in the end would need to ask his forgiveness, turned her stomach.

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Too late Sŏnghye realized that it was a mistake for her to have done her work surreptitiously behind her husband’s back while he was away from home in order to avoid his snubbing her effort as a waste of time. Her greatest blunder—if one could call it a blunder—was keeping her writing practice a secret from him until now, when her work had come out in print. She had held out thus far, determined to accept the consequences of her actions whatever they might be. Now that the time had come to actually face them, she found it unnerving. Sŏnghye had sufficient reason to fear that her husband, far from being happy for her, would surely be resentful—worse still, she had reason to expect an even nastier reaction. In spite of their pinched circumstances, Hyŏngsik had stubbornly objected to her getting a job outside the home, even though she had the qualifications necessary for teaching in girls’ schools. He would rather have her work on tangled skeins at home. “Imagine a housewife wandering about outside the house, day in and day out! It’s filthy.” “But what’s the point in drudging at this sort of hard work for a mere pittance? You see it’s unhealthy too.” “If you hate your work that much, quit anytime now! I’m not forcing you.” “It’s not that I hate it . . . ” “Quit it, I say!” Repetitions of such hopeless spats led Sŏnghye to conclude that the type of ideal wife Hyŏngsik had in mind might have its own hidden, invaluable beauty. This self-disapproval that kept gnawing at her turned into a sense of resignation in the end, and Sŏnghye ended by letting her husband have his own way. Yet she wondered if she hadn’t turned out a deceitful wife after all, since she had been stealthily pursuing her story writing while simultaneously trying to throw off the yoke of her inefficient way of making a living—the chore of untangling threads—cooped up in a room. Another concern intensified Sŏnghye’s discomfort. Hyŏngsik was a twofaced man. Although he was an old-fashioned bigot at home, once outside, he changed into a pompous liberal and a cultural aficionado, second to none. From the start, therefore, it was altogether out of the question that he hold on to a steady—“ordinary and insignificant,” according to him—job. Once in a while he would take part in so-called cultural enterprises, but he rarely stayed with a job more than half a year. Yet he never stopped writing poems. He also took up painting from time to time and loved listening to music in tearooms more than anyone. He never lagged behind others in his love of these things, but that love

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was all there was to it. Literary events and art exhibitions more often than not passed him by. So he had chosen to live his life in his own way—at once harboring adoration and hostility, admiration and disdain, for these unapproachable worlds. Sŏnghye’s attitude toward her husband, however, was far from such a presumptuous feeling as pity. Exceptionally unpretentious, Sŏnghye simply thought herself incapable of understanding either her husband’s “poetry” or his “paintings.” Sŏnghye had a hunch that her husband would be upset that her story had been published by the very magazine constantly on his lips and that she had already been asked to contribute another manuscript. With a heavy heart, Sŏnghye looked around her small, destitute room and cast her eyes to the blue cover of the magazine and the fresh bills. Her feelings were no longer simple worries. They were much heavier, even draining. It was time for Sŏnghye to fix dinner. With money in her grocery basket, she left her house. Recalling their very skimpy menu of late, she bought meat, fish, and even a dozen of eggs. As soon as she’d stepped into the kitchen, she busied herself preparing various side dishes. She put in plenty of firewood to warm the floor of the room, which had grown colder and more dismal even as the ice outside began to melt and the weather grew warmer. Then she waited for her husband. After looking over the dinner table, Hyŏngsik let out a shrill whistle and turned his palms inside out as if to ask what this was all about. Sŏnghye, who had been sitting at the table waiting for him, told how she had been paid for her manuscript, while drawing circles on the table with the end of her chopsticks, her head hanging low. “Huh? What are you talking about?” The frown on Hyŏngsik’s disbelieving face stung Sŏnghye’s nerves. With the kind of calm that comes with resignation, she explained how her story had come to be published—how she’d written when the mood struck her, and how a friend of hers had taken the story to a well-known author and then it finally saw daylight. But she didn’t mention how many times she’d rewritten it, how she’d poured her whole heart and soul into it. When he finished listening to Sŏnghye, Hyŏngsik appeared lost and at a loss for words. After a long silence, Hyŏngsik groaned, “Uhh . . .” Then he picked up his chopsticks, a bland expression—something between annoyance and disinterest—floating across his face. Much relieved that the matter had at least stopped at that point, Sŏnghye put her hand on the lid of her rice bowl to eat her dinner too. During dinner, Hyŏngsik again grew sullen, but then suddenly, lightening

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up, he began to talk. He said he had an appointment the next day to meet the critic Mr. Yun, to whom he had submitted his poems for review some time earlier through his friend Mr. H. “He’s well known for his harsh criticism, you know. He never praises anybody. But they say that once his sharp eye catches a new gem, he doesn’t hesitate a second!” So Hyŏngsik described the critic Mr. Yun. Sŏnghye nodded and sincerely hoped for the best for her husband. Hyŏngsik fell silent again. This time he gorged himself on the meat dish, egg pancakes, and grilled fish. He kept stuffing himself, heartily enjoying the food. All of a sudden, Sŏnghye felt a rush of emotion, something totally unexpected. Watching her husband’s mouth in rapid motion, his jaw and neck, she felt that if she kept looking any longer, she’d break into tears. On the one hand, she felt greatly relieved at such a surprisingly simple end to the discussion of her story; but on the other, she felt unbearably sad. She herself couldn’t figure out where this emotional confusion came from. It turned out Sŏnghye was too hasty in concluding that luck favored her. Although she got through the crisis without a hitch, the following evening, Hyŏngsik, who had hurriedly left to meet Mr. Yun, returned home very tipsy and began harassing Sŏnghye with sarcastic remarks about the events of the day before. When she asked about his meeting with Mr. Yun, he replied, “Great! From now on I’ll be able to live on easy street!” Then, darting a sidelong glance at her and twisting his lips, he added, “It looks as if the poet Pak Hyŏngsik will be able to leap to fame at a bound, thanks to his wife. Well, let him live on her generous bounty!” His bloodshot eyes growing even redder, he rattled on sneeringly, “Look at this cramped hole of a room! With all this mess, where can I set my foot? And you have the nerve to talk about literature? First things first—how about trying to get my trousers properly pressed for a start?” Sŏnghye kept quiet. “You don’t expect me to put up with all this nonsense? No wife to speak of in the first place, and now she is about to be waited on by her husband!” Sŏnghye remained silent. “Hey, how about grabbing this as a chance to divorce me, so you can come and go freely like a lady writer, eh?” The barrage of his taunts went on without pause. With her head down, Sŏnghye let him go on, but in the end, she raised her head and looked straight into his eyes. She could no longer stand her husband’s twisted pride and mean spirit. The sight of her husband in such a state inspired fear in her. Her impulse to cover her eyes, however, made her raise her head instead. Sŏnghye almost felt compelled to say, “I won’t ever write again.” She meant

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to say it, no matter how painful it was to her. Yet she found herself immobilized, unable to utter such words. This in turn dismayed and pained Sŏnghye, and she desperately wished Hyŏngsik would blurt out just one more vicious word, making her lose control of herself. But Hyŏngsik seemed to have exhausted all he had to say, and after throwing a most scornful look at Sŏnghye’s somber face, he stretched himself out on the floor without further haranguing. Sŏnghye remained in her seat, as motionless as a rock. Blood surged up wildly and throbbed in her bosom. Each time the flow of blood rushed down toward her stomach, it seemed to strike against something heavy there, and she grew dizzy, about to collapse. She closed her eyes prayerfully, earnestly hoping this nightmarish moment would pass without a minute’s delay. The dining table was pushed aside into the corner of the room, food hardly touched. Hyŏngsik sat up and lay down by spells and eventually dropped off into sleep. He even began snoring, but then abruptly opened his eyes and yelled like a drunkard, “Jerks! Ugh, those crooked jerks! You guys call yourselves critics? You talk about literature? Humph! Who cares about Yun and the like?” He glared at Sŏnghye and then, turning over in bed, began snoring again. The night stamped a gruesome, hellish mark on Sŏnghye’s memory. A few days passed. When Hyŏngsik left home in the morning, Sŏnghye followed a couple of steps behind as far as the gate and as calmly as possible asked him to request some materials she needed for her usual thread work: “I’ve finished with the last batch. On your way, please ask the boy at the tinroofed house to bring twice as many bundles as before.” Hyŏngsik stopped to listen and then, without saying either yes or no, departed. The errand boy from the tin-roofed house never came that day. Sŏnghye thought it was awkward for her to press Hyŏngsik, and so, after a couple of days, she decided to go to the shop herself. As she was wrapping the skeins to deliver herself, the boy came to call. But for some reason, the boy came without a back load of skeins. He only took out the payment money from his cloth wrapper and handed it over to her. After receiving the finished work of skeins from Sŏnghye, he put them inside the wrapper and tied it up. When Sŏnghye asked if there was any material to work on, the boy said that he had been told by her husband to bring no more work. Sŏnghye remained lost in thought for a long time and then spent the remainder of the day tidying up the house and sewing. She hid away the bluecovered magazine. Time passed. One evening, after a cheerless dinner alone, Sŏnghye looked out at the small backyard as she leaned against the kitchen post. An old cherry tree, its trunk all twisted, was standing close to the wall of the house. Almost

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all of its branches were withered, but a few ricelike white petals were stuck here and there on a solitary branch, stretching over the soy-sauce jar deck. A light lavender darkness began to spread all over. Sŏnghye caught sight of the crumbled corner of the sauce jar deck. It was a simple, rock-framed stand covered with lumps of dirt she’d piled up with her clumsy hands. In fact, it had been left in that condition since the previous summer, as she hadn’t done anything about it save gazing at it out the window every day. Sŏnghye found a blunt hoe and a stick and, holding them, went into the backyard. She scraped up the scattered soil and stamped on it. As she worked, her mind was free to roam to faraway places, bringing her vague memories back. From her childhood, Sŏnghye had been given to a habit of doing things halfheartedly. Unless the task involved thinking or writing, she did most of her work out of necessity rather than out of enthusiasm. But now Sŏnghye began to wonder whether the joy of life might be found in such tasks as she was doing at the moment—keeping the things around her clean and well-maintained and improving and adding luster to them as best she could. It even occurred to Sŏnghye that, in comparison with concrete, physical work, abstract thoughts might be ultimately meaningless, like patches of clouds. Straightening her back, Sŏnghye stood and looked up at the round, pale orange moon suspended in the middle of the sky. Suddenly, and out of nowhere, the phrase “human fate” entered her mind. She began to mull over the recent complicated emotional wrangling between herself and her husband. Ever since that incident, Hyŏngsik, for whatever motive, had not stopped her from working on her writing. He even encouraged her with surprising enthusiasm. He read everything she wrote and added suggestions in red ink for her revision; at times he even inserted long new paragraphs of his own. Sometimes he had Sŏnghye talk about themes or plots she had in mind, but his criticisms were so harsh that she couldn’t even set to work on them. At other times, he would give her his own ideas and ask her to write stories based on them. “Look, try to write this way. It came to my mind while sitting in a tearoom.” And after relating his ideas in tedious detail, he would say, “You need to reflect the trend of the times in this way, understand? Try it. I guarantee it will create a sensation.” Sometimes he sat next to her and dictated his stories. Sŏnghye had much to be thankful for as a result of such changes in Hyŏngsik. Yet for some reason, she could not write a single line to her own satisfaction. Her husband would plead with her just to write a draft based on his suggestions, saying he would revise it himself. But the more he pushed, the more stuck she became. She grew unbearably anxious, but nothing worked.

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Worse still, even this anxiety seemed to be gradually fading. “How could the likes of me write novels?” Such despair slowly began to take over Sŏnghye’s consciousness. In her mind she began to go over a variety of odd jobs—besides untangling threads—that would be appropriate for her to do at home. Sŏnghye became greatly attached to the two works she had written so far. The question of their quality aside, her attachment might simply have stemmed from her having poured her soul into them. It was a poignant feeling, as if her works were blood-relations, as if they were the only things that understood her, and as if they were a longing for something that had already disappeared beyond her reach. Her second story was handed over to the magazine publisher after Hyŏngsik had gone over it. She was still bothered by a scene in the story that Hyŏngsik vehemently insisted she cut. It was a scene she considered indispensable. She knew the whole story hinged upon that very scene like the pivot of a spinning top. If this pivotal point were jogged, the top would stop spinning and lurch to a halt. Sŏnghye hesitated for a long time, but in the end she sent her manuscript along with a letter to the editor—the “well-known writer”—requesting that, if he found it better to delete the little scene unfolding in the moonlit field, he should go ahead and do so. While writing the letter, Sŏnghye was thinking that in all likelihood it was time for her to give up creative writing. Yet she was almost certain that the scene in the moonlight would stay. As Sŏnghye turned the soil and piled it up with her hoe, the smell of the dirt wafted up from her fingertips. She even toyed with the idea of making a flowerbed in front of the sauce jar deck come summer and pictured herself standing at the back of a tiny flower garden. Even this scene, however, evoked a sense of emptiness and sorrow in Sŏnghye, and she felt at a loss about what to do with her emotional confusion. Someone shook the gate, making creaking noises. Sŏnghye knocked the dirt off the hoe and the stick and went over to unbar the gate. “Honey, get dressed quickly! I’m taking you to a nice place. Hurry up!” An absent look on her face and the hoe hanging loosely from her hand, Sŏnghye looked at Hyŏngsik. He looked especially smart today in his gray, plaid-patterned spring suit—the only one he had—into which he had changed this morning. His broad-brimmed hat—fashionable, though poor in quality—and his red necktie brightened him up. His lively motions indicated that a day full of spring sun had worked wonders on his mood. “Where are we going?” Sŏnghye asked in a flat voice, unpleasant even to her ears. “To a nice place! To a dance party! Okay? Don’t you want to go? Why not?” asked Hyŏngsik with a big smile, as if there were no reason whatsoever for her to refuse.

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“Hurry up and get ready! You do know how to dance, don’t you? After all, you studied with those Western dames.” This was how Hyŏngsik always characterized Sŏnghye’s education at a Christian mission school. “If you don’t know how to dance, it’s okay just to sit down and watch. Anyway, hurry up!” Hyŏngsik took his hat off, and after tossing it on the wooden floor, he went to the well to wash his hands. Sŏnghye remained standing, a blank look on her face. First of all, she wanted to know the reason for this sudden outing. On rare occasions, indeed, when in the mood, Hyŏngsik would surprise her by asking her to go with him to a billiard room or to a bar. “But what on earth was this dance all about?” Sŏnghye wondered. Sŏnghye used to think it uncharacteristic of Hyŏngsik—always keen on new fads—not to talk about dancing. Now that he hurried her to this party out of the blue, however, she felt completely lost. Besides, why should he ask her to come with him today of all days? Yet she sensed it was better for her to simply tag along rather than poke and pry. An awareness of her miserable circumstances—the suffocating life behind the tightly locked gate, the dark cavelike room and kitchen, the patch of sky as tiny as the palm of her hand, and her pathetic dream of growing flowers in the flowerbed—which she had tried hard to bury, was impetuously raising its head. As the mystified Sŏnghye cast a glance at the well, she caught sight of the back of the trousers of her husband, who was squatting down uncomfortably. All of a sudden, she was seized with the urge to get out of the house. “All right, let’s go!” Sŏnghye flung the hoe and the stick under the raised wooden floor and rushed to the well like a child, asking, “Whose house are we going to for the party?” It gave Sŏnghye a novel and joyful sensation to abandon herself to impulse rather than to deliberation or reason. For the first time in a long while, she breathed the evening spring air with her entire body and took light steps like a young girl. The party, however, was not held at a private home. After turning to left off of Myŏngdong Street, Hyŏngsik led Sŏnghye down a long, secluded alley, at the end of which appeared a run-down, two-story wooden house. “Are there many up there?” Hyŏngsik asked two young boys—vendors of imported cigarettes—sitting side by side in front of the house. He pushed hard on the broken, rattling glass door, which was very small, barely allowing one person to slip by. Sŏnghye cautiously stepped in, stunned by the whole scene, which turned out quite contrary to her expectations. The dark, steep stairway was also very narrow, and it creaked—more like shrieked—with her every

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step. With one hand on the wall, Sŏnghye climbed, getting her feet caught in her skirt countless times. She opened her eyes wide in the darkness. From upstairs, thumps of footsteps rang out along with a melody somewhat familiar to her. Something akin to fear passed through Sŏnghye’s mind, as if she had come to a place forbidden. Her apprehension grew stronger when she pushed through another narrow door at the top of the staircase and stepped inside the room. It was a shabby, wooden-floored room, which at first glance looked like the interior of a large warehouse. There weren’t even electric lights, and several carbide gaslights picked out the figures of men and women dancing around. The shadows of the dancing pairs trembled like monsters on the walls, full of smudges, across which strands of cobwebs, hanging down from the ceiling like fishnets, were fluttering. Music flowed out of a phonograph in the corner of the room, where broken tables and chairs were piled up. The boric acid powder sprinkled on the floor made it gleam with a dull shine. When the attention of the people dancing across the floor suddenly turned toward Sŏnghye and her husband, Sŏnghye felt her face burning. Even before Hyŏngsik motioned her to do so, she walked over to an empty chair that leaned against the wall, from which direction the phonograph music was coming, and hurriedly sat down. Meanwhile, Hyŏngsik hung up his hat and seemed to be restlessly looking around the room. In no time, he greeted a few people by tapping them on the shoulders and smiled at some women. When a new piece started, he made a bowing gesture to one of the women and began to dance with her. Perched on her chair, Sŏnghye watched her husband’s awkward dancing, which was actually uncoordinated. His movements were those of a mere beginner—no, like those of one never even properly tutored. Yet Hyŏngsik seemed thoroughly happy with his dancing. All smiles and without a hint of embarrassment, he danced and tossed off brief remarks each time he met someone he recognized. The melody was a popular old Japanese song. It was played on the portable phonograph by a woman with thick makeup, who, standing beside Sŏnghye, relentlessly inspected her appearance. Sŏnghye found the woman repulsive but remained in her uncomfortable seat. As she watched the dancers in their shabby outfits, Sŏnghye wondered when her husband had begun to frequent such places as this. A middle-aged man in an army jacket tottered about, while in the corner a young teenager diligently practiced dance steps by himself. Hyŏngsik seemed to be well acquainted with most of the women here. A woman trailing a long, light blue skirt walked toward Sŏnghye with a swinging gait, her body swaying like billowing waves. She had been Hyŏngsik’s first dance partner. Her eyebrows were thickly penciled, and she looked

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rather vulgar. She sat on the chair facing the phonograph woman, her back to Sŏnghye, and immediately put a cigarette to her mouth. “Look at that guy over there,” the “light blue skirt” woman said, pointing at someone with the thumb of her right hand, from which cigarette smoke was rising. “Do you know he’s a poet? Hah, my foot!” the phonograph woman said, giggling loudly as if tickled by something. “Hey, hey,” whispered the “light blue skirt,” as if to caution her companion, clearly gesturing toward Sŏnghye with her eyes. But then, feeling no need to hold back either, she too burst into loud giggles. “That idiot, you know, he asked me . . .” Sŏnghye couldn’t even tell which one of them was talking. All she felt was the burning of her ears. Before long, she began to think the women were probably talking about someone else. Nonetheless, Sŏnghye noticed that the woman in the light blue skirt deliberately turned around to look at her. At that moment, Hyŏngsik walked toward Sŏnghye, pushing people aside as if he were swimming, a smile on his face. She stood to face him and was about to tell him they should leave at once. The first thing Hyŏngsik did, however, was to flirt with those women. “Hello, Miss Sunja. Why such a wallflower today? Why don’t you dance with me later, after you put on some tango music?” “Good heavens! You even know how to dance the tango?” Her brisk twang expressed open disdain, and the thickly made-up woman spun around and went away. The “light-blue skirt” also stood up and left without giving even a side glance to Hyŏngsik, and huddled together, the two women burst into another round of giggles. Mortified, Hyŏngsik turned to Sŏnghye. After Hyŏngsik’s mood had brightened with a couple of more dances, he and Sŏnghye left. The nighttime street was much nippier than before. Sŏnghye felt a chill from the light, damp night breeze creeping in under her arms. Hyŏngsik was whistling the melodies he had danced to. Sŏnghye walked in silence with her eyes cast down to the tips of her toes. “No good dancing girls seem to have shown up today,” Hyŏngsik said, as if he was looking into Sŏnghye’s face. She remained silent. The cigarette butt Hyŏngsik threw away fell into a puddle of water, making a clear, long-trailing hiss. Even though Sŏnghye was listening to what her husband was saying, she heard nothing but an endless, hollow echoing through her head. Sŏnghye and her husband continued walking until they saw a tearoom with a green lantern hung on the outside. Insisting on having some tea, Hyŏngsik

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dragged Sŏnghye in. She followed him inside, pulling her thin spring scarf up to her ears. Sŏnghye felt as if everyone was looking at her. She sat on a chair, her eyes fixed on the ashtray in front of her, which was engraved with the tearoom’s name. “Ah, well, if it isn’t Mr. Ch’oe! I’m so glad to see you. Please join us. Please, please.” Hyŏngsik raised himself halfway up from his seat and hurriedly greeted a man who had just pushed open the door to the tearoom. In a flurry, Sŏnghye also raised her face and greeted the man with her eyes. It was the same Mr. Ch’oe who had had Sŏnghye’s story published in the magazine. “What brings you here? Have you been keeping up the good work?” Reciting this customary greeting among writers, Ch’oe took a seat across from Hyŏngsik and Sŏnghye. “Far from it! There’s nothing easy about writing,” Hyŏngsik cut in crudely in an argumentative tone, as he leaned back deep into his chair with his legs outstretched. Mr. Ch’oe kept quiet. After a long silence, he said awkwardly, “I’d like you to keep on writing, even though it’s not so easy,” and smiled. Then he added, “By the way, the magazine came out. I brought a copy with me to give to Mr. Yun, but you can have it. You may be anxious to see it.” From a large envelope in his hands, he took out a recent issue of the magazine, which included Sŏnghye’s second story. “Regarding the point you made at the time, I included it just the way it was in the manuscript,” said Mr. Ch’oe. Then he looked at Sŏnghye as if he couldn’t understand why she had even suggested leaving the scene out. At that moment, Hyŏngsik, suddenly flared up, scolded the boy vendor of imported cigarettes standing beside him for talking impertinently to him. Sŏnghye turned her head toward her husband. After the boy left, Sŏnghye, trying to return to the interrupted conversation, asked Mr. Ch’oe, “Have comments been bad?” even though things like reviews were the last thing that concerned her. “No, I hear they’ve been very favorable. Mr. Yun, too, mentioned that they are far better than those for the first one,” said Mr. Ch’oe. “Of course, the second story should be better than the first one. You bet! You don’t know how much more effort Sŏnghye put in, although I did coach her a little bit,” Hyŏngsik said, taking over the conversation as if he was very much pleased. His voice fell especially loudly on Sŏnghye’s ears. “Is that right?” Mr. Ch’oe said, dropping his gaze toward his cup. “Well, let me tell you. Sŏnghye has taken up writing as a pastime, making a big deal out of it, but her work is nothing to speak of, as you know. So I’ve lent a hand, fixing here and there to beat it into shape and get it up to that level.

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The process hasn’t been easy, though, given her stubbornness.” Hyŏngsik looked at Sŏnghye and laughed loudly as if feeling good about himself. Dragging the magazine all the way across the table toward him and hurriedly flipping through it, Hyŏngsik said, “She gave me a hard time about one point in this story too. Let’s see, which scene was that . . . ? Right, it’s the scene where the main character carries on a monologue, wandering alone around the open field, right?” After confirming this detail with Sŏnghye, Hyŏngsik went on talking to her, “That’s where you went wrong, you see. A short story has to be tightly knit. You have to trim useless parts just as you prune vines or twigs— you’ve got to clip any number of them—and set your eyes on the climax!” The more excited Hyŏngsik became, the more dispirited became Sŏnghye. She thought: “It may be necessary to remove branches and offshoots, but if a story is robbed of the ground it stands on, where can it go except floating off into the sky?” Very much in line with what Sŏnghye had in mind, Mr. Ch’oe spoke up, “I agree that disorganization is a fatal flaw in a short story. Yet . . . if I may cite an example, the life of Miss Sŏnghye’s work lies in her skillful arrangement of its material, in other words, in her subtlety of organization, which results in the power of capturing the reader’s attention. It’s like the beauty of a mosaic craftwork. If even one piece is missing, the piece looks as if something is lacking and becomes flawed. And I believe Miss Sŏnghye’s talent in that area is worthy of our trust. I’m convinced that the four scenes in her present work play an absolutely decisive role in it.” There was a light sarcasm hidden in Mr. Ch’oe’s calm tone. Hyŏngsik sat silent for some time, his head cocked. Mr. Ch’oe continued, “It is true that the monologue form often produces tedious results, but it can also be used very effectively. For instance, the story “The Peony Peak,” which some time ago became the object of criticism by Mr. Yun, I mean, the critic Yun . . .” Mr. Ch’oe turned the talk into a general discussion. Sŏnghye quietly daubed the perspiration on her forehead with her handkerchief. This time around, just as before, Hyŏngsik chattered on to show off his independent opinion regarding criticism. In the end, he summarized his babble, saying, “In short, I think the novel is nothing but a matter of sensibility. Selection of scenes for a story should be made intuitively, and it’s a waste of time to discuss it at great length like this. Well, you said Mr. Yun approved of Sŏnghye’s story? Hmm, then, he does have good judgment, doesn’t he?” This time Mr. Ch’oe remained silent, looking a bit offended, and after a while he said good-bye and left his seat to join others in the tearoom. As Sŏnghye left the tearoom, she felt her cheeks burning more and more intensely, and indescribable, violent emotions surged in her heart. She was

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utterly crushed by an unbearable mixture of shame, exasperation, and uncontrollable impatience. Sŏnghye wanted to scream her heart out, “Why did you ask me to come to the tearoom? How could you talk like that to Mr. Ch’oe? How come you missed the point of his remark when he said so plainly that removing the scene would have meant wrecking the story?” Sŏnghye walked on much faster than Hyŏngsik. “See, I told you. You haven’t lost anything by listening to me, have you? Hmm, Ch’oe said even that fellow Yun spoke highly of it. Humph . . . does he know who should get the credit for coaching it?” For an instant Sŏnghye’s eyes flared. The moment she was about to pour out her words, Hyŏngsik continued, “That Ch’oe is quite an arrogant chap, I figure. Still he dared not behave poorly in front of me. You heard him talking big, as if he knew something about the mosaic, the monologue form, right? He even said that the four scenes played decisive roles in your story and so on and so forth, but . . .” Hyŏngsik suddenly stopped short and said, “There should be only three scenes in the story. One where it rains, and that scene, and the other scene . . . One was taken out, wasn’t it?” Suddenly Hyŏngsik stopped counting the number of scenes on his fingers and sprinted forward, pulling the magazine from under his arm as if struck by some idea. On the deserted entryway of the street, a light bulb hanging high on a tall electric pole shed a dim light. Hyŏngsik dashed toward it, busily leafing through the pages, moistening his right thumb with spit over and over again. The street was completely deserted. It was breathlessly quiet, wrapped in darkness and thick mist. Holding the magazine against the dim light, Hyŏngsik continued frantically flipping through the pages. A piercing pain passed through Sŏnghye’s chest. That pain turned into a wretched scream and shook the quiet street for a moment. No, it was simply Sŏnghye’s illusion that her scream shook the street. Yet it was true that at that moment Sŏnghye’s soul let out a scream, writhing in unbearable pain. In Sŏnghye’s eyes, Hyŏngsik was a grotesque clown. He was a clown, too obtuse to be offhandedly dismissed from her heart as she used to do. The winds lightly touching her dry cheeks felt as cold as ice. Sŏnghye shouted silently in a tearful voice, “I hate it! I hate it all—the novel, the writing, my husband, even life! I hate it! I hate it!” The thick mist crawling on the ground began to rise like a column of smoke, enshrouding the electric pole—the thick night mist, whose yellowish hue looked as ghastly as the smoke of gunpowder. [First published in Munye (Literary art), June 1950]

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Analysis of “The Mist” “The Mist” (Angae; 1950) depicts the difficulties and agonies of a woman writer shackled by a dead-end marriage and dramatizes the destructive impact of such a marital situation on a woman’s creative and professional pursuits. The heroine, Sŏnghye, an unassuming and discreet housewife, has succeeded in having her first story published by a reputable magazine, for which she has received monetary compensation as well. Her next story is already on order. She feels fulfilled and even elated. Yet her happiness is ruined by her husband, a jobless, shallow, and untalented poet whose resentment and hostility toward her success and bourgeoning career plunges her into a bottomless despair. His psychological oppression of Sŏnghye robs her life of meaning, not to mention her will to write. By graphically exposing the husband’s emotional and mental manipulation intended to crush his wife’s literary talent and future, “The Mist” in large measure takes issue with the male bias against, and intolerance of, women’s aspirations for creative self-expression. Sŏnghye’s husband, Hyŏngsik, considers her accomplishment an assault on his person. Driven by professional jealousy, insecurity, and unproven male superiority, he taunts Sŏnghye with sarcasm and mockery and even threatens divorce. His wounded ego forces him to demonstrate that he is in control through attempts to nullify her public recognition and budding career by arguing that her proper place is in the home. The most presumptuous move Hyŏngsik makes, however, is to coach and direct his wife’s writing, something Sŏnghye finds insulting and even appalling yet cannot refuse. This is a replication of the classic pattern of a husband’s gender-based control and dominance over his wife. Sŏnghye’s case, however, is more insidious, as it involves an infringement on artistic and intellectual independence. Sŏnghye is the victim of her own creative talents at the hands of her husband, who is convinced that the only way to regain hegemony over his wife is to put her down by any and all means. For her part, she can find no way to release her frustration and anger except by internalizing her emotions and succumbing to his tyranny and hypocrisy. The only protest she makes is the self-consuming scream buried in her heart. In the end, his oppression succeeds in smothering her creative impulses and even her desire to live. The tragic implication of Sŏnghye’s story is that she, in spite of her acute awareness of her marital entrapment, is a product of her times, late 1940s Korea, when the majority of Korean women were captives of spousal control, with no choice but to acquiesce to their flawed and crushing conjugal yoke. This

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forced submissiveness of Sŏnghye becomes all the more wasteful given her promising future as a writer. “The Mist” is a fine example of Kang Sin-jae’s expertise in creating striking scenes. The dance hall episode vividly illustrates Hyŏngsik’s churlishness and superficiality, which heaps public embarrassment upon Sŏnghye. Sŏnghye’s humiliation reaches its peak at their chance encounter with a literary critic in a tearoom. The incident exposes not only Hyŏngsik’s mediocrity and insolence but also his contemptible and excessive meddling in his wife’s creative activity. The story’s final scene, depicting the husband desperately leafing through the magazine beneath the dim electric light, highlights his lack of a sense of honor as well as his morbid competitiveness, while also bringing to light Sŏnghye’s undeserved victimization and degradation. “The Mist” can also be read as a critique of the cultural frivolity of Korean intellectuals during the postliberation period, when such Western cultural products as popular music, social dancing, and American cigarettes made inroads into Korea. Hyŏngsik’s dabbling in poetry and his artistic pretensions caricature these trends. At the same time, his flirting with such passing crazes forms a sharp contrast to his refusal to support his wife’s potential for real cultural contribution, further underscoring the grievous burden Sŏnghye must bear.

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Six

When Autumn Leaves Fall (1961) Song Wŏn-hŭi

A writer recognized for her deep-rooted consciousness of the political and historical development of Korea, Song Wŏn-hŭi (b. 1927) was born in Seoul, the eldest of four children. Her parents’ trying lives during the colonial period exerted an enduring influence over her life and career. Song’s father, a descendant of an upper-class Confucian scholarly family, became an anti-Japanese freedom fighter, having suffered the decline of the family fortune and the brutal deaths of his elder brothers at the hands of the Japanese police. To avoid police surveillance, Song’s family fled to China in 1938, when Song was a fifth grader. There her father’s involvement in the Korean independence movement continued up until Korea’s liberation in 1945. This early exposure to her father’s activism planted in Song the seeds of a strong nationalism and a keen political awareness. During her family’s seven-year sojourn in China, Song built the foundations of her future literary development, absorbing a wide range of world literature from the library of a fellow expatriate. The young Song found equal inspiration in the life story of her mother, whose educational aspirations and happiness as the daughter of a Chinese medicinal-herb doctor were cut short by the deaths of her parents and the ensuing family breakup. The suffering of Song’s mother in her formative years helped awaken Song to women’s hardship within Korea’s patriarchal society, something that would later serve as a motif in her work. With the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950, Song entered Tongguk University as an English literature major. Despite the war, Song took full advantage of her studies as a refuge in Pusan by participating in a creative writing club,

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performing in drama presentations, and taking in the ideas of such French existentialist writers as Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, and Simone de Beauvoir. Although her family’s financial difficulties prevented her from graduating, Song made her literary debut in 1956 with two short stories, “Hwasa” (Floral snake) and “Singminji” (The colony). The same year, she married an engineer who promised to support her writing career. A number of Song’s stories from the 1960s and 1970s focus on Korea’s colonial legacy and the scars of the Korean War, as evident in her “Nagyŏpki” (When autumn leaves fall; 1961), “Pundan” (Korean division; 1967), and “Hyŏlhŭn” (Bloodstains; 1968). By then Song was the mother of three young children and had endured trying times as the daughter-in-law of a conservative extended family. In 1971 Song published her first collection of short stories, titled Floral Snake, reusing the title of her first short story. A second short story anthology, Pit’ŭlkŏrinŭn chunggan (The tottering middle), followed in 1977. Song’s award-winning first novel, Taeji ŭi kkum (Dreams of the great earth; 1984) again takes up Korea’s turbulent modern history, including the demise of the Chosŏn dynasty, uprisings against Japanese police brutality, liberation and national division, the trauma of the Korean War, and the changing status of women throughout these upheavals. Although framed within a three-generational private family history, the novel elevates the suffering of individual characters to national dimensions through the author’s quest for the spiritual significance of Korea’s landmark eras. Song’s novel Mongmarŭn ttang (Thirsty earth; 1986), the sequel to Dreams of the Great Earth and another award winner, further elaborates upon the aftermath of the Korean War and the tragedies of families separated by the civil war. In the 1990s, when Korea officially reestablished diplomatic relationships with China and the former Soviet Union, Song made a number of field trips to these regions in search of historic sites related to the Korean diaspora and independence movement during the colonial period. One of the fruits of Song’s travels was the publication of An Chung-gŭn: Kŭ nal ch’um ŭl ch’urira (An Chung-gŭn: I’ll dance on that day; 1995, two volumes), the winner of the thirty-second Han’guk Literature Award. The novel is a fictional biography of a Korean patriot, An Chung-gŭn (1879–1910), who in 1909 assassinated the Japanese statesman Itō Hirobumi (1841–1909), the prime plotter of the Korean Protectorate Treaty of 1905, in Harbin, Manchuria. Another product was Song’s fifth collection of short stories, T’aroksu wa noin (A prison escapee and an old man; 2002). Song has served as president of the Korean Association of Women Writers as well as a member of the board of the Association of Korean Writers, the

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board of the Korean PEN Club, and the advisory board of the Korean Novelists’ Association. In recognition of her contributions to Korean literature, in 2006 Tongguk University conferred on her its special literary award.

When Autumn Leaves Fall Every now and then when the winds blew, leaves fell from trees and rolled about the ground. Three or four high school students were walking leisurely out of the exhibition hall, having apparently completed their rounds of the art show. The autumn art show had only one more day to go. The area around the gallery was so quiet that the clatters of Haryŏn’s high heels rang out loudly in the emptiness. Haryŏn loved this road near the gallery’s front entrance because it was a world apart from the crowded streets of Seoul. Mr. R had once said that he found walking on this pathway unsettling. That sounded very much like him. A place as quiet as this could be disconcerting to Mr. R, forcing him to reexamine his life—one filled with drinking, billiard playing, and so on. Haryŏn didn’t know exactly why Mr. R had dropped out of the art world, but she recalled having read his essay “A Loser’s Self-defense.” Originally an artist of Western painting, Mr. R had become an illustrator for books and magazines. After the Korean War he had gotten a painter’s job on a United States military base to earn a living. Ever since, he had stayed in that line of work as an illustrator. This regression was just one of many misfortunes that could befall any artist. Without his realizing it, painting became the means of earning a living for Mr. R—his life purpose, which he could not abandon. Pointing out his failure as an artist, he said he had given up on Western painting as the result of losing his self-confidence. His own confession of occasional restlessness, however, betrayed his lingering attachment to Western painting. Haryŏn felt as if Mr. R’s anxiety were her own. Her love of this temple-like art gallery might be a superficial sentiment—a by-product of the quietude bestowed on her by her seasonal visits in spring and autumn. Like Mr. R, Haryŏn also got edgy whenever she set foot in the art gallery, since such visits made her acutely aware of her precarious position, barely hanging on in the art world. It was no easy task for Haryŏn, whose life was one of tedious routine, to submit new paintings to the exhibition twice a year. A few times, she had stopped painting, despondent at the hopelessness of keeping pace

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with current trends in modern painting. Looking back, though, she came to marvel at her own perseverance for not entirely giving up the artist’s life. Her solo art show ten years earlier was the only one she’d ever had. Since then, she had participated only in public exhibitions and comforted herself with the pitiable thought that she was at least keeping her name alive—no matter how obscure it was—in the world of art. As a matter of fact, Haryŏn considered her situation not so much distressing as sorrowful. She wondered whether her decision to study at the Tokyo Art School twenty years ago against her parents’ will had been doomed to lead to this stalemate. Haryŏn softly stepped on a withered leaf that blew across her path. An approaching young couple caught her eye, dazzling her like a beautiful picture. The nape of the young woman’s neck and her short haircut boasted cleanliness and youth. The pair was walking hand in hand. They leaned against each other affectionately, unconcerned about the gaze of others. Haryŏn’s visit to the outdoor art show on the street a few days earlier and her encounter with this young couple today stung her to a realization of the gap between her and the younger generation. Free and easy, they seemed to be running past her. She looked back at the young couple. It was a glance tinged with unconscious envy. A regret at the irretrievable loss of her youth swirled through her body. At the gallery hallway, Haryŏn was greeted by the familiar custodian. She started off with the calligraphy exhibit in Room No. 1. The chilly air pervading the marble building intensified its solemn atmosphere. In the exhibition hall, there was a sprinkling of high school students holding schoolbags. The sounds of Haryŏn’s high heels striking the cold concrete floor reverberated quietly in the hall. When she walked into Room No. 3 for Oriental paintings, Haryŏn became more relaxed. The stiffness she’d felt in the calligraphy room slowly eased. She was happy to see a few familiar names among the artists, but the majority were unknown to her. Only two or three old-timers stuck to traditional landscape painting; the rest featured new elements in Oriental painting. Haryŏn’s greatest surprise was the change in the use of color. Only five years ago, few artists would have dared experiment with such bold colors in this genre. Now these Oriental works seemed to resemble Western oil paintings in their use of color for expressing the artists’ intentions. Haryŏn felt her heart stirring, especially at the nuanced color scheme explored by Mr. P’s painting titled Summer. Forgetting her envy of the young couple, Haryŏn focused her attention on each painting in turn. In art school it had been Haryŏn’s original plan to major in Oriental painting, but her fascination with Cézanne made her switch to Western painting. Among all the trends and schools of art she had studied, Cézanne was her favorite artist. She loved Cézanne. His influence appeared most clearly in

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her use of intense color, something that drew a great deal of attention from her professors. They even predicted her future success. Cézanne had thus been one of the direct causes for Haryŏn’s switch from Oriental to Western painting. Haryŏn walked out of the Oriental painting exhibit to the crafts exhibit and then to Room No. 8, where one of the statues in the sculpture exhibit attracted her attention. She went straight over to it. It was a statue of a naked man, his right arm around a woman’s shoulder and his left arm holding a child. Its title was Peace, and its sculptor, Son Hyesŏn. For a moment, Haryŏn couldn’t believe her eyes. If she remembered correctly, Son Hyesŏn was a new female sculptor who had made her debut only last year. Haryŏn remembered reading a feature story in a magazine profiling Son Hyesŏn as a rising new artist. Son Hyesŏn must have been about twenty-three or twenty-four and was reported to have graduated from an art college a year earlier. If the piece was the work of Son Hyesŏn herself, it must be her masterpiece, Haryŏn thought. It was not difficult for Haryŏn to imagine how much time and effort the sculptor had put into creating this immense work, with its five-foot-tall male figure as well as figures of a woman and a child. What further amazed Haryŏn was the painstaking attention to the nude figure’s body parts. The detail on the muscles of the young male’s limbs, chest, and genitalia was so meticulous that it almost made her blush. For a moment Haryŏn floated in her mind the image of Son Hyesŏn absorbed in sculpting, with a young man of incomparable build posing as her model. At that point Haryŏn’s imagination leaped in an entirely different direction. She had known Kyŏngja well—a college art student who had been in a physical as well as financial relationship with a middle-aged man, even though she already had a boyfriend. According to Kyŏngja, the old morality had lost its hold on her generation, and body and spirit were two different matters. Such sexual morality was typical of the present young generation, but it was far beyond Haryŏn’s common sense. Haryŏn also found it hard to understand young people’s view of life and society, not to mention the speed with which they were getting ahead in the world. Most of all, hadn’t their recent street exhibition taken the art establishment by surprise? Their youthful enthusiasm for rooting out unnecessary formalism and their unconventional spirit for putting freedom into action were enough to shock Haryŏn. She probably wasn’t the only one who felt that way. These young artists were a blunt reminder of her stale artistic style, making her feel utterly insignificant. Her self-criticism, compounded by the pressure from the massive influx of new trends, withered Haryŏn’s creative spirit, and she felt that she had lost her sense of direction.

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Something rolled over softly and stopped in front of her feet. It was a dead leaf. It seemed to have lost its way and drifted into the sculpture exhibit room facing the gallery’s main entrance. The leaf had already lost its color and scent, and it was so dried up and brittle that the mere thought of crushing it underfoot made Haryŏn shudder. Would it be oversensitive for Haryŏn to compare herself, a woman in her forties, to this dried leaf? The Western painting exhibit began in Room No. 12. As Haryŏn stepped into the room, she was struck by the special ambience of Western oil painting. This room was also empty except for a couple of high school students and one gentleman, and the paintings kept watch over the large room in dignified and undisturbed silence. Haryŏn hurried to look for her own painting, River Children. It was nowhere to be seen. Finally she located it in the next room. She knew her painting wasn’t the sort to immediately attract attention. She was further flustered by the irony that her painting was placed right next to an award-winning piece. She had painted River Children on the banks of the Han River the previous summer, while she and her children were staying at her younger sister’s house in Noryangjin.1 It now seemed to Haryŏn that the painting’s subject was too hackneyed. She no longer felt in the mood to look at her painting. A totally indescribable repulsion toward her creative work began to arise. Haryŏn was lost in thought: “Painters put heart and soul into their work until it is completed, no matter what it is. Even with minor pieces, painters at work are under complete control of their pride as artists throughout the creative process. After a lapse of time, however, when a painter faces a completed work again and finds it too far removed from the original conception, the painter is tormented by self-revulsion and even by doubts regarding his or her artistic talent. I’m no exception.” As Haryŏn moved to the next exhibition room, she couldn’t help being drawn to a painting—about the size of a door—directly facing her. She intuitively knew it was Ch’ŏru’s. The painting, titled Paradise, depicted the innocent Adam and Eve taking a nap far too peacefully in the shadow of the forbidden tree. Above them, half-hidden in the tree, the serpent—an incarnation of Satan—eyed the couple. The juxtaposition of contrasting colors in the scene created peculiarly appealing sensations. While the bright, beautiful colors spoke more of the peace in paradise than of Adam and Eve, the darker colors hinted at the devious plot under way. Haryŏn felt a sudden rush of blood through her body. For the first time in some thirteen years, she was looking at one of Ch’ŏru’s paintings. She knew of his return to Korea from France the previous winter from the newspapers as well as through Mr. Nokpong. The image of Ch’ŏru’s tall, slim figure crossed

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her mind as a pang of longing struck her heart. He was a man banished from Haryŏn’s memory long ago, but now that she was again facing his work, a pang of yearning for him pierced her heart. As Haryŏn left the art gallery, she felt as if she’d lost all sense of composure, like some teenager. She couldn’t figure out why she longed so much for Ch’ŏru. Unlike during the years he had lived abroad, she could have—had she wanted—easily met him in Seoul since last year, simply by dropping in at the Champs-Élysées, a tearoom patronized exclusively by artists, or through the good offices of Mr. Nokpong. Yet Haryŏn had consciously avoided such a reunion. For one thing, she feared meeting him again, but above all, she didn’t want to knowingly disturb her peace of mind. Perhaps she lacked the passion of an artist, she thought. Haryŏn was quite shocked to learn that Ch’ŏru had come to the South from North Korea during the January 14 retreat.2 In Pusan, where she had taken refuge, Mr. Nokpong had suggested, “How about getting together with Ch’ŏru? He seems eager to see you. And he looks quite changed too.” “What’s the point of seeing him now?” Haryŏn had said coldly. Indeed, what good would come of meeting him again? Hadn’t he defected to North Korea, rejecting her love and all her attempts to talk him out of it? “Look, Haryŏn, you shouldn’t be so unforgiving! I don’t expect you to do anything more. My idea is simply for us to welcome him back—nothing more.” “What do you mean by ‘welcome’?” “He seems to have gone through quite a lot, and besides, he’s still single. I think he has some claim on your compassion in that regard,” Nokpong said. “Compassion? I wonder for whom he has remained single. Did he say that it was for my sake?” Haryŏn flared up. “Okay, let’s drop it then. I’m sorry for making you so upset.” Mr. Nokpong seemed to be at a loss, but Haryŏn flatly rejected his suggestion. It had been exactly ten years since then. But now she wanted to see Ch’ŏru. Shortly after Seoul was reclaimed during the Korean War, Ch’ŏru, who had come to the South from North Korea, left for France on a certain category of visa. Haryŏn felt an utter emptiness for the first time in her life. After Ch’ŏru’s return to Seoul from the North, she had taken some comfort in the thought that he was living somewhere under the same sky. His departure from Seoul again, however, deeply saddened her. She even regretted her refusal to see him. Haryŏn heard about Ch’ŏru’s life in France through Mr. Nokpong. He had

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married a French woman, and his paintings were well received in art shows in Paris. Then, two years ago, he lost his wife. Mr. Nokpong clucked his tongue as he relayed the news to Haryŏn. “Ch’ŏru indeed has no luck with women. The old bachelor finally got married, and now he’s already a widower.” Mr. Nokpong knew the relationship between Ch’ŏru and Haryŏn better than anyone, for he had been their best friend ever since their days together in Japan. It was this very Mr. Nokpong—ten years the couple’s senior—who had introduced Haryŏn to Ch’ŏru. In those days in Japan, he had often treated them to Shiseidō ice cream and invited them to concerts at the music hall in Ueno. He had occasionally said to them, “Love ennobles human hearts and has the power to overcome difficulties as well, although I’m no advocate of the idea of ‘love for love’s sake.’” It wasn’t clear how Ch’ŏru had taken this plain truth at the time, but obviously he didn’t know what to do with Haryŏn’s love for him. Haryŏn was so wrapped up in thought that by the time she came to herself, she was standing on Sejong Boulevard, heavy with traffic. With each day the high, cobalt blue skies signaled the deepening autumn. Under such skies, the lines of cars moving in an orderly manner looked like toys. Standing there on the street, Haryŏn realized what she wanted to do. She wanted to go somewhere and walk aimlessly. She wanted to meet someone and talk her heart out. She even felt tempted to go to the Champs-Élysées tearoom. The Champs-Élysées, known for its cozy atmosphere with comfortable cushions lying around, never lacked for painters who took their seats there and whiled away the time in chat. The tearoom buzzed with topics exclusive to painters, which blended into the tender, sweet melodies of French chansons. Amid this crowd, a few girls—aspiring painters—sat with sketchbooks at their sides. For a moment, Haryŏn tried to visualize an image of Ch’ŏru seated among them. Indeed, the smart young man she had known would now have turned forty, just like her. It was difficult for her to picture a middle-aged Ch’ŏru. All she could come up with was the hazy image of his face thirteen years earlier—a tall, bright-eyed young man whose smile revealed a regular set of white teeth. “Really, what’s the use of meeting him now anyway?” she thought. With her feelings dried up like dead leaves, Haryŏn had nothing more to share with him. Still, she couldn’t hold down the surge of her yearning. Haryŏn couldn’t figure herself out—the woman who had rejected Ch’ŏru’s proposal for reunion years ago in Pusan but now longed to meet him after all these years. “Is this just the typical restlessness of a premenopausal woman?” These days Haryŏn often felt a sensation of inexpressible emptiness in her heart.

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In the end, Haryŏn didn’t go to Champs-Élysées. She went home, her nerves on edge, and found her children absorbed in play. A short “Hi, Mom” was their only acknowledgment of her return. They had not been like that even a year ago. Her children used to cling to her—almost annoyingly—every time she returned from a day out, as if they could hardly wait for her. But her kids were different these days. As explained in Plato’s dialectics on love, affection between mother and children changes. When children reach a certain age, they leave their mother, like drops of water rolling off lotus leaves. Haryŏn wondered whether all her children—from the oldest, a seventh grader, down to the three younger ones—had reached that stage. An indescribable chill passed through her body. She wished her children would greet their mother, coming home depleted, and rush into her empty bosom at that moment. She couldn’t have been happier if they would cling to her now. After changing her clothes, Haryŏn went to her atelier at the back of the house. The room was too drab to be called an atelier, but she felt an immense sense of stability at the thought that it was a room of her own. After years of moving her painting utensils from one room to another to accommodate the children’s needs, she had finally had this studio built two years ago for her own use. Feeling drained, Haryŏn lay down on her side in the room, barren save for a few scattered sketchbooks and a bunch of withering chrysanthemums. She closed her eyes but couldn’t calm her ruffled nerves. Thoughts of Ch’ŏru lingered in her mind. She wondered how she would have felt had she gone directly to the Champs-Élysées from the art gallery and met Ch’ŏru. She decided it was a good thing she had come home instead. With approaching footsteps, the maid, Nami, called out, “Ma’am, a phone call from Master!” When Haryŏn went out to answer the phone, her little son was talking into the receiver. “Hello,” said Haryŏn, taking the receiver. “Is that you, honey?” her husband’s deep voice came through the phone line. “Yes.” His message was that he would be off to Pusan for two days on unexpected company business and that because he had no time to drop by home, the chauffeur would be picking up his traveling bag. As she lowered the receiver, Haryŏn felt spent, like a piece of rock rolling slowly downhill. Up until about five years ago, Haryŏn’s husband had been an honest salaryman. He was enough of an intellectual to appreciate and support her artistic life. Since his success in casting off the pinched economic status of the lowermiddle class, however, his social life had grown busy. He became loose in

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his conduct, what with sudden business trips and frequent visits to kisaeng houses. Now he seemed to have some sort of a relationship with a woman. Yet Haryŏn never showed him any hint of displeasure. Rather than feeling grateful for her trouble-free family life, she thought she deserved such good fortune. On occasions when she grew touchy for no reason, her husband became apologetic, aware that his disorderly social life was causing her unhappiness. This was not, however, what Haryŏn wanted or expected from him. She rather hoped that he would keep a mistress in the open so that she could shake off the shackles of womanly virtue, justifying her action as a rebellion against him. After the chauffeur had come and gone, far colder winds swept across Haryŏn’s heart. In times like these, she felt like talking to someone rather than painting. Or, she thought, it wouldn’t be bad to lose herself in solitude—even excessively—wandering about the crowded streets of Myŏngdong. At the moment, she couldn’t even bear to look at her canvas. She was haunted by the same sense of inferiority aroused earlier at the exhibit by her River Children. She lost her sense of balance, desperately fearful that her artistic talent might have run its course. Haryŏn felt a need for stimulation. She even longed to see Mr. Nokpong and listen to his art criticism. No, to be more frank, she really wanted to see Ch’ŏru. Haryŏn detected a certain licentiousness lurking deep in her mind. In her case, it would mean infidelity to her husband, but aren’t artists allowed such license? While inwardly she did as she pleased, outwardly she must act like a moral paragon. This self-contradiction was nothing but a dilemma to her creative work. Artists shouldn’t be fettered by their society’s outdated morality. They need youthful passion and will without end. Haryŏn concluded that a lighthearted romance could be of some use to her art. Haryŏn remembered a double suicide—a woman writer and an up-andcoming young male writer—that became a hot topic for journalists. The couple’s reasons for committing suicide remained a mystery, but Haryŏn couldn’t dismiss it as a scandal, judging their affair from a simplistic moral point of view. Such an incident was hardly a novelty, but at least for this couple it had involved both love and art. Ever since the creation of human beings and for thousands of years to come, love will continue to make a mosaic of history, although social order, morality, and the system will always deal out isolation and anguish to artists engaged in ceaseless artistic exploration. Haryŏn wondered why the couple’s suicide for love couldn’t be seen as a beautiful act, epitomizing a fusion of love and artistic passion. Haryŏn left home. When she arrived at the Champs-Élysées, its lighted windows were framed in a thick darkness. It seemed highly unlikely that

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Ch’ŏru would still be in the corner of the tearoom. Haryŏn knew she would be very disappointed if she found here neither Mr. Nokpong nor any of the other painters she knew. How could she bear the emptiness that would continue in the wake of such a disappointment? Haryŏn almost decided to turn back. The disappointment at unfulfilled expectations can in some sense leave the artist with a spiritual wound. As Haryŏn hesitated at the door, she sensed someone approaching the tearoom. In her confusion, she pushed the door open. As expected, the tearoom was almost empty. A chill instantly gripping her heart, Haryŏn turned toward the small group of patrons that remained. At that moment, a man stood up in the corner and raised his hand, calling out, “Hey, Haryŏn!” It was Mr. Nokpong. Haryŏn couldn’t have been happier. Everyone around Mr. Nokpong turned toward her. Someone sitting next to him rose up hesitatingly. It was Ch’ŏru. To her embarrassment, Haryŏn blushed. “Come on in! What a surprise!” said Mr. Nokpong, stretching out his arms toward Haryŏn. Standing beside him, the tall Ch’ŏru simply looked at her, flushed and in a daze like a teenage boy. His face expressed a longing for someone truly missed. For a while he stood speechless, as if in shock. Hadn’t it been exactly thirteen years since they had last seen each other? It seemed to Haryŏn that Ch’ŏru had changed little. If anything, he was more filled out than he had been as a young man. “Just a minute. Did you come here to see me or Ch’ŏru?” the completely baldheaded Mr. Nokpong asked as he yielded his seat to Haryŏn. “Oh, let me introduce her,” said Mr. Nokpong to two young men sitting in front of him. “This is Ms. Yi Haryŏn. I presume you recognize her name?” The two young men rose halfway in deference. “You have submitted River Children to the current art exhibition, haven’t you?” said one of them. Haryŏn felt embarrassed at the mention of River Children. She couldn’t stand hearing about it then and there. In fact, she wouldn’t have submitted her work to the exhibition, had she known that Ch’ŏru had submitted as well. Ch’ŏru was silently pulling at his black tobacco pipe. The aroma of the Bond Street tobacco and its smoke spread toward Haryŏn. Mr. Nokpong said a few more words, then stood up and announced, “Well, we should be going.” The two young men followed him awkwardly, without exactly knowing why. Remaining seated, Ch’ŏru grasped Mr. Nokpong’s outstretched hands. “Why don’t you drop in more often?” Mr. Nokpong said to Haryŏn and then strode out of the tearoom, followed by the two young men. Ch’ŏru kept his silence even after the group had left. Only the sounds of his pulling at the pipe and the sizzling of nicotine were audible. Chanson melodies floated toward them from the tearoom counter, and Juliette Gréco’s melancholy tune spurred on feelings between Haryŏn and Ch’ŏru.3 Haryŏn found

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Ch’ŏru’s silence unexpectedly cold. She wasn’t sure whether she should say something first. Ch’ŏru remained tight-lipped. Haryŏn wondered what was going on in his mind, whether he was thinking once again of the enormous absurdity of human fate. Country-raised Ch’ŏru had roomed at a boardinghouse in Seoul. Until the end of World War II, he and Haryŏn had been living in Japan. Haryŏn had been a college senior at the time, but Ch’ŏru, who had already graduated, remained in Japan to join nationalist movements, dodging the Japanese student-army draft. Ch’ŏru’s involvement in such movements continued even after Korea’s liberation from Japan and his return to Korea. Before he knew it, his art circle had joined the Communist artists’ union and become increasingly involved in politics. Sensing what was going on, Haryŏn had repeatedly urged Ch’ŏru to wash his hands of it all, but the tight control of the group had made it impossible for the weak-willed Ch’ŏru to break away. Haryŏn and Ch’ŏru had often clashed over the issue. Haryŏn insisted on the freedom of art, while Ch’ŏru argued for the political responsibility of art. In the end, he defected to the North. A few days before his departure, the two had had a heated argument in his boarding room. For a week thereafter, Haryŏn had refused to see him. Then one day she received a letter from him: I know all too well that what you are saying is correct. I think you also understand why I must take this road. I sense that I will be coming back to you someday. I can’t promise when, but I think the day will come for me to confess that you were right. This is not a premonition; it’s because I can already see the word “disappointment” in my mind.

Haryŏn had waited the length of an entire year. But Ch’ŏru never returned. He probably couldn’t have. When the electricity supply was cut off between the South and the North, the secret routes across the thirty-eighth parallel for merchants and escapees from the North were completely blocked as well. Haryŏn had gotten married. Her husband, recommended by her father, was a perfectly ordinary man. Haryŏn had felt, with unutterable sorrow, as if her marriage had resolved all things in her life. She had concluded that the season of love between her and Ch’ŏru, passionate like the scorching sun, and their separation thereafter, similar to that of Solveig,4 were nothing but lovely memories, a scene from a novel that she herself had experienced. Ch’ŏru was now back here. He returned, just as he’d said he would. There was no need for Haryŏn to ask Ch’ŏru about the disappointment that had followed his defection; in their hearts they both knew it all too well.

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Suddenly Ch’ŏru said to the approaching waitress, “I’d like a cup of tea.” “What would you like?” the waitress asked Haryŏn. “Coffee, please,” Haryŏn said. The coffee arrived. The waitress placed the cup in front of Haryŏn and skillfully poured the coffee and cream. The milky liquid spread quietly on the surface of the brown, creating a whitish brown. The brown of the pure coffee disappeared completely. Haryŏn had very much agonized over the skin color of the children in her River Children. Her efforts to emphasize the suntanned skin of little children in summer had turned out to be the color of coffee mixed with cream and made the entire painting gloomy. As Haryŏn picked up her cup, Ch’ŏru said, “I never dreamed of your coming here today.” He calmly emptied the ashes from his pipe. “How many children do you have?” he asked. It was an ordinary conversation. “What a dull topic, considering the long silence that preceded those words,” Haryŏn thought, although she wasn’t sure what to say either. They now live in certain orbits from which they are not to deviate; it is impossible to satisfy their yearnings with embraces and kisses like those in a scene from a foreign movie. “Your painting is very good. Looking at it after such a long time, I felt like I’d met you unexpectedly,” said Haryŏn, pushing away her empty cup and straining every nerve. “Ha, ha . . . it feels strange to hear praise from you.” Ch’ŏru laughed and then gave a light sigh, sounding almost like a lament. When one of Ch’ŏru’s paintings had first been accepted for a modern art exhibition in Japan, he was so moved by his own confidence that he kissed her for the first time and promised to marry her. Thereafter their love had deepened, and they had returned to Korea together. “It’s stuffy here. Shall we go out?” said Ch’ŏru. They came out to the street. “Have you eaten?” Ch’ŏru asked. “Yes,” said Haryŏn. Haryŏn didn’t feel like eating. Suddenly she felt as if their conversation was as intimate as it had been long ago. The space of thirteen years seemed to have disappeared. Ch’ŏru stopped walking for a moment to light his pipe. His posture demonstrated a mature composure that had been absent in his younger days, and it roused a sense of trust in Haryŏn. Each time the winds blew, dried sycamore leaves showered down and made crushing noises under the feet of Ch’ŏru and Haryŏn. After crossing T’oegye Street, the two went to Mount Nam, Ch’ŏru leading the way. Young dating couples passed by in all directions. Occasionally, Sibal taxis went by with their

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blinding high beams, and the antenna tower of the HLKA radio station soared high into the night sky.5 There had been no radio station on Mount Nam ten years ago. Twenty years ago, a Shinto shrine had nestled there, noted for the clatter of Japanese wooden clogs. Witnessing the passage of time and the changes it had brought, Haryŏn felt poignant emotions stirring inside her. “I thought I would be leaving once more without seeing you again,” said Ch’ŏru. Haryŏn was taken aback by what Ch’ŏru said. “Why, are you going back to France?” she asked. “My daughter is waiting for me,” said Ch’ŏru. This was news to Haryŏn. “A daughter?” “Her name is Alissa,” said Ch’ŏru. The name “Alissa” immediately reminded Haryŏn of the novel Straight Is the Gate.6 “The name sounds very delicate,” said Haryŏn. “I feel sorry for Julie—that is, my dead wife—but I came up with the name, longing for the woman I could never erase from my heart,” said Ch’ŏru. Haryŏn understood what Ch’ŏru meant. It was Haryŏn who had lent André Gide’s Straight Is the Gate, her favorite book, to Ch’ŏru, and Ch’ŏru had returned it with his first love note to her slipped inside. “In fact, Alissa should have been born our child,” said Ch’ŏru. Ch’ŏru’s excited tone made Haryŏn rather flustered. It was difficult to measure the extent of Ch’ŏru’s love for her, but he was obviously trying to connect their current relationship to the past. “Dear Haryŏn, can you forgive me? Back then, on my way to the South during the January 14 retreat, I believed you would forgive me. But you refused even to see me. I was so disappointed.” Haryŏn was quiet. “I’m not trying to make excuses for the past, but after all, the past is the mother of the present. I don’t know whether something was wrong with the past or whether I was responsible, but now I’ve grown up and realized that I’m nothing but an ill-fated spiritual vagabond.” Haryŏn remained silent. “I finally understand the plain truth that the values of all things are fully appreciated when they are gone, including love, freedom, and art.” Haryŏn wasn’t paying attention to what Ch’ŏru was saying anymore. She stood, looking blankly into the Seoul night. The sky of the ripening autumn stretched high above them, and the stars were retracing old tales. The wind felt cold against her skin. Haryŏn felt twinges of self-reproach as she wondered why she hadn’t tried harder to rescue Ch’ŏru thirteen years ago when he had been swept away by the waves of politics. “Dear Haryŏn . . .”

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“Yes.” With his impassioned plea, Ch’ŏru grabbed Haryŏn’s hand. His big warm hand tightly held her small icy one. “If it’s at all possible, please try to come to Paris. I couldn’t give you what I want to, but even now, if I could be of any help with your painting, I would like to do so as a friend.” “I wish I could . . .” “I saw your painting and noticed some fine points. I believe a little more study could do a lot of good for your originality.” “It’s all over with me. I lost my desire to paint a long time ago, and I’m sure River Children barely made it into the exhibition,” said Haryŏn as she pulled her hand out of Ch’ŏru’s. “Ha, ha . . . you really do need to come to Paris, Haryŏn. You ought to come and watch painters as old as fifty or sixty work on sketches in the Luxembourg Garden. The sight stimulates a painter like nothing else can.” Haryŏn kept quiet. “But please don’t think I’m trying to seduce you, my virtuous lady.” There was a thorny ironic undertone to Ch’ŏru’s words. As the two returned to reality, they smiled wryly to themselves in the darkness. Walking down the hill, Haryŏn asked Ch’ŏru when he was going back to Paris. She caught a hint of loneliness in his voice as he answered that he would leave before winter. At parting, Ch’ŏru grasped Haryŏn’s hand once more. On her way home, Haryŏn felt relaxed and somehow at peace in her heart. Her long-accumulated resentment cleared up like clouds vanishing from an autumn sky. At home Haryŏn found her husband, who was supposed to be away, reading the newspaper. She felt her heart leap into her mouth. “Would an unfaithful wife feel this way?” Haryŏn wondered. She couldn’t look her husband in the face. When he asked where she had been, she answered that she had visited Mr. Nokpong at his house, feeling intense self-hatred at her duplicity. After confirming Haryŏn’s return home, her husband went straight to bed and fell asleep. Listening to his regular breathing, Haryŏn decided to go to bed also. Just then, the light of the rising moon filtered in faintly through the gap between the curtains. Haryŏn turned the light off and threw the curtains wide open. Moonlight poured into the dark room, filling it completely. She decided that the waning moon of autumn was the most rueful of the year, and she began to think that the downhill life of a woman past her prime would be nearly as lonesome. From a corner of the house somewhere, crickets chirped away like lonely women crying out for love. Haryŏn pictured Ch’ŏru in her

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mind: a lonely, middle-aged painter leading a monotonous life with his daughter, Alissa, in a glamorous foreign city. Having learned the value of love, freedom, and art, he would once again search for love and dedicate himself to art. Tears streamed down Haryŏn’s face for no apparent reason. Autumn was certainly the season of remorse and self-reflection. It resembled the anguish of a woman struggling to climb a mountain along her own life’s path. Suddenly Haryŏn shook her husband from his deep sleep. “What’s the matter?” Her husband looked at her with sleepy eyes. “Oh, nothing. This room is awfully quiet, isn’t it?” “Why bring that up now . . .?” Haryŏn’s husband couldn’t understand her loneliness. “Well, just . . . ,” said Haryŏn. She began to choke up. “You must be stressed out about your painting submitted to the exhibition. Let’s go back to sleep.” Haryŏn’s husband put his arm lightly around her neck and drew her to him. Then, in no time, he fell back into another deep sleep. Haryŏn buried her head deeply in her husband’s chest. A number of artworks, solemnly displayed in the marble building, came to her mind. The art show in the streets where dead leaves rustled around in great numbers, the young generation standing in the hot sun, and Ch’ŏru wandering among the lost generation—all these images passed through her mind like scenes from a movie. “I, too, will have to be painting more seriously starting tomorrow,” said Haryŏn, confessing to no one in particular. Her husband’s arm loosened around her neck as the healthy sounds of his heartbeats reached her ears. In the moonlit sky, an airplane—not geese—was flying with its searchlight on, and the satellites—not stars—were keeping watch through the night. And on earth the sounds of falling leaves quickened the passage of the season. [First published in Hyŏndae munhak (Modern literature), October 1961]

Analysis of “When Autumn Leaves Fall” Set within the tightly controlled temporal framework of a single late autumn day, “When Autumn Leaves Fall” (Nagyŏpki; 1961) presents a reflective account of a midlife crisis experienced by its protagonist, Haryŏn, a married woman painter who has just turned forty. As the narrative unfolds, the reader is led into the heroine’s inner turmoil while following her leisurely and solitary excursion through a national gallery, where her own painting is

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on display. A discerning woman, Haryŏn finds herself faced with unsettling questions about her identity as an artist, wife, and mother of four children. She is even unnerved by concerns over her age. Such agitation can be characterized as part of a personal crisis that middle-class housewives commonly experience as they pass their prime, but in Haryŏn’s case, her profession as an artist adds another critical dimension to her quandary. The restlessness in Hayrŏn’s heart first presents itself when she runs into a carefree young couple on the street and is sharply reminded of her age and her loss of youthful vigor and spontaneity. This feeling of falling behind the times grows stronger when Haryŏn goes to the art exhibit. When she views the paintings and sculptures showcasing new faces of the art world, represented by such rising stars as the sculptor Son Hyesŏn, Haryŏn is beset by a disturbing self-doubt. Moreover, Haryŏn feels challenged by the new morality and values of the younger generation, as she considers the lifestyle of Kyŏngja, a female college art student she knows, who indulges in promiscuous relationships and regards traditional sexual morals as old-fashioned. Haryŏn perceives similar aggression and activism and will to break from the artistic establishment in the activities of young artists who participated in the open street art exhibit she had recently viewed. Feeling dispirited by the challenges of these young artists, Haryŏn compares herself to a dried fallen leaf, artistically moribund and hopeless. The very sight of her own painting provokes nothing but strong feelings of self-loathing and despair. Haryŏn’s increasing distress reaches its peak when she unexpectedly encounters a painting by her long-lost first love, Ch’ŏru. Ch’ŏru’s painting, titled Paradise, features a bucolic scene of Adam and Eve immediately before they fall prey to the snake. The biblical motif and the aesthetic appeal coming from Ch’ŏru’s unique contrast of colors set off in Haryŏn a strong longing for the man who shares a part of her past. Haryŏn recognizes his presence lingering in her heart, which she has long denied for fear of destroying the stability of her married life. This encounter with Ch’ŏru’s work triggers her memories, which reach back to her college years in the last phase of the Korean colonial period (1910–1945) and reveals a chapter of Haryŏn’s life thus far hidden from the reader. The scene also furthers the pensive mood of the narrative as Haryŏn’s focus shifts from her actual observations of artwork in the present to her recollection of the past. Haryŏn’s reminiscence partially discloses her past relationship with Ch’ŏru, which developed during their sojourn in Japan as art students and ended with Ch’ŏru’s defection to the North after Korea’s political division following its 1945 liberation from Japan. It also relates Haryŏn’s knowledge of Ch’ŏru’s current personal situation, as described to her by Mr. Nokpong, an

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older painter who played an intermediary role between the lovers during their days in Japan: Ch’ŏru became a recognized painter in Paris; is a widower having lost his French wife, who died two years earlier; and is even now on a short visit to his homeland. For a while Haryŏn fondly traces her past with Ch’ŏru, which is mixed with regret at losing him and a strong impulse to see him again. At the same time, she is fully aware of the senselessness of any reunion with him after a decade’s separation and wonders about her own contradictory emotions. Following her better judgment, Haryŏn suppresses her desire and returns home toward evening, but at home she feels no longer needed by her children, who seem to have outgrown her motherly care. She tries to escape this sense of void by retreating to the private space of her own studio, but she finds it almost impossible to concentrate, as the image of Ch’ŏru continues to haunt her. Her efforts to settle her emotional turbulence by painting also prove futile, her discomfort deepened by her suspicion that her husband is womanizing. When he phones to inform her of an overnight business trip—a probable excuse for his philandering—without even stopping by the house himself to pick up his travel bags, Haryŏn feels the gap between them grow. The lonely vacuum thus created in her heart leads her to surrender to her earlier impulse to seek out Ch’ŏru. The most poignant part of the story concerns Haryŏn’s evening gettogether with Ch’ŏru at the Champs-Élysées tearoom, with its exotic French ambience—a favorite haunt for fellow artists—and their later walk together on Mount Nam. What it reveals in fuller detail is the heartbreaking love story of Haryŏn. Her relationship with Ch’ŏru, dating from their days in Japan, had all the elements of romanticism, idealism, and promise. And yet it succumbed to external forces beyond their control. The tragedy of Haryŏn and Ch’ŏru’s love story derives essentially from the victimization of Korean intellectuals by Japanese colonial oppression; by the ideological bedlam of Korea after liberation, which presented Korean artists with the impossible dilemma of choosing between the pursuit of artistic autonomy and active political engagement; and finally, by the misfortune of Korea’s political division and the Korean War. This section—the most elegiac of the short story—serves also as a confessional on the part of Ch’ŏru to Haryŏn. He is filled with remorse for his past actions that brought about their final separation and expresses his deeprooted love for her and his genuine concern for her art, which is received by Haryŏn with a tint of self-reproach for not having given him a second chance. Although Haryŏn realizes there is no turning back, the reunion with Ch’ŏru helps relieve her of a burden she has carried for many years, allowing her to reconcile with her past. In this section of the story, the author’s use of André

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Gide’s novel, Solveig’s song, and French popular songs effectively underscores the poignancy of the pair’s star-crossed affair. The narrative ends with Haryŏn’s return home. To her surprise, she finds her husband at home rather than on a business trip and feels guilty, as if she had committed infidelity by staying out so late with Ch’ŏru. Her efforts to reconnect with her husband proving futile, Haryŏn once again feels the acute sorrow of her love. At the same time, she realizes she and Ch’ŏru were among a lost generation of Koreans, drifting on the seas without anchor. This realization leads Haryŏn to a renewed determination to pursue life’s meaning in her art. In the end, the season of autumn with its falling leaves turns out to be one of self-rediscovery for the heroine, a new beginning—not the dead end she at first feared.

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Seven

A Dish of Sliced Raw Fish (1979) Yi Sun

Yi Sun (b. 1949) comes from a family background that sums up the turbulent life courses of modern Korean intellectuals, lives that closely parallel Korean political history itself. Her father, educated at Chūō University, Tokyo, was a student resistance fighter who suffered imprisonment by Japanese police until the liberation in 1945. Yi’s mother—a student at Tsuda College, Tokyo—had to abandon her schooling due to unsettling political developments in Korea during the colonial period. After the liberation, however, she resumed her education at Seoul’s Yŏnhŭi University (present-day Yŏnsei University), becoming the first woman student in the university’s history and majoring in English. Her marriage in 1947 again interrupted her college education, though she later completed her BA in English at Sŏnggyungwan University, Seoul. The fortitude, commitment, and perseverance of Yi’s parents were to become the spiritual backbone of Yi Sun’s life and work. The first of four siblings, Yi Sun was born in Seoul in 1949 after her parents had moved to the South from their native towns in South Hamgyŏng Province, North Korea. Yi graduated from Paehwa Girls’ High School in Seoul in 1967, where her mother taught English from 1960 to 1987. During her high school days, Yi was known for her talent for writing, and she earned a BA in Korean literature from Yŏnsei University in 1971. In 1972 she debuted by winning a literary competition sponsored by the newspaper Taehan ilbo. That same year she married a writer—from an impoverished large family—whom she had met as a co-worker at a magazine company after college graduation. After her marriage Yi taught at Yŏngnan Girls’ Middle School in Seoul for more than seven years. While juggling the demanding tasks of teaching and 119

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supporting her family, Yi entered Yŏnsei’s graduate program in Korean literature and she received her MA in 1973. That same year she gave birth to her first son. Her experiences during this hectic and strenuous period would become the subject matter of her later writing. The period from 1974 to 1980 marked the blossoming of Yi’s creativity, the most significant landmark being her 1979 winning of a literary competition sponsored by Tonga ilbo. In the same year, her first novel, Param i tadŭn mun (The door shut by winds), began its serialization in a magazine. This was followed by a string of short stories, notably “Pyŏng’ŏ hoe” (A dish of sliced raw fish; 1979), “Uridŭl ŭi ai” (Our children; 1979), and “Nae noksŭn kigye” (My rusted machine; 1979). Most of her short narratives during this time incorporate her personal experiences as teacher, daughter-in-law, and mother and reveal the values, hopes, and drives of the contemporary Korean middle class, as well as its frustrations and failings. In 1980 Yi began to serialize her novella “Sumŏ innŭn ach’im” (A morning in hiding) in the newspaper Seoul sinmun. In 1981 Yi entered the doctoral program in Korean literature at Yŏnsei University and published Uridŭl ŭi ai (Our children), a collection of her previously published short stories arranged in a linked-narrative format (yŏnjak sosŏl). She also began to work part-time as an instructor at various universities in Seoul, including Yŏnsei and Ch’ŏngju University in Ch’ŏngju, North Ch’ungch’ŏng Province. With the serialization of her novella “Chiha tosi” (Underground city) in 1982 in the newspaper Chung’ang ilbo, Yi established her literary status as one of the new voices of the 1980s, characterized by a witty style and sharp social observations. In the meantime, she became a sought-after contributor to various magazines and newspapers. The result was the publication in 1983 of her collected essays, Che-3 ŭi yŏsŏng (The third woman). The year 1984 saw Yi’s obtaining of her PhD from Yŏnsei University as well as the publication of her novel Nege kang kat’ŭn p’yŏnghwa (A riverlike peace to you). Yi’s academic endeavors were rewarded in 1985 by her appointment as assistant professor at Ch’ŏngju University, which was capped by the publication of her short story collection Paekpu ŭi tal (My big uncle’s moon; 1985). Following the publication of her essay collection Arŭmdaun kŏt (Beautiful things) and a novel, Nŏ kŭrigo na ŭi pinbang (An empty room for you and me), in 1986, however, Yi’s burgeoning professional and writing careers were brought to an abrupt end by illness and memory loss. Thereafter, Yi’s literary achievements were all but forgotten, and even her whereabouts, to say nothing of her condition, remained generally unknown for a long time— especially after the death of her husband in 1993. Currently, however, Yi Sun

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is living in a nursing home in Seoul, where she continues to write in a daily diary despite the memory limitations that hamper her.1 Her previously published short stories, including “A Dish of Sliced Raw Fish,” reappeared in 2005 in an anthology titled 20-segi Han’guk sosŏl (The twentieth-century Korean novel).

A Dish of Sliced Raw Fish I’ll never forget the first time I met my father-in-law. I was giving a gentle jiggle to the gate of my boyfriend’s house, feeling awkward for showing up at his house before we were even married. “Who’s there?” an unfamiliar voice roared from inside the gate, and I felt my heart leap into my throat. I didn’t know how to introduce myself—I couldn’t say, “I am the soon-to-be daughter-in-law of this house.” While I groped for words, flushed to my neck with embarrassment, the same thundering voice rang out again, “Who’s there, I said?” “Well, it’s . . . me,” I barely stammered under the pressure of the moment. Thereupon the harsh voice yelled back, “Who do you mean by ‘me’?” Dumbstruck, I looked at the sallow forehead and small eyes, totally unknown to me, that were thrust over the tiny, palm-size iron gate. I wondered, “Who can that person be?” Had my boyfriend’s family moved away without my knowledge? The next moment, I realized with a start that this was my future father-in-law. For some unknown reason I broke into giggles in spite of myself. At that time, my boyfriend, Kyŏngmin, was an upperclassman in my department, so our dates were limited to our university campus or to the tearooms, music rooms, and noodle shops around the campus area. Our conversation, too, was usually limited to topics about our department: “The popular Shakespearean scholar Professor K, if poked and pried, is nothing but a windbag”; “It’s crude to translate Dylan Thomas’ Quite Early One Morning into One Early Morning in Korean”;2 “Since the M University in the United States and our university have become sister schools, our BA and MA degrees will be recognized by our U.S. counterpart”; and so on. Our activities might have been all the narrower in scope because Kyŏngmin, a returnee, and I, one year junior to him, both planned to continue our studies by attending graduate school.

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So we couldn’t leave out the topic of our families from our conversations either. Everyone knew that success in scholarly pursuits depended as much upon family backing as a student’s academic achievements—common knowledge to anyone interested in such matters. In this regard, my boyfriend’s family, lacking even a telephone, which was as common as dirt—so that I had to rely on telegrams for urgent communication with him during school vacations—wasn’t much of a family in the first place, if you will. But Kyŏngmin was optimistic at that time. He said all would go well with his family if his father “successfully scooped up three or four times.” The object of this “scooping up” was fish. Kyŏngmin told me that his father owned a fishing boat. For me, growing up as the oldest daughter of an eternal section chief in the Ministry of Communications, fish at most meant grilled croakers or scabbard fish on our dining table. As for the fishing boat, I imagined it to be something like the ones in a song I had learned in fifth grade, which ran, “Over the morning sea, seagulls carry golden lights / And fishing boats carrying songs full of hope row away . . .” I thought the fishing boat sounded wonderful, and my wild imagination indulged in visions of it. Contrary to Kyŏngmin’s hopes, however, his father’s boat never scooped up anything right—not even once, to say nothing of three or four times. Far from “scooping up,” his boat “dropped things” into the sea and lost them. What it lost on the sea was its fishing nets. Fishing nets? They were even vaguer to me than fish. “It’s all because of my father’s greed,” Kyŏngmin used to fume. “He gets greedier and greedier for a bigger catch, and then by bad luck the winds spring up, and there go his nets! Ugh! I hate his greed!” I heard about such losses three times altogether. Called barbwire nets—something I had never heard of—those nets cost two million wŏn each. One day, a month before his graduation exam, Kyŏngmin, who never missed class, didn’t show up at school, and after several more days without hearing from him, I set out in search of his house at the foothills of Hwagye Temple, in Suyuri.3 I took his address with me, the one I used for sending telegrams. After half a day of wandering, I returned home unable to find his house, and that very evening I had a phone call from him. Kyŏngmin was sitting in the corner of a noisy drinking establishment near campus called Double Widows, continuously emptying rice wine into his mouth and showing no desire to touch the appetizer—thin strips of sweet potato—provided free of charge. I noticed that my male classmates had set up camp across from our seats and were keeping a vigilant eye on me, trying mischievously to have their presence noted. Ignoring them, I broke into tears and wiped them away with my fingertips. I wasn’t quite sure why I was crying.

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It could have been out of pity for Kyŏngmin, who had grown haggard and sunburned in the past few days, gulping down liquor without food; or it could have been shock at the squalor I had seen as I wandered around his neighborhood with his address in my hand. Kyŏngmin’s thoughts were alarmingly easy to read: the world was coming to an end. More shocking, though, was my previous encounter with the narrow, sloping, unpaved alley of his neighborhood, full of potholes, where I saw a dead puppy lying stiff on a garbage can overflowing with rubbish, and a little girl, her buttocks bare, barking toward the gate of her house, “Mom, I’m done with my pooh.” The experience was especially appalling to me, who had been raised in a five-room Korean-style house. It was an old house, with an extra simple frame greenhouse attached, but thanks to the hard scrubbing given to it every autumn, its color-tiled entryway was tidy and its wooden posts always had a sheen. No, this doesn’t mean I was shocked because the alley in Kyŏngmin’s neighborhood was the only such alley in Seoul or because I had never seen anything like it. I was even aware that Seoul had backstreets far worse than the one I’d seen—many times worse in fact than the better alleys of the city. Furthermore, I was at the time deeply immersed in those intellectual theories that insisted that the “better alleys” ought to feel ashamed of and responsible for those alleyways worse off than they. I firmly believed that for a beneficiary of a university education like me to be a champion of such theories was the first step toward freedom, justice, and truth—the fundamental objectives of a university education. So I carried antagonism against a few upper-class women students who went on to graduate school just to fill the void until marriage. I grabbed at every chance to make scathing remarks against women in general, saying, “I often feel it is all too natural for men to despise women. The obstacle to gender equality is not male prejudice but female ignorance.” As an example, I cited the tendency of women—whether students of top-notch or third-rate universities, no matter whether they had attended college or dropped out after primary school—to wager their whole lives on their choice of a husband. And I didn’t hesitate to give a good scolding to the prevailing custom that judged a woman’s success in life solely by economic stability. Opportunities to make such criticisms were usually given to me during the discussion sessions of my college club meetings. Since Kyŏngmin was a senior member of that literary circle, I got to reap two harvests from the club—one being the theories; the other, my boyfriend, so to speak. I never ceased to feel embarrassed that those theories completely failed to ease the shock I had experienced in the alleys of my boyfriend’s neighborhood, because to say that

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I didn’t want to find the house was closer to the truth than that I couldn’t find it. The immaturity of those theories, I thought, was more embarrassing than the shuddering disgust I felt in that neighborhood at the sight of streets crowded by those so-called mini two-story houses standing on pint-size lots. I noticed that these houses unfailingly had their first floors rented out to cotton gin stores, comic book shops, hair salons, or handmade-toy workshops, setting the neighborhood ablaze with its different colored shops. Now I was sitting across from Kyŏngmin in the corner of the tiny, scrubby rice-wine shop, the air thick with smoke from grilled pork and cigarettes, mixed with the clamor of male students bawling out in chorus, “We are all gentlemen, the same as you, no different from you. You, fellah, with a Rolex watch on, you aren’t the only exceptional one. I, a gentleman in handcuffs, am also exceptional.” Sitting in this chaotic drinking joint, I shuddered with loathing at my irrepressible urge to retract my love—if that was even still possible—to which I had dedicated most of my college years, a period that comes only once in a lifetime. My intense desire to take back my love hurt my pride. Still I had to consider my twenty-some years’ privileged life of drinking tap water, one of the amenities of metropolitan life in Seoul, granted that the days I spent with my love shouldn’t be discounted so easily. Tap water wasn’t all that I’d grown up with. I grew up in a household that refused to be left out of the great television craze spurred on by the government’s five-year economic development plans in the early 1960s.4 My family had bought a TV set on a monthly installment plan, adorning our tiled roof with a TV antenna that looked like the antlers of a deer roaming in Ch’anggyŏng Garden.5 My house had also applied for a telephone line, keeping abreast of the times, and we had that product of modern civilization installed at our bedside. In the 1970s, the decade of great hope, we had bought a two-door refrigerator so as not to fall behind the times. But above all, I had been raised in a home that could afford to give its daughters a college education. That’s who I was. Kyŏngmin began, “I’ve been to Changhang.6 My father hasn’t sent us any money for three months. We haven’t had any contact from him either. So I went to see what was going on. Now I’ve got to support my whole family. It’s a good thing I’ll be out of school soon. Of course, I have to cross off graduate school. I have nine mouths to feed. You sure you know what you’re getting into? If not, let’s call it quits now.” I shook my head without even making the usual flimsy excuse, like “Give me time to think it over.” My idiotic pride was to be blamed for it all. I was fully aware that with the times the way they were, couples that had lived together with children over ten years could split up with no regrets, like a ripe

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peach cracking open, once they found their marriage didn’t pay. I knew quite well, too, that the pure love pledged tearfully in the corner of a cheap drinking place near campus would not be impervious to the whims and flip-flops of later years. As the saying goes, it is practical work, not knowledge, that has power, and I realized that knowledge meant little in the real world outside of school. So, one month before his graduation, Kyŏngmin got a job with a trading company, a subsidiary of a conglomerate. But he didn’t even own a new suit, which was beneath the dignity of an elite employee of a booming major corporation. Come to think of it, he hadn’t exactly been slick-looking in his college days either, but his tutoring side job had earned him a monthly income on a par with the wages of average salarymen. Of course, it was out of the question for him to make free use of those earnings. Still, he had money left after paying his tuition fees and was able to date me, that is, to engage in the practice known on campus as “bringing up one’s own woman.” We used to see each other at school, book packs on our backs, but we couldn’t simply spend our time together day in, day out sitting on a bench outside the classroom either. On the contrary, we both loved to go to a tearoom facing the campus, whose walls were decorated with a framed copy of an Apollinaire poem and reprints of a Van Gogh portrait and Munch’s The Scream and whose air was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee with whipped cream and the melodies of Bruch’s violin concerto.7 We also loved the draft beer house, where we could watch the familiar faces of young popular singers playing the guitar on television. We also often went to movies or plays, and Kyŏngmin even presented me with a fourteen-karat gold necklace with a heart pendant when he got a bonus from the parents of a student he was tutoring. The parents gave him the extra money as a token of gratitude for their son’s remarkable improvement in school, taking the autumn full-moon season as an opportunity to express their thanks. The beginning salary of a new company employee, however, was just about the same as Kyŏngmin’s former monthly income from tutoring. Now he had to look after nine family members with that money. Eventually he had to take up tutoring again, just three months after quitting it to take on his new company job. His most pressing problem was paying the college entrance fees for the first of his two younger brothers. At first his older sister managed to cover the expenses by getting the first share from her kye.8 But the remaining dues for her kye turned out to be 40 percent of Kyŏngmin’s monthly salary. Seeing my boyfriend, worn out from working dawn till dusk and in a completely dowdy, ready-made suit from the South Gate market, I simply couldn’t blurt out such heartless words as “Let’s take more time to think about our marriage.”9

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On one occasion, I ran into an old high school classmate, a rather commonplace girl who, having graduated from a community college, was now grooming herself as a bride-to-be. She babbled, “My future father-in-law is an executive director of the S Company. I was told that he bought an apartment for us in Yŏŭido.10 He thinks that young couples should live by themselves no matter what. He really dotes on me. He took me himself and picked out this ring for me too. Don’t you think it’s got a sophisticated design? Believe it or not, this is a one-carat diamond.” Some time after this encounter with the friend, my maternal uncle’s wife dropped in and said to my mother, “Look at Chiyŏng! She’s bloomed into a beautiful woman! Isn’t she graduating this spring, sis? You’d better be looking around for marriage candidates. Let me see. Well, there is one who is bridegroom material with a degree in engineering, but a drawback may be that he’s a graduate of K University. Who cares about such a trifle as a school name, though? You see, what matters most is the person concerned and his family background. His father is a professor at K University, and the young man is attending graduate school besides working. That is, he is planning to succeed his father. Into the bargain, he is the second son, you see.” These stories got me thinking about my situation. My head was full of ideas for tactfully dumping my boyfriend, whose father was neither an executive director nor a professor, from whom I could expect neither an apartment nor a diamond ring. To make matters worse, my Kyŏngmin wasn’t even a second son. But once I met him, my heart bled at his haggard look. We hadn’t been able to see each other even once a week. Immediately after his office work, he would rush to the rented room he used for tutoring. Sometimes we couldn’t see each other for three weeks on end. And now he’d had to go to Changhang for two weekends in a row in search of his missing father. In addition to providing for his parents and siblings, Kyŏngmin had to look after the needs of his ailing grandmother, who kept asking for her son. It was the evening Kyŏngmin returned from his second search trip that he called at my house. As our telephone happened to be out of order that day of all days, he couldn’t get through even after repeated attempts, and so there he was at our door. My mother, who knew I had a boyfriend, wasn’t surprised by his visit. What stunned her was the result of her census taking of his family, undertaken with my father’s help, after they had led him into the wooden-floored main room—our living room. My mother almost fainted at Kyŏngmin’s family background—the bankruptcy of his father’s fishing business, making him the sole breadwinner for the entire family; that he’d just returned from Changhang after hunting every corner of the city for his father because he couldn’t

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bear the sight of his seventy-something grandmother lying ill in bed demanding to see her missing son. Witnessing Kyŏngmin’s crushed expression as my parents’ faces instantly turned icy, I made up my mind that I’d marry him for the life of me—an impractical, moronic decision, some might say. I followed after him when, completely dispirited, he finally turned his back on my parents’ cold faces and left our house. I sat facing him in a tearoom near the bus stop, again wiping tears away with my fingertips. When after a prolonged silence he said, “Let’s . . . break up,” I burst into sobs, covering my face with my hands, unable to hold back the tears. Yet I didn’t forget to shake my head. In the meantime, I silently showered curses upon Kyŏngmin’s father—the man who had trouble “scooping up”; got into debt; turned his hand to gambling, hoping against hope (so common at fishing ports); and in the end gambled away even his fishing boat. In short, the root cause of all our misery was this one irresponsible middle-aged man. My curses, however, turned to sympathy, which happened after I had worked my way through a series of vexing procedures such as having an audience with Kyŏngmin’s grandmother and mother at his house. This was made possible only after my parents gave in to my revolt following my failure to persuade them, which included my overnight stay with Kyŏngmin and returning home the next morning. No, the word “sympathy” was actually too classy for my feelings toward the father-in-law I had never met. The man whose foolhardy gambling had so splendidly brought the grand finale to his livelihood appeared to me more like a comic character. That’s why I broke into giggles when I’d first met him, but such behavior obviously did nothing but incur the wrath of my future father-in-law. Listening to the argument going on at the gate, his youngest daughter rushed out and said, “Why, it’s you, sis! Dad, this is brother’s girlfriend he is going to marry, the one we talked about yesterday.” The gate opened, and when I bowed courteously to him, he said grudgingly, “Oh, I see. I haven’t been around for a long time . . . ” and then walked straight to the wash area. The scene in the wash area made my jaw drop. Incredibly, there were piles of hand-size fish in the earthenware tub, along with a cutting board, a knife-sharpening stone, and a kitchen knife. As he squatted, Kyŏngmin’s father said, “Where has your mom gone all this while?” without addressing himself to anyone in particular but in a tone that said he was outraged by the person addressed as “your mom.” I felt utterly scandalized. When I had come to this house with Kyŏngmin and met his mother for the first time, I had felt wretched at the sight of her careworn appearance, this woman who was going to be my mother-in-law. The weary course of her life hurt my heart beyond

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description and convinced me that her husband who made her so miserable was an unforgivable sinner. In this belief I was not alone. Kyŏngmin couldn’t help but tongue-lash his father whenever he met me, overwhelmed by the burdensome responsibilities of tutoring after his office hours, although later I pitched in to help him out. After every rant he never forgot to add, “I am toughing it out because of my mother, you know. I feel so sorry for her.” In fact, stories about Kyŏngmin’s father had sometimes come up in our college days, between our talks about Dylan Thomas. At that time, his father had a great dream of “scooping up” in Changhang. But those stories were different in that they had a sweet sentimental overtone, as tales of bygone hard times always have. After our drinks in the draft beer house, we went to our favorite tearoom near campus and requested Kyŏngmin’s favorite music, “Andante Cantabile,” and he often reminisced about his father’s past while we listened to it.11 Apparently his father had spent his prime years in Inch’ŏn, where he had owned two fishing boats and even a rice store.12 In order to expand his business, he had mortgaged his rice store and a fishing boat and bought a new, modern-style motorboat. Blinded by greed, his inborn character flaw, he had had the new boat and the two old boats sail out fishing at once, wanting a quick return on his investment, but all three boats tragically sank. “It was too awful for words,” Kyŏngmin said. “I still think hell would look just like those scenes. Relatives of the dead crew marched into our house like masses of hornets, demanding their men be brought back to life. While creditors set up camp in the sitting room, Grandma wailed over the death of Grandpa, who, out fishing with the crew in place of my father, had perished with them. Amid this crazy mess, we had to do without dinner, and I slipped out to the pier, taking my younger brother with me. The night sea was dark blue, and the lights of ocean liners moored far away were blinking on and off. Even though my empty stomach hurt, I thought the scene was beautiful.” Kyŏngmin’s reminiscences, set against the background of “Andante Cantabile,” moved me deeply. I got hooked on his story as he continued. “What could we do? We moved to Seoul because they said, ‘Even if one has to beg, Seoul is a better place to do it.’ Our luggage was only a bundle of bedding, rice bowls in a bucket, spoons, and chopsticks. Can you imagine how many spoons and chopsticks we had? And each and every one of them was for dishing up rice, you know. When I dropped by the marketplace on my way home from school, I found my mom dozing off. My sister Myŏngae was lying stretched out, my mom’s nipple in her mouth. Then, when the patrol squads charged to chase away peddlers, my mom fled, one hand holding the wooden board on her head and the other clutching Myŏngae to her side. But nothing was heard of my father.”

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These stories would have been preserved for eternity as beautiful household legends, had his father succeeded in “scooping up.” There was another story about Kyŏngmin’s father that made all the family members burst into happy tears. This man, who disappeared after moving his family up to Seoul, sent a message a year or so later to say that he was working on a friend’s fishing boat, was expecting to pile up a fortune in a little while, and was then to take over his friend’s boat. He said that his friend was sick and tired of a business that carried with it the bottomless netherworld under just a piece of wooden board—and so he’d appreciate his family’s patience until he sent them some money. If the story had ended at that point, it would have been fabulous. But in reality, he ended up vanishing again. It seemed, therefore, that my father-in-law’s specialty was cutting off communication with his family whenever he fared badly. How irresponsible of him! He was an utterly unpardonable sinner, as I saw it. Now this sinner was griping about his wife, sprinkling water over the kitchen knife, and sharpening it on a whetstone while he said, “It’s your mother’s job to sharpen the knife. Well, what’s taking her so long? Is she buying up the whole market?” A shrill voice called from inside, “You don’t say! She’s gone too long. By the way, is there someone who’s come to see us? I seem to hear Chiyŏng’s voice.” Hurriedly I said, “Hello, grandma. How are you?” and went up to the main wooden-floored terrace. When I glanced at the wash area, I noticed Kyŏngmin’s father looking up at me with the kitchen knife in his hand. He obviously took a dislike to me. The moment I looked back, he averted his eyes and began to sharpen the knife noisily on the whetstone. At that very moment someone shook the gate. Kyŏngmin’s father went over and opened it, then hollered, “Why, what took you so long?” “I had to look around for cheaper cabbages, because they were quite expensive,” said Kyŏngmin’s mother calmly. She went on, “Dear me, why are you sharpening the knife? Knives are supposed to be sharpened by the same person.” “If you knew that, how come you’re so late getting home?” Kyŏngmin’s mother was so distracted by her husband’s scolding that she seemed to have failed to notice me even as I tried to say hello to her as I stood at the corner of the wooden-floored terrace. She finally looked at me when I stepped down from the terrace and approached her, saying, “How are you, mother?” Barely recognizing me, she replied, “How are you, dear? Too bad Kyŏngmin’s not around, but . . . ” Then the first thing she did was take the knife from her husband’s hand, saying, “Let me take care of that.”

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Only a few minutes’ brisk whetting by Kyŏngmin’s mother turned the knife razor-sharp. Then Kyŏngmin’s father took the palm-size fish one by one out of the earthenware tub, put them on the chopping board, cut off their heads and tail fins, and scraped out their guts. After a short breather, he cut the fillets of fish into thin slices one after another, this time working more quickly and adroitly. I’ve never since seen anything as dazzling as the white light glinting off a knife blade or such precise hand movements as those Kyŏngmin’s father showed that day. Transfixed in front of the stone terrace, I stood with breathless attention and watched the aged couple’s teamwork. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to touch the dish of raw fish that resulted from their joint work, because I’d never had raw fish before. Later on, I learned that those palm-size fish were called harvest fish and that my in-laws all loved them, but even after I had been married a year, I still could not bring myself to taste the dish. This attitude of mine also contributed to my father-in-law’s displeasure with me. Later I learned that my father-in-law had been irritated that he, the head of the household, had been excluded from the business of his eldest son’s engagement from the beginning. No, what hurt him most was that our marriage had been decided upon during a period when he had once again abandoned his position as head of the household. But what else could we have done? My parents, appalled by my introduction of the candidate of future son-in-law, had mobilized my maternal uncle’s wife and my aunts on both sides of the family in a flurry of lining up other prospective bridegrooms. Apparently my parents had made no attempt to contact Kyŏngmin’s family about marriage matters, until I, desperate at my helplessness to thwart their plans, finally staged a coup d’état and stayed away from home overnight in an act of open defiance. Anyway, Kyŏngmin’s father must have felt sore about the development, and he always mentioned it to my husband whenever he grew mellow from drinking on such occasions as memorial services for grandfather: “Good heavens! Can you believe you almost had to take care of your marriage matters without your father? For some reason, your mother and my own mother both appeared in my dreams, so I came up to Seoul, only to find . . .” At first I was bothered by my father-in-law’s griping and the hidden meanings in everything he said, but as time went by, my anger subsided and I began to feel sorrier and sorrier for him. As the primary holders of economic power, my husband and I were unconsciously becoming the real masters of the household. Indeed, who among my in-laws could have complained about me? Even before my marriage, I provided financial support for Kyŏngmin’s family by taking over his tutoring work—first, half the job, and later, the whole thing. Upon graduating from college, I began teaching English at a girls’ middle

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school. This meant that our lofty dreams were sacrificed as offerings to the eight members of Kyŏngmin’s family—his grandmother, father, mother, two younger brothers, and three younger sisters. His two youngest sisters, born within a year of each other, were a first-year student in high school and a junior in junior high, respectively. The older one was attending a commercial high school, and the second-oldest one was supposed to follow suit. The case of the youngest sister, a seventh grader, would be no different. In the end it dawned on me what it was like to be middle class—a concept that had been fuzzy to me before. On our first wedding anniversary, my husband and I decided to get together after work, agreeing we couldn’t possibly let the day go by without doing anything, though we were pinched for time as much as for money. We went to the draft beer house that had been our haunt in college days, and we had beef cutlets and draft beer. Then we went to our old favorite tearoom and had coffee. But when I asked my husband, “Shall I request ‘Andante Cantabile’?” he hesitated and looked ill at ease. In fact, he wasn’t the only one who felt out of place. I felt the same, despite my suggestion, and I couldn’t understand why music requests, guitars, draft beers, and coffee had become so totally alien to me. So to get rid of the odd, awkward feeling, I came up with a conversation topic for us, “In our society, what should be the standards for the middle class?” My husband betrayed uneasiness again. The academic-style opening of my remark, “In our society,” seemed too affected to him. I myself felt that the phrase was ostentatious even as I said it, and when I noticed the expression on my husband’s face, I suddenly grew sad. I began to look back with amazement at the enormous changes of the past year. The hurried way I went to work in the morning, the pressure of work until five o’clock, the tutoring job thereafter . . . I felt tears welling up in my eyes for no reason. Noticing my mood, my husband erased the discomfort from his face and resumed our conversation in a deliberately cheerful tone: “Well, what could they be? Refrigerator, television, and the like?” I was in no mood to answer him, but since I had to finish my coffee before leaving the tearoom, I said spiritedly, “No, the criterion is whether a family can send its daughter to college or not.” All of a sudden my husband’s face grew cloudy. Then the dark expression changed into one of ferocity. “Let’s go,” he said, and jumped to his feet. All the way home, through the three bus-transfers, my husband kept his mouth shut. When we reached the iron gate of our house with its new buzzer—the result of my influence and an improvement over the primitive method of shaking the gate to have it opened—my husband paused for a moment with his hand on the button and spat out, “You’re right! We are a lower-class family.”

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Our first wedding anniversary thus ruined made it clearer than ever that I was the daughter-in-law of a lower-class household. I felt frustrated at my inability to make my husband understand how it was more painful for me to be the daughter-in-law of such a family than for him to be the son of one. My frustration, however, dissolved into insignificance before the problem of the college tuition fees of my younger brothers-in-law. My younger sisters-in-law were expected to get jobs with banks or private companies after graduating from commercial high schools and earn just enough to ready themselves for marriage. Moreover, my first sister-in-law, a freshman in a girls’ commercial high school, had promised, bless her heart, to at least take care of the future school expenses of her younger sister. I had to wait and see whether she’d make good on that promise, but if she really meant what she’d said, I thought, it couldn’t be that difficult for her to do so. The situations of my two brothers-in-law weren’t so simple. Most urgent was the tuition for my first brother-in-law’s engineering college. I used to go see my mother whenever I had pressing matters at hand. She asked bluntly, “Look, why on earth does that hard-pressed family send all its sons to college, anyway?” Although I was the one who had asked her for a favor, I huffed, “You know, the more hard up we are, the more important it is to send our kids to college. You don’t mean that we should live forever in want, do you? If you don’t have money, forget it!” Though I was piqued at my mother, I was more irritated at my husband. I believed that if he really wanted to give his younger brothers a college education, he should send them to a two-year teacher’s college or, if not, then to the less expensive college of education. I also thought it senseless to insist on sending them into science and engineering fields—expensive choices because of the extra fees charged for experiments and practical training—rather than into the social sciences or humanities. Moreover, now that my younger brother-in-law, two years junior to his second brother, had entered engineering college, I had to try my darned best to grab the top number when my school’s kye club was organized. Even after paying the tuition fees of two bothers-in-law with the kye share money, I couldn’t escape the chore of tutoring because of the expensive monthly shares I had to put into the kye, especially since interest was added to the first-share recipient’s payments. Around five o’clock in the afternoon, all the faces in the teachers’ room brightened, and some teachers even sighed happily, saying, “Ah, thank goodness, I’m done for the day.” But I had to rush to my tutoring class, snatching a hurried dinner between jobs—a pot of noodles or a bowl of slapdash mixedvegetable rice from a cheap eatery fronting the school. My heart ached when I watched the young single women teachers, who, after endless touchups to

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their makeup, put on their silk coats at the stroke of five and left the office as swiftly as the wind fluttering their clothes. Sometimes I ran into my college classmates in the street. Among them were friends who had gone on to graduate school, and I always came home grumpy on such days, my lips swollen with grievances, especially when I saw my father-in-law. Most distressing to me was that I couldn’t let go of tutoring. I usually taught students in a group in a rented room, but sometimes I also gave private lessons. In the latter case, I was expected to go to the student’s home. This was partly due to the preference of the student’s parents, but the fact of the matter was that our house had no room to spare. We had only three rooms—the largest shared by grandmother, my husband’s parents, and my two younger sisters-in-law, the middle one for us, and the smallest for my two brothers-inlaw—altogether an appalling situation. My privately tutored students were usually from wealthy families, and their homes were warm like greenhouses in the winter and an autumnal cool in the summer because of air conditioning. In the bathroom, the size of the room I shared with my husband at home, there was always a glittering white Western-style toilet, so awesome as to make me hesitate to do my business while sitting on its seat. The bathtub was hidden behind vinyl curtains of spanking new designs, and lined up in the glass-windowed cabinets were such imported items as bottles of shampoo, lotions, and astringent and neat piles of thick, gorgeous, colorful towels. Above all, there was the big, thick bathroom mirror. Looking at my reflection, I was surprised to see darkish freckles around my eyes and cheeks, which were deep and sunken. One day a student’s mother stopped me after the lesson and sat me down in her room, saying, “You must be tired, dear teacher. Please have some of this honey water.” Then she was bold enough to ask, “Pardon me, but what does your husband do for a living? . . . Oh, I see, he’s got a good job. Then you must have a large family to support if you’re working this late, right?” That night the woman gave me a set of imported cosmetics, telling me that it was a present she had received and that she had no need of it because she had so many such things. She insisted I accept it, since it was, more than anything else, a token of her concern over my toils as a young woman teacher. When I got home, the gift in hand, I gnashed my teeth and swore I’d never set my hand to another job like tutoring again. At that time, however, I had already joined three kye, from two of which I had already pocketed my shares, and as if that weren’t enough, there were also payments for two installmentsavings accounts to be made. My husband said, “Why don’t you quit tutoring now that I’ve gotten a raise? Besides, my brothers are also working part-time, aren’t they? They

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told me not to worry about their tuition fees next semester.” But I doggedly shook my head. My dreams went beyond looking after my husband’s family. I longed to move into a larger house. Once in a while, I had dreams at night in which I stood in the sunny courtyard of a winsome Western-style house with a flush toilet and a Western-style kitchen, looking down at my child on a swing. The image of the child would vary—it could be either a girl or a boy, either playing on the swing or running around the courtyard. But the picture of me never changed. In the dream, I cut a flashy figure in a pink housedress, and as I stood in front of the house and its large lawn, I would be wearing a smile, puffed up larger than cotton candy. No, let me think! Actually, just once I struck a different pose in the dream. Seated imposingly on a large, thickly padded cushion spread out in the main room, which was splendidly decorated with a tall wardrobe and a low stationery chest, both studded with mother-of-pearl inlay, I am handing over a set of imported cosmetics to my child’s female tutor. I say, “Pardon me, but what does your husband do for a living? . . . Oh, I see, he’s got a good job. Then you must have a large family to support if you’re working hard so late, right?” In addition to the kye made up of women teachers at my school, I joined another one that was organized by my mother. Once I went to pay the kye money to my mother. My younger sister was horrified that I still wore clothes from my college days or hand-me-downs that she’d grown tired of and tucked away long ago. This sister, a college sophomore, asked me with a serious look, “What are you going to do with all the money you’ve saved, sis?” “Listen to this girl! You aren’t asking me because you don’t know why people save money, are you? I’m at it for future use, okay?” I replied tartly. “You mean you’re going to spend it? What’s it for?” I looked askance at my sister without saying anything, thinking she was joking with me. But she sat up a little closer to me and said, “What’s it for? Is it for your brother-in-law’s tuition fees?” Infuriated, I glared at her. With a nonchalant air, she continued, “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, sis. But every time I see you, I get skeptical about marriage. No, I guess it’s more correct to say I get cynical about love. Who’d marry for love if they knew they’d turn out like you? Look at you, sis! Who’d guess that you are a graduate of the top-notch H University with a degree in English?” I was speechless. But I couldn’t remain silent, so I said very childishly, “Oh, and what a swell you are!” Flabbergasted, my sister looked over at me. I went on, “It won’t be a problem for you as long as you don’t turn out like me, right?” “Right, I won’t be such a fool. What’s in it for you to go huffing and puffing

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to beg for tuition money and then offer it to your brother-in-law? Don’t they think you’ve done more than enough in feeding their enormous family by working side by side with your husband?” asked my sister pointedly. For a while, I was lost in thought: “Well, she’s got a point. Why should I carry on like this?” But I couldn’t give in and admit she was right, so I said in an impetuous tone, “Well, perhaps you won’t follow in my footsteps. Who knows? But I can’t help it. I’ve chosen a man and married him, and when a man and a woman marry, it means that they forge a mutual benefit-sharing system. What’s so strange about including in that system the welfare of the husband’s parents and siblings? Do you think the academic backgrounds of your husband’s brothers are irrelevant to you? They will become your children’s uncles, don’t you see?” I talked like this to avoid losing the argument to my sister, but I was more moved by my own words than she was. She merely sneered at me, “You’ve been born to this land for a historic mission to regenerate your husband’s family, not for our country’s restoration.”13 Intoxicated by my own remark, however, I spoke with much more heat, “What’s wrong with that? It’s my choice anyway. I want to be responsible for my choice.” I pledged to myself, “I’ll buy a large house with a lawn. I’ll buy a refrigerator and install a telephone as well. In the end, I’ll succeed in lifting my household from the lower class up to the middle class—no, to the upper class. Isn’t this household mine, anyway? If it has fallen from middle class to lower class by itself, it can also climb back up by itself. What other choices am I left now anyway?” I was burning with a fighting spirit. “Good luck, sis! But don’t you think your priorities are screwed up? Before you worry about your children’s uncles, shouldn’t you have children first?” But I was deaf to my sister’s words. We moved from a three-room mini two-story house to a five-room, slateroofed house in Changdong with a courtyard and even a pond, although the area was a step closer to Kyŏnggi Province than to the Hwagge Temple in Seoul. The morning after our move, my father-in-law went to Inch’ŏn at the crack of dawn. There was a water pump in the corner of our front courtyard with the pond, and the cold underground-water gushed out with a little help from the pump lever. Upon returning home, my father-in-law let loose a bagful of fish in this pump area. In an instant, the whole courtyard was filled with the smell of fish. At first, I couldn’t stand it, but the fish smell soon lent the house a festive air, and, humming a tune, I worked in the kitchen to let the boiled rice simmer down.

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Our kitchen was Western-styled, the way I had wanted. Above all, I was happy to escape from the noise of the sewing machine, which used to clatter as late as midnight from the handmade-toy workshop that had rented the first floor of our old mini two-story house. Our entire family was ecstatic. My sisters-in-law were overjoyed to have a room of their own. The room they had shared with their grandmother and parents had been far too cramped. Even more unbearable to them had been the stench from their aged grandmother, who, with the lower half of her body stiffened, had to have help in taking care of her bodily needs. Luckily, there was a room attached to the back of our new house. Probably the room was originally built for renting out, but we were lucky to use it as a separate room for grandmother. In fact, we had taken such needs into account when we decided on this house. My mother-in-law, whose back was bent even before sixty, often sighed, “There’s no end to trouble in this world” as she emptied her mother-in-law’s chamber pot. “Just when I thought I’d got rid of some worries, now there’s grandma.” But the real worry for my mother-in-law was her husband. Since returning from Changhang empty-handed just before our marriage, he had lived the sad life of the jobless. Even so, he often went out somewhere in the morning to return home late in the evening. “Where are you going every day, dad?” my husband once asked. Hidden in my husband’s question was disapproval of his father. My husband thought that if his father couldn’t make a single penny, he had better stay home and help his wife take a break from the chore of taking care of his own mother. My mother-in-law had a total of nine family members to look after, all by herself, including me, who had to work outside the home. But from the beginning my father-in-law wouldn’t budge from his daily routine, even while fully admitting he no longer qualified as head of the household. Rather, the person who was adamant about this situation was his wife. My mother-in-law never failed to insist, “Look, son, don’t ever say things like that to dad! Men shouldn’t stay around the home. Only when they have a life outside of the home can menfolk keep up their spirit.” “So what’s he going to do with that spirit, Mom?” my brother-in-law, who harbored many more grudges against his father, once snapped. My mother-in-law almost hit the ceiling. “How dare you! He’d die if he lost his spirit, do you hear me? Do you want your father to die soon? Is that it?” Although my mother-in-law always felt intimidated by her working son and daughter-in-law, she remained changeless in her position as the “mother” of the family. She doled out chastisements to her family members at regular intervals. To her second son, she said, “Look, son! How come you’re so late coming home, even though you don’t work part-time these days? Yester-

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day morning I had a phone call from a girl. Tell me, do you come home late because you’re fooling around with your date? I can’t stand the sight of guys dating while neglecting their own studies.” Evidently her remark was also targeted at her oldest son and his wife, that is, my husband and me, a “campus couple” who had married for love. My mother-in-law was equally pitiless to her daughter, who had just landed a job after graduating from commercial high school. “What are you doing spending so much time in front of the mirror? And do you have to buy so many clothes and cosmetics? At this rate, you won’t be able to take care of yourself, let alone your sister.” My mother-in-law didn’t spare me either and periodically scolded me with biting words: “When are you going to have a baby? You do know you and your husband aren’t getting any younger?” Or “Listen, dear, you have to have babies before it’s too late. What are you going to do if ‘it’ gets completely blocked by having it plugged up like that?” Of course, her words expressed her own wish to have grandchildren and also her concern that her son needed descendants without delay. But I figured their main purpose was to strike a blow at me. It was also clear that her periodic scoldings of family members had a good deal to do with her husband. In a sense, her rebukes represented a ceaseless motherly effort to bring up her children well. Beginning with my husband, however, my younger brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law were all perfectly well-brought-up children. Everyone knew what they needed to do in order to turn out properly in a financially strained family, and they were forever reminding each other of their duties. In this aspect, my husband’s siblings were solidly united. They were all taking care of themselves. My younger sisters-in-law, for one, were focused on getting jobs after graduating from commercial high schools. As for my younger brothers-in-law, they set themselves to successfully completing their college studies in science and engineering—these areas better guarantee employment than do the humanities—with an eye to securing jobs for a settled life thereafter. What’s more, my brothers-in-law were trying hard to cover at least their tuition and pocket money by holding on to part-time jobs, while my sister-inlaw, who had just landed a job, was contributing a certain amount toward our living expenses every month. They were truly flawless children. Moreover, I had been told that until my father-in-law came to that fine pass, my motherin-law had been an indulgent mother who never scolded her children, as she felt sorry that they had to grow up under such needy circumstances. So all of us were fully aware that her scolding was an effort to solidify her position as the matriarch of the family, as well as an attempt to cover for her husband, who had lost his position as the head of the family.

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So, on mornings when my father-in-law made a trip to the fish market in Inch’ŏn, we often exchanged knowing smiles with each other, watching my mother-in-law as she sharpened the kitchen knife in high spirits. She was happiest when her husband displayed his confidence. There wasn’t, however, any special ability left in him now. The best he could do was buy fish or vegetables at the wholesale market. In fact, the cabbages, croaker or harvest fish, salted shrimp, and everything else he brought in from the market were always exceptionally fresh and cheap, and we didn’t need my mother-in-law’s comments to confirm it: “Only your father can get such good stuff at these prices. I tell you, nobody bargains like he does.” We always had a dish of raw harvest fish to celebrate occasions such as family birthdays, my brother-in-law’s admittance to college, and my sisterin-law’s getting a job, and each event required my father-in-law’s skill. When we celebrated my brother-in-law’s success in passing the college entrance examination, my father-in-law surprised us by shopping for fish with his own money—a mystery to us. We all asked him out of curiosity, “Where did you get the money?” but he said nothing, a solemn look on his face—the last thing we expected from him. It was my mother-in-law who spoke up on his behalf: “Why shouldn’t he have money? After all, he gets around, and I tell you, men have to get around one way or another.” We wondered whether my father-in-law had found another boat-owner friend who allowed him on board or asked him to take over his boat. But we had serious doubts about his having such luck for the second time, although he kept his routine of going out in the morning and coming home in the evening. In time, we satisfied our curiosity by concluding he had savings stashed away from the allowance his wife gave him. “I thought the slices of raw fish smelled a little like cigarettes. Now I know it’s because dad bought the fish with his cigarette money,” quipped my youngest sister-in-law. Undoubtedly, my father-in-law’s position in the eyes of his family members was anything but lofty. Then he stunned everyone by declaring, “I have been working but haven’t told anyone about it.” It happened during our housewarming party when he got quite tipsy. This unexpected announcement was followed by his remarking that he’d been saving the revelation of this three-year secret just for our party. From the startled look on my mother-in-law’s face, however, I gathered that his sudden, blunt confession was clearly due to the shock he’d received from an incident at the dining table earlier that day. To sum up the episode, it happened as follows: My mother-in-law opened the party by saying at the table, “Thank you, everyone, for all your hard work for the move into this big house. Go ahead

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and help yourselves!” Obviously, her overture was intended more for her husband than for anyone else, because he had taken care of all the tasks of hunting for the house, bargaining for a better price, concluding the sales contract, and even making repairs on the house. My husband chimed in, “Mom, thank you for all your hard work too!” “No! More thanks to you, brother. And you too, sister-in-law!” my brotherin-law said. “You’re right. Thank you, sister-in-law—you’ve done the most!” my sisters-in-law blabbered, and went on, “I’ll say! Why don’t we put her name on the nameplate of this house?” Unable to remain quiet, I said, “Oh, no, don’t mention it! You ladies also helped out a lot. Especially you, big sister-in-law, have chipped in so much for living expenses from your small salary . . .” I got choked up, and this seemed to have made my parents-in-law even more tense. My sisters-in-law and I had often squabbled over kitchen chores when my mother-in-law was away at a wedding or funeral in her own family, but at that very moment all the past between us seemed to have been completely washed away. And on top of that, I felt as if my nine in-laws—trying and burdensome—had suddenly turned into people I could depend upon. “Not just one name, but let’s inscribe all our names on the nameplate,” said my second brother-in-law, which tickled me to burst into laughter. “Why just on the nameplate? Why not on the refrigerator, and on the telephone too? How about using gold letters while we’re at it?” said my first brother-in-law, making me laugh even louder. We had been able to buy the refrigerator because the price of the house had been lowered more than we had expected. The telephone had come with the house, as everyone in the family had hoped. The trouble began when my second sister-in-law blurted out, “But you know, we have to take out dad’s name from the nameplate.” For a moment everyone fell dead silent, and my sister-in-law cringed at her own blunder and hung her head low in embarrassment. “What a spoiled brat! How dare you babble like that after all the trouble your father went through to find this house! Who do you think did the repairs on this water pump and the soybean-sauce jar deck?” My mother-in-law flew into a rage, no doubt making my father-in-law more ill at ease. Even if such an incident hadn’t happened that day, I guess my father-inlaw was supposed to say something to mark the occasion anyway. I had sensed that his daily routine of leaving home early in the morning and returning late in the evening was the result of his desire to stay away from his family as much as possible, rather than an effort to keep his spirits up as my mother-

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in-law said. My husband—stressed out by his company’s in-service training, Japanese language lessons, and whatnot, on top of his office work—took out his frustrations on his father by blowing up at him whenever the two met, especially when such problems as his younger brothers’ tuition came up and made him even more exhausted. My father-in-law had no choice but to suffer such outbursts in silence. Besides, he also knew that not only his eldest son but also his second and third sons and second daughter were ready to jump all over him too. That was why, I guessed, he thought it best to disappear all day. I could also see quite well that he had been taking care of chores such as bargaining for fish and vegetables, house hunting, and slicing raw fish in order to mollify his children by any means possible. It seemed to me, however, that he knew better than anyone else that he couldn’t possibly go on that way forever. So on that day, when my mother-in-law was about to pounce on her youngest daughter, my father-in-law gently checked her and said, “I haven’t told you guys yet, but I’ve been working for some time.” Struck dumb, we all stopped eating and looked at him. My mother-in-law looked nearly out of her wits. Finally my husband asked, “Where, Dad?” My father-in-law hesitated. Then he answered calmly, “Well . . . at the fisheries co-op in Inch’ŏn . . .” “What did he mean by that? Did he mean the fisheries cooperative? Was he working there as a clerk or something . . . ?” I wondered, but my speculations came to a dead stop. “Darn it!” My husband sprang to his feet and pressed on, “Dad, you’ve been doing net knitting, haven’t you? You couldn’t possibly be doing desk work or selling fish wholesale. All that you can do is backpacking or net knitting, but who’d take you on for backpacking at your age? It’s net knitting for sure. You see, I noticed pieces of net threads stuck on your pants crotch when you came into the house the other day, and I wondered.” My father-in-law’s face turned blank, and my mother-in-law swallowed her breath. “What’s net knitting, sis?” whispered my youngest sister-in-law to her older sister, but the latter didn’t seem to know what it was either. Only my first younger brother-in-law seemed to know, and he remained quiet, his eyes cast down for some time. Then he said “Ugh!” and stood up, throwing his spoon and chopsticks on the table. In the meantime, my husband kept yelling, “Listen, Dad, have we made you go hungry or have we given you no pocket money? What do you need so badly that you have to go to the pier and do hard manual labor? Don’t you know how old you are?”

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My brother-in-law stepped down from the wooden-floored terrace and said, “Ugh, it’s so humiliating!” All of a sudden, I recalled the news I relayed to my husband that his younger brother was dating a girl—a tip I’d gotten from my own younger sister. I had expected my husband to get angry and say, “What? Dating? What about his studies?” However, the first thing he said was, “What does she do? Is she a student?” Surprised, I answered that she was a college student, whereupon my husband asked what her college was. When I replied that it was the same elite women’s university that my sister attended, he chuckled, saying, “I guess that chap, too, is acquiring things one by one.” “What do you mean by ‘acquiring things’? What is he acquiring things for?” I asked. “What else but qualifications for becoming middle class! Don’t you remember what you said to me before—the most important qualification for the middle classes is the ability to send their daughters to college? Isn’t it true, then, that if a guy marries the daughter of such a family, he’ll move upward to the middle classes? He’ll have a long way to go, but I bet it sure is the way to get there,” said my husband. Then and there I realized that my husband and I were all of one mind. I got to know that he too loathed being part of the lower classes and set as his life’s goal to climb up toward the middle classes and ultimately to the upper classes. It became clear to me that in order to realize this dream he had chosen only his younger brothers and sent them to college—engineering colleges at that—and had been doing his utmost to look after them. And on the day my father-in-law told us his long-kept secret, I read the same aspiration in my younger brother-in-law, when he pushed the dining table away in anger and stomped out. As he flung open the gate and stormed out of the house, I saw his outrage written all over his back at his father’s “monstrous” choice of hard manual labor at a time when everyone else in his family was making all-out efforts to climb up toward the middle classes. Frankly, nothing really bothered me anymore. I already had a larger house, a refrigerator, and a telephone. We no longer needed to eat only cheap fish like harvest fish. The time had finally come for us to eat things like flatfish. Now all we needed was a swing on the lawn. No, first we needed a child who would ride it. Although our breakfast gathering that day had come to such a disastrous end, it turned out to be a rally for family solidarity, both in name and reality. It was only the outward appearance of our family that was cracked by my father-

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in-law’s ludicrous confession. In truth, I felt that our family was further unified after the incident. We were comrades heading with one purpose toward higher-class living. In this respect, even my parents-in-law were our partners. We were all in it together from the beginning. Whether we liked it or not, we were one family destined to share both profit and loss. Now I could finally plan to add one more member to that family. I had already been married for three years by then. We were lucky to see our plans for buying the house come off just in time. Since our house was purchased on loan, we had to pay the monthly mortgage, but my first brother-in-law’s graduation was just around the corner. Since he was to join the army, he couldn’t get a paying job right away, but at least he would no longer need financial support from us. In addition, my husband was slightly hopeful about being promoted to a directorship. I quit tutoring. I also made plans to quit school in expectation of my husband’s promotion. I could almost see my pink housedress and my child’s swing. My mother-in-law said, “Oh, dear, do you even plan such things as babies? Having children depends on Heaven’s will, but it’s good that you won’t leave ‘it’ blocked off anymore. Our bodies are supposed to follow nature, and I’m worried about whether something’s gone wrong with yours over these years.” At first, my mother-in-law seemed quite displeased to learn of my family planning, but she was overjoyed when I told her I would take out the loop. She telephoned my married sister-in-law right away and prattled, “Chiyŏng says she is finally planning to have a baby. I don’t blame her, considering how hard up for money we’ve been. But I feel sorry for your brother to have children this late, all because of his family burdens.” I was amused to see my mother-in-law carrying on in this way, but at the same time I felt resentful toward her. She had given birth to seven children in all, according to Heaven’s will as she had said, but she and her husband had dumped five of them on their oldest son to take care of by himself, which I found shameless. All these things mattered little to me now, though. They were to be classified as a new chapter of our household legends. It seemed, however, that this family was doomed to have no luck with legends. Two months afterward, I felt indisposed, and at my doctor’s office, I learned that I was two months pregnant. That very evening, my husband returned home unusually early, breaking his custom of coming back at nine o’clock—at the earliest—due to his night shift and other work. He wore a dark expression on his face and simply nodded his head at my news of pregnancy. Sensing something out of the ordinary in his look, I kept my mouth shut and took the portable dinner tray to him, but he shook his head—his eyes closed—and stretched out on the floor without even changing his clothes. I

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put the tray down on the floor, sat close to his head, and asked very carefully, “Is something wrong?” He sat up quickly, as if he had decided it was now or never for him to speak up, and spit out, “I turned in my resignation today.” Resignation? Resignation? What was that? Resignation . . . ah, the thing I intended to hand in to my school when my husband was promoted! But this guy had turned it in? Shocked, I cried out, “Honey!” “I learned that I was omitted from the list of promotion to directorship. It happened the day before yesterday. Yesterday, my co-worker, an upperclassman from my college, asked me to see him outside the company and advised me to quit. According to him, the old-timers who were left out of this promotion are scheduled to be transferred to the business department,” said my husband. I gasped out, “What do you mean by the business department? What do they do there?” “Don’t you know? It’s a salesman’s job. It wouldn’t be a simple matter of transferring either. I heard that when we’re ‘transferred,’ we’ll be asked to write a memorandum stating that we will resign if we failed to sell the given amount of merchandise within a given period. That’s no different from asking for a resignation from the beginning. I thought it would be better to quit now as suggested, so I submitted my resignation today.” I took a deep breath. My husband seemed to feel better after unbosoming himself. He fumbled a cigarette pack out of his jacket pocket and asked me to bring an ashtray and a match. Heading for the main room, I felt my legs trembling all over. Salesmen! All I could imagine were the faces of peddlers selling books by monthly installments—those thick-faced book hawkers who, floating gawky smiles, stepped timorously into the teachers’ office at my school when I took a rest there once in a while. I plopped to the floor before I could make it across the wooden-floored terrace. My mother-in-law, who was coming out of the main room at that moment, ran over to me, saying, “My Goodness, dear! You got dizzy! Listen, you’d better be careful now that you’re in a delicate condition.” She was already informed of the news of my pregnancy. I began to wail, falling on her lap, “Oh, mother, what shall we do? Kyŏngmin’s quit his job.” I felt my mother-in-law’s arms around me growing stiff. The doors of several rooms opened, and the rest of the family rushed out. But what’s the use? In silence, they simply looked down at me as I sobbed convulsively, collapsed on the floor. Four days later, my husband returned home with his retirement pay. My

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hands trembled as I received the envelope. It felt like scores of decades, not four days, had passed. Yet my husband himself looked surprisingly calm. “Don’t worry too much. I am looking for jobs here and there. I’m also thinking of taking this as an opportunity to change the direction of my life—I mean to go to graduate school,” said my husband. His idea of graduate school made me feel more hopeless than his job hunting. What did he mean by going to graduate school at this point? The days of passionate discussions about Dylan Thomas and Shakespeare and about grubby alleys floated up like a dream. Just four days before, hadn’t I been filled with joy at having brought my “middle-class family transformation project” to completion? I felt a sudden rush of hatred for my husband and glared right at his head. He was looking at the retirement envelope, which he had taken back from me for some reason and laid in front of him on the floor. “Graduate school?” What nonsense it was for him to depend on his wife’s teaching job! My husband jabbered in an idiotic and inexcusably light tone, “Ha, ha . . . I feel as if a life jacket has just been thrown to me, after having been abandoned in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.” I shot him down, “What do you mean by a life jacket? To me, it looks more like bullets, those given out to a commando unit dispatched into the jaws of death for their final suicidal use.” I couldn’t fall asleep until late that night. My husband’s cold stare, full of misgivings after he had been stung by my venomous “bullet” theory, had me thinking hard. I began to think that now was indeed a chance for me to change the direction of my own life as well. The first step would be to resign from the school. Next, I would go to my parents and have a discussion with them. They wouldn’t be too happy, but wasn’t it about the trouble their eldest daughter found herself in? Moreover, my father was still disappointed that his daughter had given up her dream of going to graduate school. Since I would have my own retirement pay, I wouldn’t bother them financially for the time being. The real problem was my pregnancy. I made up my mind with clenched teeth: “Well, I’ll have to have an abortion. What else?” I felt silly as I remembered my earlier indulgence in dreams, like the one about my baby on a swing. What did this house, with its numerous rooms, refrigerator, and telephone, have to do with me anyway? Overflowing with emotion, I finally fell asleep around daybreak. When I opened my eyes, the sunlight was bright on the window, and my husband was gone. Noticing the empty space in the bed next to me, I suddenly felt forlorn, so I sat up quickly and made the bed. When I went out to the wooden-floored terrace, I saw my father-in-law standing in the front

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courtyard. The smell of fish struck me. It was harvest fish. My mother-in-law was sharpening the knife, sitting next to the water pump. “How are you?” said my father-in-law. I couldn’t look him in the face, though. It was because of the secret plans I had made in the night. “Kyŏngmin’s gone to the hills behind the house. Ah, how good it is to call him a father now!” said my father-in-law. “What’s so special about today?” I asked, looking at the silvery, palm-size fish heaped up in the earthenware tub. “Don’t you know? It’s the day your husband lost his job,” said my motherin-law as she sharpened the knife, and she suddenly burst into laughter, looking up at the skies. “What foul language!” my father-in-law snapped, but his face was lit with a bright smile. “What are all these fish for, Dad?” asked my brothers-in-law as they came out of their room. “Whoa! Is something going on today? We’ve got harvest fish!” my sistersin-law joined in, coming out of their room at the sound of their brothers. “Nothing very special! Your father bought the fish, thinking that Chiyŏng needs more nutrition. He’d gotten some money from the fisheries co-op.” “Hurray!” said my youngest sister-in-law. “But I’m not quite in the mood. Isn’t it true elder brother is out of work now?” butted in my youngest brother-in-law. Almost before he’d finished, my father-in-law thundered, “How dare you!” Everyone was startled. My first encounter with my father-in-law quickly flitted across my mind. I realized it had been a long time since he’d last exploded like that. “Your brother quit his job, that’s all. Is he dead or something?” said my father-in-law. Silence fell over the courtyard. “We’ve got to eat all the better in times like this, you see,” said my motherin-law, feeling the blade of the sharpened knife with her fingertips. My father-in-law said to me, “Don’t worry, dear. We’ve never lived by depending on things or other people in this world. Kyŏngmin is the same way. After all, what’s his company to him? It’s nothing but a total stranger to him, right?” He continued, “Dear, there’s nothing to worry about, for sure! Why when we have so many guys in the family? Four of them, you see—we’ve got four. When push comes to shove, they’ll work as packmen before they’ll let their family go hungry.” My younger brother-in-law cheered, “No doubt about it, sister-in-law!”

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“That’s right. Please don’t worry, sister-in-law. Everything will blow over in no time,” said my first brother-in-law. I said to myself, “Right. We’ve got each other. Even if we’re stripped of all other power, we’ve got our own special strength. Yes, we do.” All my overnight plans were vanishing from my mind. I even thought I’d tell my husband when he came back home: “I’ve realized that we should direct our shots, to the last, toward the outside. Our target is never us inside. The bullets are absolutely not for suicide. Till the end, we’ve got to shoot toward the outside with all our combined strength.” How wonderful to learn that it was not “I” but “We”! Strength is not bestowed from above but springs up from below. I looked around the courtyard, dazzled. Just then, the gate opened and my husband stepped in. The first thing he said was, “Huh! What are the fish for?” “Is today something special?” he asked. “Nothing special,” I said in a bouncy voice. “It’s the day you lost your job.” Laughter rang out. The whole courtyard overflowed with our family’s laughter. The sunlight flashed white on the kitchen knife, whetted razor-sharp. [First published in Hyŏndae munhak (Modern literature), October 1979]

Analysis of “A Dish of Sliced Raw Fish” The novella “A Dish of Sliced Raw Fish” (Pyŏng’ŏ hoe; 1979)—a selfnarrative told in memory mode by the story’s heroine, Chiyŏng, the young, college-educated daughter-in-law of a large extended family—is an intimate genre painting of a modern Korean home in the context of the changing Korean society of the late 1970s. A delightful picture scroll delineating the joys and frustrations of a lower-class household, the semiautobiographical narrative often presents implied commentaries on prevailing notions about marriage, conjugal relationships, family dynamics, gender politics, and economic class divides—all perceived through the eyes of the affable, hardworking, and committed Chiyŏng. The author’s consistent use of such techniques as humor, exaggeration, euphemism, deliberate self-mockery, erudite and high-flown vocabulary, and overstated, long-winded sentences—all for comic intent—contributes to the story’s optimistic tone and makes it a heartwarming family drama drawn from a refreshing, uplifting perspective. One of the central concerns of the narrative is its critique of the dominant cultural milieu, which sees marriage as an expedient means or even a commercial transaction for safeguarding a woman’s social status and financial

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security. Chiyŏng’s parents, relatives, and friends are eminent proponents of this position and exert pressure on her to conform to these unwritten but powerful rules. Chiyŏng, however, “marries down” for love, defying her parents’ expectations and the conventional wisdom that says women should “marry up.” Yet in the end, the respect and trust she obtains from her husband’s family, including her crusty father-in-law, demonstrates she has proven herself against the dominant materialistic marriage culture of her time and its shortsightedness. Another point of interest is the author’s treatment of two sets of conjugal relationships: one between the heroine and her husband, Kyŏngmin, representing a new paradigm of a married couple; the other, between the heroine’s parents-in-law, epitomizing an old-school traditionalist model. Chiyŏng and her husband are the products of a 1970s Korean university education and possess a progressive outlook on life as well as on gender relationships; they marry for love based upon personal decision and commitment to one another. An unspoken understanding and a sense of camaraderie exist between the young couple. Here the narrative also offers a vivid window into the prevailing coed culture of the 1970s—college students’ dating practices; their indulgence in Western music, literature, and art; popular part-time jobs; and even their favorite foods and drinks. By contrast, Kyŏngmin’s parents maintain a typically conservative husband-wife relationship. Kyŏngmin’s father, due to his unrealistic, get-quickrich schemes, causes hardship for his family and repeatedly demoralizes them, even losing credibility with his children. Nevertheless, he insists on commanding an authoritarian position vis-à-vis his wife, to which she submits herself without complaint, even defending and supporting him against their children’s contempt and criticism. Thus, Chiyŏng’s mother-in-law personifies an archetypical female figure, whose preservation of the patriarchal family order is her life’s mission and meaning, even while being subordinate to the husband in the familial hierarchy. Still, Kyŏngmin’s sudden decision to quit his job at the story’s climactic point parallels his father’s impulsive and erratic behavior, driving Chiyŏng to anguish and despair—something her mother-in-law would have experienced time and again. Thus by juxtaposing these two husband-wife relationships, the author seems to suggest that each possesses its own merits and imperfections and to indicate their complementariness and need for coexistence— rather than rejecting one in favor of the other. As the narrative unfolds, the reader witnesses the family’s varied dynamics—for instance, the practice of privileging sons over daughters, especially in matters of education. Chiyŏng’s sisters-in-law sacrifice themselves for their

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brothers’ college education, and even Chiyŏng joins in these women’s self-sacrificing projects for the sake of the family’s males. Another noteworthy feature is the relationship between Chiyŏng and her in-laws, especially the women. First, there is no acrimonious hostility or power struggle in Chiyŏng’s relationship with her mother-in-law, as is so often the case in traditional Korean homes. Although there is a generational, educational, and even economic gap between the two, from the beginning Chiyŏng sympathizes with her mother-in-law’s suffering. Even though her feelings toward the older woman are at times clouded by her own exasperation at her heavy financial burden, Chiyŏng’s attitude is one of acceptance and sympathy for her mother-in-law’s inner strength and love for her family. Also absent is the proverbial bickering, jealousy, and petty-mindedness among the sisters-in-law. On the contrary, Chiyŏng appreciates their self-sacrifice, and her sisters-in-law in turn are the first to openly express their high regard and indebtedness to her. In this sense, Chiyŏng is a far cry from the image of the victimized daughter-in-law often found in stories of the traditional Korean family. It is important to note that this revision of the conventional position of a daughter-in-law may have its justification in the fact that Chiyŏng is not only good-hearted and accommodating but also capable of earning a living and supporting her in-laws. That is, women’s earning power and economic leverage play a crucial role in elevating their position even in private homes and in redefining their personal value and significance. One final point to consider is the economic chasm between the haves and have-nots of 1970s Korea, which is amusingly delineated through Chiyŏng’s description of the upper-class home of her student and her encounter with the student’s mother. The ultra-Western-style house filled with imported luxury items burlesques extravagance and even immorality on the part of the wealthy—a world apart from the lives of most Koreans, such as Chiyŏng’s inlaws. Furthermore, the description of the condescending attitude of the student’s mother toward Chiyŏng critiques the insensitivity and arrogance of the rich, a small minority of unworthy beneficiaries of the Korean government’s rush for economic development in the 1970s. Chiyŏng’s wounded pride and repulsion, although expressed in a humorous manner, speak for the alienation existing between the classes due to the unjust economic distribution of the period. “A Dish of Sliced Raw Fish” is the personal chronicle of a heroine who successfully adjusts to her in-laws’ unfamiliar household with firmness of purpose, self-sacrifice, and most importantly, largess of heart and good cheer. It is in essence a tribute to the strength and resilience of women, the value of family solidarity, and the undying dreams and optimism of middle-class Koreans.

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At the same time, the invulnerability and single-minded drive of the heroine, who makes a difference in the environment she has chosen and becomes the centrifugal force amidst all of its trials and obstacles, make the novella a fresh rearticulation of the image of the daughter-in-law and a new, young generation of Korean women. The story’s upbeat conclusion suggests that families like Chiyŏng’s prove the universal premise that love and understanding—all movingly illustrated in this family’s unique “sacrament” of sharing the dish of sliced raw harvest fish—not wealth and social prestige, are the foundations of wholesome relationships. Here the reader also discerns the author’s neofamilism, that is, her fundamental affirmation of the merit and value of the extended-family institution, which she sees as a functioning and even necessary support system in postmodern Korean society in spite of its occasional snags and hurdles.

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Eight

The Light at Dawn (1985) Yi Sŏk-pong

Esteemed by her friends and colleagues for her straightforwardness, uncompromising integrity, and aversion to publicity, Yi Sŏk-pong (1928–1999) was the second of three siblings, and the only daughter, born to a wealthy merchant family in Kimch’ŏn city, North Kyŏngsang Province. Gifted and bright, Yi was a top student until her graduation from high school, upon which she entered Sungmyŏng Women’s College (then a two-year program) in Seoul in 1946 to major in Korean literature. During her college years, she devoted herself to cultivating creative writing, especially poetry, and some of her poems found publication in period newspapers. Meanwhile, she continued to live up to her high academic standards by maintaining a top rank in her class. Upon graduation in 1948, Yi married her literary mentor, a poet who was sixteen years her senior. Yi’s marriage took her to her husband’s hometown in South Chŏlla Province, where she raised two sons and taught in girls’ high schools for nearly a decade, mainly to help with her family’s finances. Her married life, however, proved to be disappointing and difficult—conflict-ridden and financially straitened. This personal experience of marital challenges later became the subject matter of Yi’s major works, many of which address the problems of mismatched couples, dilemmas of wives trapped in frustrating and stressful conjugal and family relationships, or the issue of a husband’s infidelity. Most frequently featured are financially incompetent and irresponsible husbands who fail to meet their wives’ basic need for simple domestic happiness—to say nothing of their pursuit of identity and independence. These shortcomings of the husbands often cause marital breakups through 150

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separation or divorce. These leitmotifs appear as early as in Yi’s debut work, Pich’i ssainŭn haegu (The sea channel drenched with sunlight; 1963), a novel that won honorable mention in a literary competition sponsored by the newspaper Tonga ilbo. Such dark visions run through Yi’s works, such as “Ŏgŭnnan kyesan” (Miscalculation; 1964), “Hwajangjang esŏ” (At a crematory; 1966), and “Che samja” (The third person; 1979), with occasional exceptions such as “Saebyŏk pit” (The light at dawn; 1985). After her husband’s death in 1962, Yi moved back to Seoul and took up a teaching job in Chung’ang Girls’ High School. With her literary debut the following year, she quit teaching and concentrated on writing, which continued uninterrupted until nearly the end of her life. Over these years, Yi became one of the most productive professional women writers of her generation. To her credit, she published more than sixty short stories, two short story anthologies, and thirteen novels. Yet Yi seldom compromised the quality of her work, as testified by the eminence of the literary journals to which she contributed her stories—especially from the mid-1970s on, when her accomplishments as a woman writer with substance and style had been established. As a devout Catholic, from early on Yi demonstrated her interest in the relationship between religion and literature. One of her special achievements in this area was the publication in 1973 of her Korean translation of Kōfuku to iu na no fukō (Misfortune called fortune; Haengbok iranŭn irŭm ŭi pulhaeng, in Korean), a work by the Japanese Catholic woman writer Sōno Ayako (b. 1931). Later in life, Yi’s deepening Catholic faith was manifested in stories such as “Adela” (Adela; 1986) and “Rutki” (The story of Ruth; 1990) and her novel Yŏjŏng (The travel itinerary; 1992), which won the eighteenth Korean Novel Award in 1993. Yi’s last novel, Tto tarŭn mannam ŭi sijak (The beginning of new encounters; 1997), is the culmination of her religious conviction that human trials and tribulations are but gateways to God. Yi Sŏk-pong was the recipient of the Korean PEN Literature Award in 1989, and in acknowledgment of her contribution to Korean literature, Sungmyŏng Women’s University, Yi’s alma mater, bestowed on her the second Sungmyŏng Literature Award in 1993. Recently, Yi Sŏk-pong was chosen as a subject of a research project launched by Sungmyŏng Women’s University to reappraise and preserve the legacy of those modern women writers whose works have either been neglected or underpublicized.

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The Light at Dawn In a sour mood, Hŏ Sunok followed after her husband as he stepped out the front gate, carrying his small traveling bag. Instead of feeling happy, she found herself growing increasingly cheerless. When they reached the end of their neighborhood block, she could hold out no longer. “Dear, do we really have to go as far as Pusan?” she asked. Her husband kept walking, ignoring her. At the end of the alley, he made a turn in the direction of the bus stop. She continued, “I’ve given it a lot of thought. I can’t bring myself to take this trip. What fun is it for the two of us to go to the hot springs by ourselves?” Her husband slowed his pace but remained mum. “We can tell our kids later that we went to Pusan. Let’s stay in a nearby inn for tonight and go home tomorrow evening. For these two days, fifty thousand wŏn is plenty for us to spend on meals and even go see a movie. Then every bit of the one hundred and fifty thousand wŏn will fall into our hands untouched. Just think how much that is! I really don’t feel like taking a trip. If you want, you go alone, taking just fifty thousand wŏn with you,” she said. Finally, her husband stopped. He turned around and, glaring at her, said, “I feel just as bad as you about going to the hot springs alone with you. I’m only doing this because the kids forced me.” “How nice! We finally agree with each other on something! Well, then, why don’t you forget about taking the bus and look for an inn around here instead? You should be able to find one that is right for us—neither too fancy nor too shabby,” she said. Her husband continued walking in the same direction as before without replying. Hŏ Sunok cast her eyes down to avoid looking at her husband’s stooped back. His back was not the only thing she hated to look at. She detested his waddling gait and simply couldn’t bear his skinny, spindly build. Had it not been for her children’s insistence, she would’ve never considered taking a trip alone with him. Her eldest son, an employee at a small pharmaceutical company who was hard-pressed enough to take care of his own family, had pushed a white envelope to her containing two hundred thousand wŏn, and said: “Mom, you and Dad haven’t done any traveling. We’d like the two of you to go on a trip to someplace like hot springs for Dad’s sixtieth birthday. All of us chipped in and collected two hundred thousand wŏn. This won’t cover the cost of a trip to Cheju Island, but I think it will be just enough for Pusan. From there you

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can go to the Pugok or the Tongnae hot springs. Don’t you think the farther you go, the more you’ll enjoy your trip? This trip should help ease the tension between you and Dad. Don’t tell us you won’t go! No excuses.” Her son had added that the envelope included the goodwill of her second son, a match-factory worker, and that of her son-in-law, a primary-school teacher. This morning her husband’s sixtieth birthday had been celebrated as a simple family get-together. They couldn’t afford a large party. As Hŏ Sunok passed a couple of bus stops with her husband, an inn caught her attention. It was a three-story brick building in the middle of a side street, away from the main thoroughfare. The building seemed new, the color of its bricks clear, and its signboard tidy and attractive. “How about that inn? It looks comfortable, and it probably won’t cost too much since it’s in the outskirts of the city . . . ,” Hŏ Sunok said. Her husband, looking silently at the building his wife had pointed out, made an immediate turn in that direction. They were shown to a second-floor room. It had the sour smell of wallpaper paste, but they were pleased to discover the building was as new as they’d thought. As she watched her husband hurriedly fish out a cigarette—the first thing he did after tossing the travel bag into a corner—Hŏ Sunok sensed his feelings immediately. No doubt he was as uneasy as herself. They had slept in separate rooms for the past six years, though they continued to live under the same roof. When Hŏ Sunok had some business to take care of, she’d go to the front of his room and call him to come out for discussion. Her husband did the same. They had not been alone in the same room in all those years. Whenever people asked what had happened between her and her husband, Hŏ Sunok used to explain openly and in an agitated tone: “My husband’s only skill was piano tuning, you see. Then one day out of the blue he gave it up. That day, he visited a house for piano tuning and found out the homeowner was his old friend and neighbor. The house was a large three-story mansion and had interior decorations and furniture like those in wealthy Westerners’ houses in the movies. My husband didn’t mind it at first, but the deadly blow came from the mansion owner, who recognized him first and said: ‘Look at you! What have you been up to, man?’ The remark pierced my husband’s heart like an arrow. He flung the pay he’d gotten from his friend at me and shouted, ‘From now on, I’d like to take it easy too. I’ve done my share of supporting this family. Now you guys are on your own!’ “At first, I thought his bluffing would last only a few days. After two months, however, I realized it was no mere show—no nonsense or simple crankiness. I realized that unless I took charge of earning a living, my whole family would starve. At that time my oldest son was finishing his senior year in college after serving in the army; my daughter, a graduate of a commer-

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cial high school and an office employee, was engaged to be married; and my youngest son was cramming to repeat a college entrance exam he had failed. I had to look after all these household matters by myself, and my struggle was beyond description. I went from house to house selling insurance and even took a milk delivery job. In the end, I couldn’t send my youngest to college, as I had no means of supporting him, though granted his heart was not in studying. “Facing these hardships alone, I developed deep, bitter grudges toward my husband almost without realizing it. One day, after a violent argument between us, my husband moved into my children’s room. I was glad because I hated seeing his shiftlessness and couldn’t even stand his breathing sounds. Since then nothing has changed between us. At least having separate rooms helps me cope with it.” Thus lost in thought, Hŏ Sunok sat staring at the ceiling. When startled by her husband’s voice, she turned toward him. “You aren’t going to stay in the room forever, are you?” he asked. “How about going somewhere for lunch? It’s about that time, and I’m hungry too.” Hŏ Sunok looked at her watch. It was a little past noon. She wanted to snub her husband by asking what he had done to already feel so hungry. But without a word, she stepped out of the room ahead of him. Her husband hurried after her and said, as if trying to please her, “Why don’t we go to a place nearby and have Chinese noodles or something?” Hŏ Sunok kept looking around without replying. Her eyes lingered on a sparerib barbecue house. After all, she thought, it was his sixtieth birthday, whether she liked it or not. He shouldn’t just make do with Chinese noodles for lunch. Besides, she remembered her daughter whispering as she’d left the house, “Mom, during your trip, please let go of your old grudges toward Dad. I’d like the two of you to enjoy plenty of delicious food and have lots of fun sightseeing. Please make sure you don’t give Dad a hard time simply because you’re the one with the money.” “Let’s try there. One can’t make a lunch of Chinese noodles on one’s birthday,” Hŏ Sunok said. She pointed to the sparerib barbecue house, and her husband answered, “That sounds wonderful!” with more gusto than he had shown in a long time. Facing each other at the table by themselves, Hŏ Sunok and her husband felt no less awkward. Ever since they had moved into separate rooms, they also stopped having meals together. When alone with her husband at home, Hŏ Sunok served his meals first and ate by herself afterward. When her youngest son was home, she would set a separate table for the two—father and son— and eat by herself. Hŏ Sunok noticed that as soon as her husband got settled at the table, he

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ordered rice wine and began drinking it. Evidently feelings of embarrassment made him too impatient to wait for the food to be done. “Take it easy, and have as much as you like. You won’t have another chance like this anytime soon,” said Hŏ Sunok, feeling a little sorry for her husband as he picked up the spareribs before they’d even finished grilling well and hurriedly gnawed the meat off the bones. “Help yourself too,” said her husband, chewing the pieces of beef with a contented look on his face. Leaving the barbecue house, Hŏ Sunok paid far more than her budget allowed, but she felt good. Her husband looked better after finishing off a bottle of rice wine and six spareribs, and she noticed some color in his face for the first time in years. She also had to admit that even her harsh feelings had been softened somewhat by the three spareribs she’d had herself. It occurred to her that she hadn’t put meat dishes on the table for several years, with the exception of special days. To be sure, she couldn’t afford any better, but it was also true that she had made no extra effort to make things easier at home. As soon as they returned to their room at the inn, Hŏ Sunok’s husband propped the upper half of his body against a pile of bedding in the corner of the room and began to snore. The lunchtime wine seemed to be working nicely. With nothing special to do, Hŏ Sunok sat facing the window and looked far beyond it at the sky and clouds. Someone’s runaway balloon appeared in the distance, bobbing up and down under the clouds. It had indeed been a long time since she had last gazed at the skies. Over the past several years her frenzied struggle to earn a living had given her no opportunity to take her eyes off the ground. Instead of gazing leisurely at the clouds or balloons above, she always had to busy herself rushing around on the dusty, mud-splashing, tiring, and dirty roads. Unless her husband changed his mind and returned to work, she couldn’t even dream of a future unharried and carefree like those clouds or balloons. All she could hope for was the strength and good health that would allow her to hang on to her job till the end. Her children often suggested that Hŏ Sunok and her husband move in with their eldest son’s family so that they could take it easy and enjoy their grandchildren. But each time it was suggested, Hŏ Sunok shook her head firmly. She knew how uncomfortable and humiliating such a life would be. She was also sure that her son’s filial devotion would create trouble between him and his wife, bringing her misery rather than happiness. Her daughter had already hinted that her brother and his wife had had a big fight over the cost of his father’s suit and trip. Hŏ Sunok had no intention of moving in with their second son either, even if he were to marry. It would make no difference if his future wife, unlike his older brother’s, should turn out to be a good-hearted, gentle, and levelheaded

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person. Hŏ Sunok knew the limits of her second son’s abilities. It seemed unlikely that he would advance much further in the world than he was now. Poverty in many cases could turn good, gentle people rough and mean. Resentment rose anew in Hŏ Sunok’s heart. She hated her husband for walking out on a job restricted by neither office hours nor retirement age. How could the head of a household abandon his duty to his family overnight just to save face? How could he let his family go hungry? Concern for his pride and dignity was just a convenient excuse; the real reason behind his decision to quit was most likely laziness, she figured. This thought never failed to make Hŏ Sunok feel gloomy, because it led her to conclude that her husband failed to qualify as a decent human being. Hŏ Sunok picked up her purse and left the room. She couldn’t stand her husband’s snoring—not even the puffs of his breath. It was still broad daylight outside. Hŏ Sunok walked toward the main street and then abruptly changed her direction. She was hit by a desire to look around the marketplace. She needed no help finding it. It was right there, not far from the place they’d had lunch. Winter clothes were already on display, although it was only mid-autumn. She entered a general store. Hŏ Sunok fingered a few sweaters and jackets for men. Her oldest son had bought a suit on layaway for her husband to wear on his sixtieth birthday, and his youngest son had bought him a pair of shoes. Her daughter had also bought a trench coat wrapped up in gaudy paper, but Hŏ Sunok knew that her husband’s winter clothes were all worn out. She felt the goods, checked and rechecked them, but left the store without buying anything. She decided she had more urgent things to attend to than her husband’s winter clothes. Hŏ Sunok wandered about the marketplace. She liked browsing even if she didn’t buy anything. Nothing in the market felt threatening, hostile, or alien to her. No matter which marketplace she went to, she always felt secure and intimate, as if she had returned to her hometown. She felt comfort and encouragement from all the people milling around with their apron-like money pouches tied around their waists. She had discovered that she was not cut out to be a traveling insurance agent or to do milk delivery. The insurance job didn’t match her personality, while milk delivery had been too physically draining. For now Hŏ Sunok was working as a traveling cosmetics saleswoman. Whenever she looked at her young colleagues wearing their beautiful makeup, however, she realized that she wouldn’t be able to stay in this line of work for long either. But for the moment, she couldn’t find any other work suited to her. She had no choice but to continue to do her present job as best and as long as she could. Even at a leisurely pace it took only about an hour for Hŏ Sunok to make

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the complete rounds of the market. She felt drearier and heavier at the thought of returning to the room at the inn where her husband was. The wild idea of running away right then and there crossed her mind. She thought she might be better off working as a maid somewhere than going back home. It even occurred to her that, if she went off to a faraway place like Cheju Island and made a living there as a farmhand in an orange orchard, she might be able to take things easier than now. The kind of comfort Hŏ Sunok had in mind, of course, wasn’t physical ease but inner peace. It was irritating—even unbearable—for her to watch her husband live in idleness despite his perfect physical condition. Without even realizing it, Hŏ Sunok left the marketplace and started walking in the opposite direction from the inn. “Hello, but . . .” Suddenly a man stood in her way. He was a fine-looking gentleman in his fifties. Taking a close look at Hŏ Sunok, he continued, “Aren’t you originally from Anyang?” Staring at him in bewilderment, Hŏ Sunok muttered, “Yes, but . . .” “Aren’t you the daughter of the rice mill owner there?” he said. “Yes, I am,” she answered. “I knew it! Don’t you recognize me? I’m Mun Kilsu, who worked at your place—do you remember me?” “Oh, yes, I remember. How have you been? It’s been quite a while since I last saw you,” Hŏ Sunok said, feeling pleased and flustered at the same time. She followed him to a tearoom in the basement of a nearby five-story building. The madam of the tearoom greeted Mun Kilsu: “Hello, Mr. President.” Mun Kilsu said to Hŏ Sunok, “This is my building. After all sorts of hardship, I finally got to own it. My office is on the second floor. Please drop in again next time you’re in the neighborhood.” He extended his name card, and Hŏ Sunok took it and put it in her purse. He asked nothing about her. It seemed he had already formed some idea about her personal situation from the impression she’d made on him. She didn’t feel like volunteering personal information anyway. Indeed, she had nothing to be proud or pleased to share. Obviously Mun Kilsu had worked hard to establish himself since leaving the rice mill at the time Hŏ Sunok decided on her future husband. He talked on about himself in a very dignified manner with no hint of obsequiousness or arrogance. The point of his story seemed to be that her past rejection of him had served as an incentive—rather than a hindrance—to brace himself up and lead him to worldly success. After a cup of tea, Hŏ Sunok left the tearoom. Mun Kilsu’s five-story building had all sorts of signboards on it—a medical clinic, a go game club, a bil-

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liard hall, a barbershop, and so on. Hŏ Sunok couldn’t help but feel down, as if her victim had gotten even with her good. Mun Kilsu had been a hired hand at her father’s rice mill. He had been a solid, diligent, strong young man supporting his widowed mother and three younger siblings. Besides, he was bright. Her father had never ceased to praise him, saying that Mun Kilsu, though he had only a primary school education, was far more intelligent than others with college degrees. After her graduation from high school, Hŏ Sunok had taught at the local primary school for two years, when her father urged her to marry Mun Kilsu. She rejected his suggestion on the spot. The suggestion that she marry Mun Kilsu, who had less education than she, and a hireling in her household no less, had badly hurt her young woman’s pride. After turning down Mun Kilsu, Hŏ Sunok began to be attracted to Kim Ponggyu, a fellow schoolteacher. She thought Kim Ponggyu a pretty good catch for a husband—tall and handsome and good at piano to boot. Her parents weren’t against the match, although they felt it a pity to lose Mun Kilsu. Kim Ponggyu, the second son of a dry-goods dealer, had living standards similar to hers and was a good-natured, decent young man. He had also taught himself how to play the piano and even started learning piano tuning. One year into their marriage, they quit teaching and moved to Seoul. At first they lived on the money his parents sent, but eventually Kim Ponggyu went to work tuning pianos. He had turned in his resignation to the school, saying that teaching was incompatible with his personality and that he saw no future in his teaching job. He brashly insisted that the piano would soon become a part of the daily lives of Koreans and seemed to take great pride in and hope for his newly chosen profession. Indeed, given the number of piano schools and stores sprouting up those days, Kim Ponggyu’s big talk wasn’t entirely off the mark. But it was beyond anyone’s wildest reckoning that he’d voluntarily quit his profession at precisely that point when he could fully demonstrate his skills and ability. Hŏ Sunok felt wearier and wearier as she walked. The urge to go off somewhere by herself again flashed across her mind. She worried about her youngest, unmarried son, but she imagined her family would do fine without her. Yet she knew too well that she couldn’t run away from reality. No choice but to go back to the inn. Her husband woke at the stir of her returning to the room. He picked up the kettle on the table and gulped water from its spout. Then he looked up at Hŏ Sunok as if he had finally come around. His eyes were bloodshot. “I’ve been to the marketplace,” said Hŏ Sunok. She put her purse down and sat crouched over. In silence her husband took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. Hŏ Sunok had nothing to do but gaze at the

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whiff of smoke from her husband’s cigarette. There was nothing she wanted to talk about or needed to do. Gradually she began to feel as if the room were her prison and her husband a cellmate she was meeting for the first time. An insufferable burdensome feeling began to weigh on her. “I’m going out and will be back soon. Why don’t you give me ten thousand wŏn?” said her husband. She figured he couldn’t stand the heavy feeling either, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked. As soon as her husband left the room, a ten-thousand-wŏn bill in his hand, Hŏ Sunok stretched her legs and leaned her back against the wall. She felt comfortable and free. She had long ceased taking this kind of relaxed pose when her husband was around. This was a habit grown on her since she’d started bearing grudges against him, probably prompted by a desire to keep reminding him of her bitterness. Her husband didn’t return soon as promised. Hŏ Sunok turned on the light in the darkened room. On the one hand, she hoped he wouldn’t be back until it was time for them to return home, but on the other, she couldn’t help worrying about him. This was the same sort of conflict she always felt at home. She hated the dilemma, but she found it difficult to settle her feelings one way or the other. Right after the front desk called to offer room service for dinner, she heard footsteps stop outside the door. Her husband entered the room, quite tipsy. Given the length of time he’d been gone, Hŏ Sunok thought, he’d gotten unbelievably drunk. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but once he had a drink, he got dead drunk. Apparently something had happened to make him behave so unlike his usual self. “What do you say to a game of cards after dinner? We don’t have anything special to do, and we have a very long night ahead, right?” her husband said. “The best idea from you in ages! I’ve been wondering what to do tonight too,” Hŏ Sunok said. “I hope you still have your old skill?” asked her husband. “We’ll see. You don’t think I’ve had the time to play cards in all these years,” she snapped. Silence fell over them. No doubt Hŏ Sunok’s last words had driven a wedge in their conversation, just when it had reconnected them after so long. Luckily dinner was brought in and eased the awkward atmosphere. After dinner, Hŏ Sunok’s husband pulled a cushion toward him and laid the cards out on top of it. He shuffled them a few times, collected them, and skillfully reshuffled them two or three more times, making rustling sounds. He held his hand out toward Hŏ Sunok, “Now, go ahead and cut the deck.” Hŏ Sunok moved toward him without hesitation. In old days, their bet had been a slap on the loser’s wrist, but now that seemed out of place. Hŏ Sunok

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offered to play for one hundred wŏn, and her husband agreed to the stakes without objection. As the game went on, Hŏ Sunok kept losing. She hated losing one hundred wŏn each time, but losing itself was more upsetting. Occasionally she did win, but she was not satisfied with the amount of money she won back. In the end, Hŏ Sunok suggested raising the stakes to five hundred wŏn. Her husband smiled and again agreed. Playing cards made them forget the awkwardness between them. They were oblivious to the flow of time as well. Two tenthousand-wŏn bills, along with some small change, passed into her husband’s hands. Hŏ Sunok won a couple of times after they’d raised the stakes, but these couldn’t compare to her losses. In the end, Hŏ Sunok gave up, tossing the cards away. It was past midnight. “Huh . . . you must have been doing nothing but practicing cards with all your idle time,” sneered Hŏ Sunok, frustrated. Undisturbed, her husband smiled, picked up the bills, and put them in his trouser pocket. He then spread out the bedding and tucked himself into bed. Hŏ Sunok placed the cushion they had used for cards as a boundary marker between herself and her husband, spreading her bedding as close to the opposite wall as possible. Lying in bed with the light out, she suddenly felt an overpowering sense of exhaustion. She felt all the more keenly that although she’d lost money, playing cards had been a good idea. Otherwise it would have been the most tedious, unbearable, irritating night of their lives. As Hŏ Sunok was about to fall asleep, her husband said, “Are you sleeping?” He obviously knew full well she was awake. She kept quiet. “There’s something I’ve never told you. It’s about my quitting piano tuning. The real problem was that I had already begun to lose self-confidence. I had to use magnifying glasses and couldn’t do the job properly because of my shaky hands. Who wants to pay for such a bungler? People could hire young technicians far more skillful and quicker than I, you see. What my friend, the owner of the big mansion, told me was used only as an excuse for my decision. The incident was simply a coincidence, like in the old saying, ‘A pear drops just as a crow flies from the tree.’” “Why didn’t you tell me before?” Hŏ Sunok—dumbstruck—barked at her husband, as she sat up abruptly. “At first I didn’t have the courage. At that time, you remember, I was fiftyfour. I thought I was too young to tell my family that I’d become a goodfor-nothing. Later, as you grew colder and colder toward me, my false pride egged me on to be pigheaded. I thought I’d rather die than tell you what had happened. Then I mulled the matter over and decided that I’d tell you about it when I found a job that would allow me to give you some money, even a little.

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Some time ago I started to learn wallpapering. I trained myself while hanging around the paper goods store. I learned a lot in helping out. It may not be a lot, but I can give you some housekeeping money. I don’t know how much it can ease your hardships, though.” Speechless, Hŏ Sunok remained seated in the dark. She felt an urge to spring at her husband and pound on his chest with her hands. When this urge subsided, tears began to fall from her eyes. Her hatred toward her husband turned back on her and began to tear her heart to pieces. She hated her utter insensitivity to her husband’s long, secret struggle to deal with his frustration by himself. At the same time, she felt utterly ashamed of her shallowness in treating her husband so harshly. “Let’s go to sleep,” her husband said after a long silence. Soon he began to snore. Hŏ Sunok remained sitting up, waiting for dawn. A new pain of guilt drove sleep from her and made her wide-awake and clear-headed. By and by, the hazy light of dawn filtered into the room. Hŏ Sunok looked in the dim light at the face of her husband, sound asleep. For the first time in a long while, she felt a sense of intimacy and wanted to call his name softly. But she didn’t want to wake him up. After quietly washing her face, she sat down again and gazed down on her husband. The light of dawn, which had brightened, clearly revealed the outlines of his face. For the first time, Hŏ Sunok realized that it had grown haggard and wrinkled. Hŏ Sunok decided that as soon as her husband awoke, she would insist they leave for one of the hot springs. She was determined to persuade him, even if he refused out of false pride. Insisting on the trip seemed the only way to comfort him now. [First published in Han’guk munhak (Korean literature), no. 135 (January 1985)]

Analysis of “The Light at Dawn” Recycling the perennial theme of conjugal misunderstanding and unhappiness, “The Light at Dawn” (Saebyŏk pit; 1985) dramatizes a woman’s mending of a conflict-ridden marriage and, in doing so, underscores the importance of thoughtful, open communication and genuine compromise to the maintenance of a constructive and meaningful relationship. When the narrative concludes on a reconciliatory note, the reader is reminded of the wastefulness of the couple’s drawn-out suffering, which stemmed from their miscued readings of one another, rush to judgment, and silly pride.

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Narrated from the viewpoint of the middle-aged, hardworking, but resentful Hŏ Sunok, wife and sole breadwinner of a lower-class household, the story begins with the friction between the heroine and her husband, Kim Ponggyu, focusing on her grievances against him. Hŏ Sunok alleges that the root cause of her family’s financial insecurity and her unending misery lies exclusively in her husband’s reckless abandonment of the responsibility of supporting his family. In the eyes of Hŏ Sunok, Kim Ponggyu is but a contemptible loafer, living off his wife’s hard-earned income, and someone who doesn’t even deserve to be called a human being. When her husband unexpectedly discloses the true cause of their discord to her, Hŏ Sunok is shaken into a sudden realization of her own limitations and shortcomings, which, she belatedly acknowledges, have equally contributed to their unduly prolonged destructive relationship. Befitting a story of awakening, “The Light at Dawn” is structured within a framework of travel—a symbolic rite of passage—through which the heroine gains a new and deeper understanding of her relationship with her husband and insight into herself as well. The couple reluctantly undertake a trip under pressure from their children, who financed it to mark their father’s sixtieth birthday—a critical juncture in the life of Koreans, especially for the head of a family—and are immediately deadlocked, as the prospect of the trip triggers an unleashing of their mutual and long-standing resentment. After bickering and wrangling, they settle upon spending the travel money to stay at an inn near their house instead of going to a hot spring. This awkward overnight stay at the inn is skillfully divided in a crisscross manner between the couple’s realtime interactions and the wife’s reminiscences about her past—in a pseudostream-of-consciousness fashion. The narrative mosaic thus woven draws a sketch of the major landmarks of their life together. As interpreted by Hŏ Sunok, her bitter alienation from her husband originated with his rash decision to quit his own business of piano tuning, just when it began to show promise and when their three children most needed his financial support. With no other option left, Hŏ Sunok was forced to take up odd jobs, drifting from one low-end job to another, intensifying both her wretchedness and her antagonism toward her husband. She condemns her able-bodied husband’s freeloading and refusal to support his family as an unforgivable, self-serving desire for an easy life. The couple’s relationship has so deteriorated that, except for their mutual silent treatment, there has been no direct communication between them for over six years, despite still living under the same roof. Hŏ Sunok feels such a strong repulsion toward her husband that she is even seized by sudden impulses to run away from home, only to be deterred by her concern for her unmarried son.

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The chance meeting with Mun Kilsu further aggravates Hŏ Sunok’s feeling of failure and misery, while also revealing part of her personal history and character. Mun Kilsu is not only a man from her past but a once potential marriage candidate who had been highly recommended by her father but whom she rejected. Although Mun Kilsu was a perfectly decent young man with a promising future, she thought he was below her matrimonial standards because of his poverty, lack of education, and lower social status as a farmhand in her father’s mill. Hŏ Sunok instead chose Kim Ponggyu, her school colleague, because she was attracted by his family’s good financial standing, his handsome appearance, and his skill in piano playing and tuning. Now Mun Kilsu reappears as a successful businessman, in full command of his thriving fortune but still retaining the qualities of an honorable man. The complete, dramatic reversal of their respective fortunes makes Hŏ Sunok feel she has been soundly punished for her former shallowness, arrogance, and flawed judgment. This totally unexpected encounter adds a further sense of dejection, mortification, and remorse to her already unhappy domestic situation. The final episode of Hŏ Sunok and Kim Ponggyu’s card playing is their symbolic as well as literal engagement in a marital seesaw game. Neither of them is willing to concede defeat, especially the wife, but the husband’s ultimate win symbolically restores him to his original stature as the head of the family. In the end, the pastime serves to reconnect the couple to happier times and occasions the ultimate disclosure of the husband’s long-kept secret. This revelation brings Hŏ Sunok a sobering moment of self-knowledge, a “dawning,” as well as a reaffirmation of the bond between her husband and herself. In a sense, both the husband and wife have been controlled by rigid conventional gender-role expectations, particularly the concept of male dominance, which insists that men always be in control, competent, and invincible and the main source of family income. When Kim Ponggyu fails to live up to such expectations, Hŏ Sunok is disappointed and blames him for being an irresponsible man and father. This masculinity trap in turn renders Kim Ponggyu unable to frankly display his vulnerabilities or communicate his setback to his wife. The couple ultimately has fallen victim to artificial gender ideologies and gender-role stereotyping, which prolong their painful estrangement. The happy ending of “The Light at Dawn” depicts their liberation from the grip of these expectations and past mistakes. It also accentuates the healing power of reconciliation, which is released upon an honest admission of one’s failing, a more discerning appreciation of one’s spouse, and a willingness to begin anew. The husband’s sixtieth birthday—pitilessly snubbed earlier—is thus correctly honored and becomes a turning point in the couple’s life together.

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Nine

Stone in Your Heart (1992) Ch’oe Yun

A professor of French literature at Sŏgang University in Seoul since 1984, Ch’oe Yun (real name, Ch’oe Hyŏn-mu; b. 1953) is known as one of the most thought-provoking, innovative, and original novelists of contemporary Korea, and a rare example of a woman writer who combines creative writing with university teaching. A precocious, gifted child with dreams of becoming a cartoonist, Ch’oe was also an avid reader and a self-cultivated writer from her teenage years, often giving her stories to friends as birthday gifts. With her writing skills groomed at the Kyŏnggi Girls’ High School in Seoul, Ch’oe went on to major in Korean literature at Sŏgang University, where she served as the editor of its student magazine, Sŏgang. As a politically radicalized college student of 1970s Korea, Ch’oe participated in covert antigovernment activities and street demonstrations and had her share of police surveillance, home searches, and even arrests. These experiences became both the inspiration for and the substance of her early fictional works, which expound upon her critical views of the ideological and political struggles of modern Korea as well as her deep-rooted sense of social consciousness and responsibility as both intellectual and writer. After obtaining her BA (1976) and MA (1978) in Korean literature from Sŏgang, Ch’oe debuted as a literary critic in 1978 with an article on the structure of contemporary Korean novels, published in the leading literary journal Munhak sasang (Literary thought). In the same year, Ch’oe entered the University of Provence in Aix-en-Provence, France, to study modern French literature and earned her PhD in 1983 with her dissertation on Marguerite Duras.1 Since her return to Korea to teach French literature at her alma mater, 164

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she has earned a reputation as a groundbreaking literary critic by publishing articles on Duras, Julia Kristeva, and Mikhail Bakhtin and on semiotics, structuralism, and other topics related to postmodernist discourse. In 1988, Ch’oe’s debut novella, “Chŏgi sori ŏpsi hanjŏm kkonnip i chigo” (There, a petal silently falls)—an indictment of the massacre of innocent citizens by the military regime during the Kwangju Revolt of 1980—launched an auspicious literary career. Following soon thereafter were her major short stories, such as “Pŏng’ŏri ch’ang” (A mute’s chant; 1989), “Abŏji kamsi” (Keeping an eye on my father; 1990), “Tangsin ŭi mulchebi” (Stone in your heart; 1992), and “Soksagim, soksagim” (Whisper, whisper; 1993)—all concerned with illustrating the often tragic complexities of cold war ideologies and the Korean War. They often hint at the need to bring about ideological resolution and reconciliation between the two Koreas to lessen, if not eliminate, the suffering of the ordinary people. Ch’oe Yun’s growing literary stature as a novelist was first recognized by the Tong-in Literature Award for her “Hoesaek nun saram” (The gray snowman; 1992), which reappraises the ramifications of the underground dissident movements carried on by the author’s generation of college students. Ch’oe’s novella “Hanak’o nŭn ŏpta” (There’s no Hanak’o; 1994), a feminist-perspective critique of contemporary coed colleges that devalued female students, won her the Yi Sang Literature Award. In 1994, Ch’oe also saw the publication of her first collection of essays, titled Sujubŭn autsaidŏ ŭi kobaek (Confessions of a shy outsider), which permits its readers to gain a glimpse into the author’s personal life and thoughts. The publication of Ch’oe’s first full-length novel, Kyŏul, At’ŭllant’isŭ (Winter, Atlantis; 1997), further consolidated her position as an intellectually challenging writer continuously prepared to experiment with new subject matter, language, styles, and narrative strategies that defy simple categorization. Ch’oe’s most recent novel, Maneking (A mannequin; 2003), is a postmodern allegorical subversion of the conventional notion that the family is a haven from a dog-eat-dog world. It is presented through multiple narrative voices, another avant-garde stylistic attempt by the author. Besides creative writing, Ch’oe, mother of a son, has published French translations of a number of works of contemporary Korean fiction in collaboration with her husband, Patrick Maurus. In the summer of 2005, Ch’oe served on the steering committee for the ninth International Interdisciplinary Congress on Women held in Seoul, which attracted more than two thousand participants.

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Stone in Your Heart Reflected in a darkened window at night, the lighted interior of our lives seems to be veiled in secrets deeper and more beautiful than they are in reality. Is this because only a cross section of it is mirrored in the window? The long glass window on the veranda, standing there as if to obliterate the world without, as if its purpose were to reflect only beautiful things, reveals half of the chest of drawers, the vase of dried flowers placed upon it, and only a portion of my living room scattered with odds and ends. The effect is unique, uneven, and illusory, created by the angle of reflected light. I feel as if the picture reflected in the window were hiding secrets and forbidding easy access to them. This reflected scenery of my room, which undoubtedly contains me, things connected to me, and the traces of my life, appears alien to me—something faraway. I prick up my ears. First, I hear the far-off ticktock of a clock. Who arranged the “drops of time” so precisely as to make them fall on the dots? Yes, the night is deep. Though I strain my ears, all I hear is the ticking of the clock and some dull buzzes—incomprehensible—as if they were coming from behind a “bulwark of metaphor” set up far off. Straining once again, I lean my body toward the sound I am trying to hear. I capture clearly my child’s even yet very feeble breathing in the next room. I try to breathe to the rhythm and pitch of my child’s breathing. One, two, one, two . . . But the ticking of the clock and the buzzing noises, now that they’ve entered my ears, will not go away. Ah, the night is late—so late. My husband, who left for a trip this evening, won’t be coming back home. Sometimes, for no good reason, I am swept up in an anxiety that verges on primeval fear. I fall under the illusion that the reflection of my room in the window, with its almost artificially perfect beauty, all jagged edges removed, has suddenly turned into a treacherous minefield. How unstable the beauty of that reflected scenery! Life seems more like liquid than solid matter. There is another sound, that of my own breathing, which suddenly seems unfamiliar to me, as if a stranger were inhabiting my body. There are times when a trifle, though often ephemeral, can abruptly transform the near-perfect harmony of the reflected scenery into a dark, lonely cabin of a ship on a perilous sea. Yes. Once I spent time trapped within a sinking ship. I call my story “the story of a stone,” for I know no other way of telling it except under that title.

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There was a woman, and there was an old man. The old man had a stone. I suppose everyone has a stone lodged deeply in the corner of his or her heart. They water it and take care of the area around it, until one day, much later, they realize that the stone is nothing but a worthless pebble of the sort often found on the road or in the fields. It is to overcome the pain that befalls us on our life’s journey that we plant and cultivate this stone. Before we accept the pain, we turn it into a question mark, and we foolishly and doggedly pursue a secret that may not even exist. Ah, a sad and difficult pursuit! Such a pursuit might be a ritual required before casting the stone away after it has turned into something ordinary—just like any number of other rituals we perform in order to return to its proper place the pendulum of our life, which, unlike the scenery reflected in the window, often goes amiss. Around nine o’clock that evening, I received a phone call from the police. An hour and forty minutes later, I arrived at the site of a horrible accident. A crowd of people had formed a circle in the darkness, and all of them were looking in the same direction. I caught sight of the blackish body of an overturned car lying on a dark slope near the riverbank far below the highway, forming a sharp contrast to the dazzling congregation of car headlights around the accident scene. Two policemen grasping my arms in support, I barely managed to remain standing. I was deaf to their urgent request that I identify the dead as quickly as possible. I was screaming madly, almost deafening my own ears, trying to overcome my shock. Still yelling and violently shaking my head, I was led down the slope by the policemen. The scene of the accident was horrific. A moment later, I stopped yelling. The car was left overturned, and the passengers had been dragged out of it and were lying sprawled below. First, I saw a man. He was definitely my husband. The expression on his face—a feeble smile, in contrast to his gruesome wounds—caught my attention despite my utterly distracted state of mind. And he was my husband. I looked at his face again. It clearly wore a smile—a smile expressing utmost contentment. A thin line of blood trickled down from the edge of his lips, as if to materially indicate the faint stir of the air created by his smile. There was another dead body lying beside that of my husband’s. Of course, it wasn’t my husband. Its face was mangled beyond recognition and its clothes all torn, but it was the body of a woman. Her copious hair, wildly disheveled, was covering her face. Obviously, at that moment I passed out. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself laid down on something unfamiliar. I was lying in the backseat of a car, and my eyes, having just managed to recover their function, first discerned the vague outline of something

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like a human face. Then I partially caught sight of a very familiar face—a soft face with deeply creased wrinkles. What I saw was the smile of an old man looking relieved. Even before the face of the old man became whole, I closed my eyes again, overwhelmed by fatigue. As I came out of this nightmarish state, I vaguely heard voices talking. “Did we really have to show her the accident scene? The shock was too much for the young wife.” “If she’s the dead man’s wife, then who is the woman found with him?” “They say that it took an awful lot of time to pull the two from the car.” This jumble of voices fell on my ears very, very slowly, as if played at a low speed on a tape recorder. Then I heard a transparent twang—as when a taut guitar string snaps—coming from somewhere in the distance, and with it, I lost consciousness again, submerging lazily into sleep. It was more than a coincidence to me that Dr. Min had come to my aid. At that time, I was an immature twenty-five-year-old who, after graduating from nursing school, had worked briefly at the D University Hospital until quitting my job to marry the man I had been dating. When I regained consciousness at the accident scene, I should have recognized Dr. Min Chuhwan, who had spent most of his life working at that hospital and had won worldwide fame as a surgeon. To be sure, it was not because I had once worked with him that Dr. Min took care of me. He happened to come upon the accident scene while on a road trip and stayed on longer than others simply because he was a doctor and wanted to give help if needed. I was not put under Dr. Min’s care, for he had already retired. Besides, I really didn’t require any treatment. My only symptom was an incoherent talking, triggered at times by a high fever. It was diagnosed as a combination of high fever and mild delirium, brought on by shock and requiring complete rest. To my embarrassment, every time Dr. Min came by, I developed symptoms of frenzy, pestering him about whether he remembered my husband’s smile and firing off questions about the circumstances under which people meet death with a smile. With a troubled look, the old man always patiently repeated in a low voice the same answer: although he himself confirmed my husband’s death at the accident site, he’d noticed no smile on his face. My recovery was speedy. Not an accident victim, I required no special treatment other than drifting off to sleep in my hospital gown after sedative shots. Except for occasional muscular spasms of unknown origin, I had no symptoms of physical weakening at all, so I was discharged in no time. During my stay in the hospital, Dr. Min phoned me every day to ask how I was doing and even dropped in on me three times. His hellos were brief, and with all sincerity he repeated his answer to my same question.

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Did the misfortune of a young woman kindle the old man’s sympathy, I wondered. Later on, I learned that he had asked my attending physician to take various protective measures for me while I was in the hospital. It was again Dr. Min who insisted I be hospitalized—at least until I regained stability—to eliminate any possibility of shock from the visit of the police on matters related to the accident. Not only the police but also my family members were turned away, and even my mother-in-law, who stormed into my hospital room in sobs, vanished like a shadow in the dusk after being admonished by the nurses. In fact, I slept through most of my stay in the hospital, habitually waking up only to drift back into a blank sleep. May stole over me. In the garden, a worn-out water sprinkler spun feebly, squeaking like a mouse. It was a garden more for trees than for flowers, and it was in disarray—far from being well-groomed—but there I could feel the pulsation of thick leaves and saturated sap. I had seen the four seasons pass twenty-five times, but this was truly my first spring. All of us have such firsts in our lives. We have our first winter or our first journey, although we have passed countless winters and stepped out of our daily routine time and again under the pretext of travel. The very morning following my move into Dr. Min’s house, I finally learned that many people never get their first taste of things before death. Among such experiences was the first taste of the death of one’s beloved. Before I realized it, it had become my habit to rise at the crack of dawn, turn on the water pipe in the garden that waited most eagerly for my touch, and walk around the garden, which was not that spacious. Could I have pulled through had it not been for Dr. Min? I don’t mean just my physical life, for I wasn’t the one who had had an accident or died. In many respects, I truly owed Dr. Min my life. My destiny was joined to his by that accident barely a year after my marriage. At any rate, the whole business of settling the accident proved to be endlessly disconcerting and complicated—a stark contrast to the simplicity of death. But when it was finally over, Dr. Min suggested that, if I didn’t mind, I board at his house and help him in his work. I eagerly accepted his suggestion, feeling relieved, as if I had narrowly caught the last train of life—my life, which I had to begin again one way or another. Since his retirement, Dr. Min had dedicated much of his time to research on herbs, which he had carried on only sporadically during his tenure in office. For his work, Dr. Min had another boarder at his house besides me—Mr. Chang, a young Chinese-medicine specialist who served as his research assistant. Spring didn’t last long for me. It ended abruptly, even before summer had

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time to begin. This was not because I lacked the common sense that says, “Firsts can’t last forever.” It was because my mind resumed its sinister activities, which, held down by the long, dragged-out procedures in the wake of the accident, dared not draw my attention. Indeed, my husband was dead. His death was a “regrettable loss,” as everyone said. As he was only twenty-seven at the time, his life had been nipped in the bud and his death was truly regrettable. These views, however, were from his angle. No matter how lamentable his death, I had no chance to give free rein to my grief after the accident. My delirious ravings in the hospital, bordering on fits, couldn’t be characterized as grieving. I simply could not accept my husband’s death. There was no room in my mind for grief. My mind was filled with a scene from the accident—that smile fixed forever on my husband’s lips, never to be erased, and accompanying it like its shadow, the woman with copious hair. But the incomprehensible, sublime smile haunted me so powerfully that it erased the image of the woman from my mind. That smile marked not only the end of my twenty-five-year life but also the beginning of something impenetrable—something that made everything meaningless. Was it love? Or was it jealousy? No, it was neither. The question that seized me belonged to neither category—it was above and beyond them both. I wondered about the identity of that something—so inscrutable and extraneous to me—that had made him smile at the very moment of death. Dr. Min gave me two tasks. One was to sort his books, which were scattered all over his two-story Western-style house, and put them in order according to their contents. The other was to transcribe during morning hours what Dr. Min had dictated on his small tape recorder the night before. The job could have been done by anyone—not just by me—and it was as different from my former job as it was different from the kind of life I imagined for my future. Dr. Min’s books, which were piled up evenly on either side of the staircase, were as numerous as the contents of the tapes he handed me to work on. However, the task of sorting them didn’t appear difficult to me, and the amount of material he recorded in one night didn’t add up to much either. Sometimes I would play the entire side of a tape, only to find it completely blank. I could certainly take Dr. Min’s dictation right in his study if he allowed me, but the idea didn’t sit well with him. He told me that he was not used to having other people around in his study. Telling me this habit came from the weakness of an old man who had lived alone for a long time, he gently turned down my suggestion. I could enjoy a measure of peace and even freedom transcribing the tapes

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because there was an unusual sense of equanimity in the voice of an old man in his seventies who was closer to death than to life. Moreover, the content of the tapes—too specialized for me to comprehend—allowed me to be mechanically absorbed in my task, free from idle thoughts. The work indeed gave me great comfort. My book sorting was done mostly in the afternoon. I was mistaken in thinking the task would be easy. Time and again books kept getting mixed up and slipping out of my hands. The simple task of grouping the books demanded my unremitting concentration. And it was endless. Dr. Min usually left home in the afternoon for lectures or to take walks, and since even Mr. Chang went out to care for patients at his colleague’s herb medicine clinic in the afternoons, the house suddenly felt huge to me. Feeling much like one trapped in a large space with several somber questions clinging like destiny, I used to long for the end of those afternoon hours. Even if I went out to the garden to sit, all I saw was a garden already withered and forgotten by the season. How in the world had the accident happened? That morning, I awoke early to prepare things for my husband’s business trip to the country. Since he was scheduled to stay in Kangnŭng for three days, I packed a small bag for him.2 My husband continued to lie in bed while I packed, and I, every bit a newlywed wife, thought about slipping a brief note in his bag saying I loved him. But I ended up putting in a bland note telling him to bring back some local products from the place of his business visit. Then I snuggled up close to him in bed, and before his departure on his business trip and before his death—I wonder if even a person as insensitive as I had a premonition of death—we made quite memorable love for the last time. He phoned me from his office at around seven o’clock in the evening to tell me he was leaving on the trip and gave me the name and the phone number of the hotel where he would be staying. That was all I knew about the day of the accident—all that I could reconstruct of it, and which became almost fictional as I later recalled it to my mind so many times. From that point to the accident and to the inscrutable smile on my dead husband’s face, there was only a tunnel, too long, too dark, and blocked off at that. The police were unable to establish the identity of the long-haired woman. She was, of course, not my husband’s co-worker at his company. Except for the fact that she was wearing street clothes, nothing was found to help identify her. Even two weeks after the accident, there were no reports of a missing woman. The police, just like my in-laws, claimed in high-pitched voices that I had full knowledge of the situation and was concealing the details, whereas

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my own family remained hush-hush, lest the affair blow wide open. The police questioned me thoroughly on my activities that day, their tone suggesting I was the schemer who’d hatched the whole plot. They seemed to think that I was feigning innocence and that I had engineered the accident by deliberately removing parts from my husband’s car. Right! That morning I got up earlier than usual. Let’s see, what time was it? Yes, it was around five thirty. As soon as I got out of bed, I took out the small travel bag and put in his underwear, ironed shirts . . . and then what else did I put in? My thoughts kept going in circles without beginning, end, or meaning. The trees in the warm afternoon garden seemed to be spinning on their tops. “To cling to an unanswerable question, to try to find an answer to it while aware of its impossibility, is like slipping into madness. There lurks a danger of insanity in all human attempts to get to the bottom of the truth. All scholars perpetually approach this lunacy in the name of reason.” I used to write such cryptic short sentences on the corners of discolored pieces of paper I found stuck among Dr. Min’s old books, and then threw them into the wastebasket. As people say, this sort of thing might have been the amusing result of my fortuitous accumulation of scraps of knowledge from overhearing others during my stay at Dr. Min’s. At any rate, I was aware that a streak of insanity was already living within me. Isn’t this madness exactly like the briquette gas—silent and formless—which steals into your nerves and drills them with holes when you are off guard? And can this book sorting, to which I devote all my energies for a full half day without making any headway, protect me from going mad? I wondered. Over the course of a week, at least I finished one task. I succeeded in separating Dr. Min’s writings from those countless stacks of books. It was a weight off my mind. Altogether there were twenty-six books (five of them in foreign languages), one hundred and three articles (twenty-one in foreign languages), and eight essays. I hoped that one day those books would somehow find their proper places on the bookshelves, like birds, which, after crowding frenziedly onto a jujube tree the night before a rainy day, eventually find their own places again and perch on the branches in an orderly manner. I found one fact peculiar. All of Dr. Min’s eight essays, published mainly in medical journals, were on Kap’yŏng, a city near his hometown.3 Of course, it shouldn’t be strange that Dr. Min wrote about his native place, granted that he really had little to do with something like the essay genre. Kap’yŏng, however, was the very place where my husband’s car had overturned.

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“My decision to end my six years’ abroad and return to Korea was not, as a friend had remarked, due to a love of my country or hometown. There was a matter that badly needed looking into. It was related to my hometown, but, by not revealing it here, I should like to leave more room for the reader’s attraction toward it. It is only a short train ride to Kap’yŏng, but my peculiar personal history made it impossible for me to visit my hometown with the same sort of excitement other people have when they go back home. Speaking of Kap’yŏng. . . .” [Medical News, 1959] “On quiet weekdays, and late at night at that, I often drop in to Kap’yŏng and the scenic spots along the nearby river, although these places have now become popular pleasure resorts for young people. One of the reasons I visit these places is the unforgettable memories of my experience during the Korean War, when I risked my life to get passage on a boat at night. But the more important reason is that I enjoy the calm of the nocturnal boat ride. . . .” [Favorite Scenic Spots of Prominent Men, 1964] “Around the Kap’yŏng area there grow numerous medicinal herbs, but I will mention only one. This herb, popularly known as “stalk shrub” and usually found at the water’s edge, belongs to the shrub family and is believed to be good for purifying blood. Its physical properties are rather singular, however. People usually clean and dry its stalk, then brew it and drink the extract. What makes the herb unusual is that, depending on the quality of the water used for brewing, the effect of its extract varies—it can be either a tonic or a toxic poison. . . . Because of this defect, the herb can’t be used as a reliable medicinal ingredient. . . . Its stems are simply too long, and the herb is not much to look at, and it doesn’t even form its own colonies. . . .” [Bulletin of the Herbalist Association, 1976] I combed through these old writings as if they contained the truth I was seeking. But the remaining five essays were written in a drier, more colorless style than the earlier ones and contained long-winded accounts of the geography of the area near Dr. Min’s hometown and the physical features of its mountains. The essay published in the Bulletin of the Herbalist Association was his last, after which Dr. Min stopped writing essays or anything else about his hometown. I must have dozed off—I found myself still sitting on the stairs. I saw no sign of Dr. Min, but I noted that the separate pile of his publications I had made was now divided into two smaller piles. I went up to his study. Dr. Min told me to throw away one of the piles as it was no longer of use to him. I had a

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lot to ask him, but without breathing a word, I came down and took the books and articles outside the gate as he had instructed. Of course, his essays were among them. I finally began to understand the nature of the task Dr. Min had given me. My sorting of the books according to different fields was to help him better weed out the books he didn’t need. Dr. Min showed uncharacteristic impatience in this matter, and as soon as a small pile was formed, he immediately made a separate pile of books to be discarded. I was quietly enjoying the job of getting rid of the books. Was it because I was a layperson? That I was sorting and organizing only to throw away gave me a peculiar sense of opulence. Dr. Min and Mr. Chang left to pick medicinal herbs in the mountains for a few days. Seizing the moment, I made up my mind to go out. I felt frightened, not because it was my first outing in a long while, but because of certain facts that I might have to face. I boarded the bus bound for the police station concerned. It was already the time of year when the sun was hot and the wind sparse. I felt as if the bus were passing through a vacuum. If there were a miracle-like atmospheric stratum at the end of this vacuum that would suck up my past and all its memories, I was more than ready to give up whatever I had to rid myself of that single memory. “That” single question . . . ah, the one I hate even to name! I took an empty seat and opened the folded page of the magazine I had brought from home to kill time. “. . . Dr. Min experienced the massacre of his entire family just after the outbreak of the Korean War. At that time he and his wife, Yi Chŏnghyang, had a son and a daughter. At present, he has only Mr. Min Poktong, entered in his family registrar as his adopted son. “He went to the United States in 1954, where for about five years he worked actively as a surgeon. Since returning to Korea, he has served until the present as head of the surgery department at the D University Hospital. Having refused to remarry, Dr. Min has dedicated himself solely to medicine and writing. From the early 1960s he began to develop an interest in Eastern medicine, and from the mid-1960s to the mid-1970s he traveled throughout the country, collecting medicinal herbs. At one time, he even joined an esoteric medical organization that attempted to prove the attainability of immortality through Eastern medicine, and his name became well known through his publication of several articles on the subject. . . .” Again and again I read over those words that refused to register in my mind. But what I was really looking at was the inside of a car running along the highway.

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—At his office, the man finishes calling home and quickly dials another number. A woman’s voice answers. The man waits by the roadside. He opens the car door for an approaching shadow. A woman climbs into the car. They drive on. The highway darkens, and their quarrel becomes fierce. The man laughs sardonically. The woman’s eyes are fixed on the side of his face. Her hand is on his thigh and then slowly moves upward . . . and in a moment . . .— —Leaving Seoul, a man gives a ride to a woman in need of help along the highway. She is trembling because she is on the run. The man sees something in her face. There was in her face something he hadn’t known before but for which he may have been searching a long time. No one knew exactly what that was, not even he. He is driving, looking straight ahead. A strange calm, a serenity such as is felt only by those who no longer desire anything, seizes him. The woman, her eyes closed, has already fallen asleep. The man doesn’t realize that this serenity is death’s lure. He also slowly closes his eyes. The car’s high beam on the dark highway glaringly illuminates the uneven outline of the woods . . .— But none of these scenarios match the man. —The man is sunk deep in thought. In his mind he goes over the phrases he’ll use in the letter home to his wife. Do you remember Hajodae, which we visited together three years ago?4 It was autumn. Sand dunes loomed up on the beach, a transparent white against the dark blue band of the sky. How long do you think we slept in the sand? When we awoke, what a terrible time we had with the sand in our hair! How wonderful your smile was as you shook the sand off! Your smile was the symbol for our endless love. Whenever I run into difficulties, I immediately bring to mind our afternoon nap at Hajodae and your smile at the time.— None of these scripts fit the smile I saw on my husband’s face. Was that expression on his face that night under the policeman’s light really a smile? Could I be certain? It occurred to me that I saw that same smile again when his body was transferred to a hospital in Seoul for an autopsy. Detective Cho told me that after the case was closed, he disposed of the photos taken the day of the accident. But I couldn’t ask him to describe in detail the facial expression of the man in those pictures. Suppose he were to answer. Where could it lead? For the smile was lodged in my mind and was already eating away at my life bit by bit, like a strong, thick corrosive liquid. Once the virus called memory gains entry and gets stuck, it operates on its own and is difficult to deal with. Although I hadn’t asked, the detective volunteered the information that the woman remained unidentified even after three months. Then he asked with obvious annoyance over my visit, “Do you have any idea how many others like her are missing in Korea?” He added that, during those months, over half a

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dozen people looking for missing family members had come to ask about the woman, only to leave empty-handed. I asked him for their addresses. Detective Cho said, “Why, aren’t you a pain! What’s the use of finding out who the dead person is?” Still, he complied with my request. In fact, for my part I couldn’t quite understand why I’d made such a request. There was nothing to connect me with those people except meaningless coincidences. I left my address with the detective, asking him to be sure to contact me if anything turned up that might help identify the long-haired woman. When Detective Cho said, “You may feel mortified, but why don’t you forget about it now?” it took a while for me to catch his meaning. He seemed to be thinking I was making secret inquiries into the woman’s life because of my suspicions concerning her relationship with my husband. I suppose others were thinking similarly. The following day as well, I left my book-sorting job untouched. I spent the whole morning watching the lines made by files of ants swarming about their newly dug nest beside the flowerbed. Then, in the afternoon, I went out again. This time, I visited the office of my husband’s closest friend. There is nothing so difficult as carrying on a conversation with someone who has already concluded in his own mind that he is talking to an unhappy person. Was I unhappy? Could there be anything more vapid and meaningless than that expression? My husband’s friend said, “You know how much I liked that fellow, don’t you? It’s a real pity he had to go so young. After he met you, Chiyŏn, he became a different person and didn’t know what to do with his happiness . . .” He soon fell silent. I could guess why he’d clammed up. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything either. It was better that way. What question could I possibly put to him? Could I say, “Would you please describe your friend the way you knew him? Would you please make a list of possibilities that would explain what circumstances and what muscular or nerve activities cause a person to smile at his death? Was the smile simply a momentary twitch of his cheek muscles?” As I lay quietly down in my room at Dr. Min’s house, which seemed to be calmly drifting away with its back to the world, I sometimes had the illusion that I was onboard a submarine cruising through the depths of the ocean on an oceanographic research mission. The passage of time was just as indistinguishable, like the flow of light-blue seawater passing by the ship’s small portholes. But there was no trace of the ancient rare-breed fish for which the ship’s old scholar-skipper was searching as in old adventure movies. The ship was like the imaginary one of a forgotten legend, which, so it is said, anchors

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only long enough to refuel. At times the sunlight briefly made its way into the depths of the sea, and it was so ideally lukewarm that it kept undisturbed the calm of the sleeping water plants and that of the fish floating leisurely around. One day a man in his mid-forties entered through the gate. He had the sunburned face of a country farmer—every inch of him—and he was carrying two large bundles in his hand. While carefully depositing his things in the entrance hall, he asked me if “Father” was upstairs. Looking at me standing there bewildered, he explained that he was Dr. Min’s son. Dr. Min was in his study. The man asked me to unpack what he had brought and rushed upstairs at a stride. He entered the study without even knocking. It occurred to me that he was the very adopted son of Dr. Min I had read about. His bundles were carefully packed with small paper bags of honey, wild vegetables, newly harvested rice and glutinous millet, and even a chunk of warm steamed rice cake. At the sight of these crops, I was choked with emotion, tears welling in my eyes. This event occurred at the time when I was still in the same limbo, unable to take even a single step forward, even though more than a whole season had gone by since the beginning of my stay at Dr. Min’s house. Sitting on the staircase landing, I absent-mindedly let my ears catch the voices floating down from upstairs. In his loud, dialect drawl, the man who just arrived was apparently telling Dr. Min about the farming that year, about his neighbors, and so forth. Dr. Min was listening to the visitor’s interminable talk, at times exclaiming, “Huh,” “Heavens!” “And then,” and “My goodness!” When the man said, “Why, Father, you must remember him. I mean that wee harelipped owner of the tobacco field,” Dr. Min would chime in, “Of course, I remember!” Their manner of conversation was more focused on affirming the flow of each other’s feelings than on content. I knew I hadn’t seen anyone have such a long chat with Dr. Min since my arrival at his house. Their warm talk continued far into the evening. That evening, Dr. Min had dinner alone with his son. A doctor-father with a farmer-son! Indeed, Dr. Min was an unusual person. That evening, he became quite someone else, unlike his usual self, just as if he had been living with his son all his life. I retired to my room early and tried to fall asleep. Late in the evening, I heard Dr. Min asking Mr. Chang to give his son a ride back home to the countryside, as it was quite late. The man calling himself Dr. Min’s son was rattling away as before and talked to Mr. Chang in familiar terms as if he were an old acquaintance. Far from turning down the offer of a ride, he egged on Mr. Chang to take him for a night drive and taste the rice wine he had waiting at home. After they’d left, the house regained its customary calm of the ocean depths and its frozen blue time. There was neither the captain nor his assistant

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in the submarine, and outside the portholes there was only the maze of water plants. For no apparent reason, I had trouble sleeping after the car left, although there was no direct connection between their departure and me, except that their night driving served as an intermediary triggering an automatic association in me. I stayed awake until after four o’clock in the morning, when I heard the car stop outside the gate and the key clicking in the gate’s iron lock. It seems that, when people set out in search of something, they tend to find unexpected similarities between facts that appear totally unrelated. This seems especially true in desperate situations when people can’t see the end of that which they are pursuing. Or perhaps this is only true of me? About six months after I began my sojourn at Dr. Min’s house, I happened to discover a fact concerning his life. By then, the area around the staircase, once crowded with columns of books, was cleared out, and the bookshelves that walled Dr. Min’s entire upstairs study were also cleared enough to reveal vacant spaces here and there. A startling number of books and writings had been dumped into the trash. The books in the house, except for those scattered around in the attic or in the storeroom, were being put in fairly good order. According to Dr. Min’s instructions, I had to mark with classification labels those books arranged orderly on the shelves. The day I brought home a bundle of sticker labels, I gave Dr. Min and Mr. Chang the gift of a bright smile, probably the first since I had become the boarder in the house. In truth, however, I was in a state of exhaustion. Over the months, I had been engaged sporadically in a secret investigation. When in pursuit, I clung to my inquiry with an intensity verging on madness. Perhaps there was nothing secret about it, for Mr. Chang was well aware of what I was doing. I had met with numerous people—my husband’s co-workers, his close and distant friends, and others who were informed of the accident. I had called on Detective Cho a number of times more to badger him, and taking whatever addresses he gave me, I often visited people completely unrelated to the incident and asked them ridiculous questions. How numerous, painful and futile were those steps, which were bound to start with such negative prefaces, “no better than before,” “nothing,” and “nobody”! I realized that it was about time for me to leave Dr. Min’s house. The book sorting was for the most part completed, and the transcription of the contents of the recorded tapes could be taken up by anyone. For that matter, the book sorting was no different. Perhaps the job could have been finished within a month had it been done by someone other than me! I thought that this grace period of life, fortunate but cumbersome like a pair of parentheses, shouldn’t

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be drawn out too long. I had to seek a new way of life. I needed at all costs to free myself from that smile that had covered up and made a prison of my universe—no matter what! I called on Ms. Hong, head nurse at the D Hospital, who occasionally phoned Dr. Min at home to say hello, in hopes of getting at least a nurse’s aide position somewhere. It was then that Ms. Hong told me a story related to Dr. Min about a stone. As head nurse, when young, she had helped Dr. Min with his work just as I did. Instead of asking her to find a new job for me, I came back home with a story about an old man and a stone. No, it was a story about a stone growing in my heart. One evening when Dr. Min had gone out, I also pestered Mr. Chang to tell me the story about Dr. Min’s stone. The story could be banal—the sort we might find in any family if we only paid a little attention. At that time, however, the story was an exit sign for me, lost as I was in a secret maze with no way out. How can I simplify this story that defies easy understanding? The following is the way I understood an ordinary war story experienced by a doctor. Am I stepping out of line? Would Dr. Min himself agree with this narrative? Here is Min Chuhwan, a surgeon in his early thirties—a young doctor with a wife, a son, and a daughter. Then the war breaks out. Min Chuhwan hears the news of the war at his office in a Seoul hospital and returns home. The family leaves home to take refuge, but torrential rains force them to turn back before reaching even the end of their block. The following day, Min Chuhwan tucks his children away in the basement and monitors the situation while putting his belongings in order in his room. At that moment, the window breaks and a small stone lands in the sitting room—a pebble with its middle part compressed narrow. A note is tied around it, which says: “Dr. Min, your name is on the list for the third purge. Please take refuge quickly. Go to a farmhouse at the entrance to Saekkol Village and look for Mr. Ch’ae Minhyŏng. He will help you find passage on a boat to your hometown.” Min Chuhwan doesn’t know who wrote the note. Who can this person be that seems to know so much about his personal circumstances? Could he be from his own hometown? If not, someone who cares for him despite their differences in political ideology? To be sure, neither has Min Chuhwan ever heard of Ch’ae Minhyŏng, whom the note writer asks him to look for. After burning the note, Min Chuhwan wakes his family in the middle of the night and sets out to seek refuge. After walking several days and nights, they arrive at Saekkol, where he meets Ch’ae Minhyŏng, whose name was written on the note, and with his help they safely reach his hometown, where his parents are living. His younger brother has already come there from his home in the

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Taegu area. And then . . . before ten days have passed, the entire assembled family is massacred—from his parents sitting dignifiedly in the inner room, to his brother hiding in the attic, to his wife, who came back from her short visit to the mountain behind the house, to his children playing in the yard. Min Chuhwan alone is spared as he waits, hiding in a hole dug in the outhouse, for the retreat of the North Korean army from the village. When he finally comes to his senses, he searches the half-burned-down farmhouse in Saekkol and asks the locals of his hometown about Ch’ae Minhyŏng, who had helped him cross the river and whom he had met only once. However, he discovers nothing. Ch’ae was not a local. No one in Dr. Min’s hometown recognizes his name. Having lost everything, Min Chuhwan leaves Korea all alone. And then he returns to his country. Following his return to Korea, Min Chuhwan has undoubtedly dedicated the major part of his middle age to one task: collecting medicinal herbs. But prior to that, he must have gone back to the neighborhood of Seoul where he lived before the war and done everything possible to find the identity of the person who threw the stone. All those pits with only unproven hypotheses; those insidious rumors, in which all sorts of people—his hometown people and strangers, his enemies and benefactors, students and traitors—were jumbled together only to darken his personal history. What he had to discover, by discarding vague and dangerous assumptions, were the traces of Ch’ae Minhyŏng, whom he had surely seen face-to-face at least once. He returned from the United States asking only one question: who on earth, and for what purpose, threw that stone into his house in the middle of the night? Was it to save him from the purge, as was written in the note tied around the stone? Or was it to more easily eliminate his family by collecting them together in one place? For fifteen years, from age forty-two to fifty-seven, Min Chuhwan wanders the country in hopes of getting to the bottom of this one question. The locations of the numerous trips he takes in the name of medicinal herb research must have coincided with the areas where people connected with Ch’ae Minhyŏng were living. Yet obviously nowhere could a trace of Ch’ae be found. Dr. Min’s inquiries and tracking must have been as thorough, systematic, and meticulous as was his research. The information people offered about Ch’ae, no matter how much or how little, was all obviously meaningless. It was because the object of Dr. Min’s search was the very owner of the stone and that person’s exact motive for sending Min Chuhwan to Ch’ae Minhyŏng. The only result of Min Chuhwan’s search was an orphan, supposedly Ch’ae Minhyŏng’s son, although even that was not confirmed. After he finds Pok-

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tong, aged thirteen or fourteen, he meets several more people mentioned in the orphanage’s personal records for the boy. Even these meetings must have been meaningless detours that strayed too far from the relevant time and human connections. However, a bond between Min Chuhwan and Poktong, which at first appears incomprehensible, is established. Min Chuhwan takes Poktong out of the orphanage and puts him under the care of a woman in his hometown and then, with true fatherly thoughtfulness, takes care of his upbringing and education until he comes of age. All along, however, he continues his painstaking tracking, without mentioning anything to Poktong, even when Poktong at the age of twenty-nine is legally entered in his family register as his adopted son. By that time, Min Chuhwan is fifty-seven. In the end, Min Chuhwan never finds any answers and ends up abandoning his quest, having acquired only a pointless, unclear, and irrelevant hodgepodge of facts. There is no way to determine what made him decide to give up. It is possible that no single concrete incident occasioned the decision. I never gave Dr. Min any hint that I knew all these facts and did not even try to confirm the details through others. That was the least I could do to repay my enormous debt to him. And that was the way I understood an old man, Min Chuhwan. I also felt it was my right to positively assert that Dr. Min saw that smile, lingering so vividly on my dead husband’s face, at the site of the accident nearly a year before. What did Dr. Min see in a young woman’s eyes, transfixed on the smile of the dead? I could put it this way: what he saw was the beginning of a twisted labyrinth created by grief. Dr. Min must have discerned it even before I did, because someone who has been trapped in a maze without exit himself can read the world with an intuition learned from utter loneliness. But what is the use of all this now? At any rate, from that point in time, I slowly moved away from the spectral smile of my dead husband. I stayed on at Dr. Min’s house for six more years. And then, even after Dr. Min breathed his last on the tear-soaked knees of a sobbing Poktong, I continued my stay. Without realizing it, I had become close to Dr. Min and felt at home with him, and some time before his passing on, I asked him, as a pampered child would ask of her grandfather, of the whereabouts of the stone that had so violently shaken one half of a scholar’s life. Ignoring me, he suggested we go for an outing. The place we went was the riverside village where Poktong lived, near Dr. Min’s hometown. As we strolled along the river, Dr. Min picked up a pebble from among those scattered along the road. He handed it to me and told me to throw it far, far out into the river, as far as possible. The flat pebble left my hand and flew away, skipping across the smooth surface of

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the water—once, twice, three times—nimbly, like a swallow kicking and gliding across the water. This was my finest try, in my short life, at the game of ducks and drakes. After Dr. Min’s departure from us, I belatedly accepted Mr. Chang’s dry, unromantic marriage proposal, and helping him, I took over the task of putting Dr. Min’s works in order and publishing them. The following paragraph that I read in one of Dr. Min’s articles long remained in my memory. It was from a brief article titled “A Short Study of Scientific Contingency,” one of the rare pieces that escaped the fate of being dumped into the trash bin: “. . . Even if an enormous amount of knowledge has been exhaustively collected on two separate parts of the human body, surgical experiments to suture them—regardless of the variety of their attempts— rarely produce exactly the same results as calculated by a scientist. This phenomenon parallels what happens in human history, where an action or an intention will not always yield exactly the anticipated outcome. Whereupon, the scientist questions whether there is an error somewhere in his knowledge. Yet time and again, the world of science constantly produces surprising results defying expectations, having nothing to do with agnosticism. In the face of this development, the scientist confronts both finitude and infinitude—the extremely beautiful, contradictory law of the universe. At that moment, the scientist learns to admit that he asked the wrong question and that he must recast his question in a different way.” This article was published the very year after Dr. Min stopped his onerous quest. [First published in Hyŏndae sosŏl (Modern novel), Fall 1992]

Analysis of “Stone in Your Heart” A medium-length novella, “Stone in Your Heart” (Tangsin ŭi mulchebi; 1992) poses the epistemological question of whether one can attain ultimate truth or decipher the mysteries of life. Narrated in the first-person memory mode, on one level “Stone in Your Heart” deals with a young woman’s trauma caused by the sudden and mysterious death of her first husband in an automobile accident and how she comes to terms with her tragedy. The protagonist, Chiyŏn, now remarried

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and the mother of a child, reminisces about the shock of the incident and its impact on her life. As remembered by the heroine, what drove her to the point of mental and psychological paralysis were the peculiar circumstances of her first husband’s death—an enigmatic smile on his face and an unidentified woman found dead beside him. Her long and arduous pursuit to get to the bottom of this puzzle ends in limbo, draining her of desire for life and pushing her to the edge of insanity. However, the heroine’s chance encounter with Dr. Min—a retired medical doctor who has his own personal trauma of a magnitude far greater than hers—delivers her from a maiming inner suffering and provides her with a chance to begin anew. Thus the narrative takes on additional dimensions beyond simply the story of a woman’s heartbreak. It is an account of the intractable enigma of life, which defies human reasoning or knowledge and, further, compels human beings to surrender themselves to this truth, thereby acquiring the wisdom of letting go. Structured very much like a detective story, with such elements as accidents, deaths, suspicious circumstances, unresolved secrets, police investigations, and even a hint of illicit love, “Stone in Your Heart” has marital betrayal—suspected but never proved—as its central narrative focus. The story begins with the narrator’s search for the truth surrounding the death of her first husband, who is found dead beside an unknown woman at the scene of an automobile accident. What torments and tantalizes the heroine most is the inscrutable smile on her dead husband’s face. Despite her tenacious efforts, the heroine ultimately fails to make sense of this mystery. Even the police cannot establish the identity of the dead woman. The husband’s death and everything related to it remain unresolved to the end, although circumstantial evidence implicitly suggests his infidelity. The heroine is left at an emotional stalemate. Her life stands still. At this point Dr. Min’s story is introduced into the main narrative line, overlapping the heroine’s, and tells of another betrayal. However, in contrast to the heroine’s private ordeal, his is derived from the political and ideological dimensions of the Korean War and involves a far more gruesome and heartwrenching personal loss. At the outset of the Korean War, a stranger’s tip to the young Dr. Min to take refuge turned out to be a trap that brought about the death of his entire family. The first and foremost mandate of his life thereafter was to pursue the person who had caused the massacre and discover his motive. His decade-and-a-half search, however, yielded nothing, leading him to a hellish deadlock. Yet Dr. Min (by then in his mid-fifties) chooses to redeem this experience of treachery through his unquestioning love and care for Poktong—the suspected son of Ch’ae Minhyŏng, a partner in the murderous scheme—thereby

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transcending his personal tragedy. The implication of Dr. Min’s choice provides the heroine an insight into her own inner quagmire, which resulted from her self-destructive obsession to make sense of her husband’s likely extramarital affair and death, and leads her to stop her futile search. In essence, the putative betrayed woman is given a priceless lesson of wisdom from Dr. Min, who has learned how to let go of the inexplicable and has unwittingly given the young woman a new lease on life, just as he did for his adopted son. At a deeper, subtextual level, “Stone in Your Heart” communicates the enormous and absolute enigmatic nature of life, too deep and elusive to fully comprehend. All one can do is to approximate truths, just as the heroine does when she rescripts the different possible scenarios of her husband’s amorous escapades or when she reconstructs Dr. Min’s past history as best as she can with the pieces of information provided to her. Discerning this indecipherable aspect of life can provide a human being with the wisdom to let the unyielding mystery remain and to get on with one’s life. In “Stone in Your Heart” the author skillfully deploys her favorite narrative strategies: use of a dual narrative structure and traumatic memory as a means of establishing the significance of human affairs. The story is filtered through the memories of the narrator, retracing the traumatizing end of her first marriage, and is then interlaced with Dr. Min’s story of misfortune. This juxtaposition of two seemingly unrelated but thematically interlocked stories sheds light on the muted suffering and silent struggles of the two main characters, while subtly and effectively delivering the story’s central message. Especially central is the symbolism of the stone—the emissary of the destruction that had fossilized and haunted Dr. Min’s life. At the story’s conclusion, when Dr. Min has the narrator fling a stone into the water, across which they watch it skip like a swallow, he symbolically demonstrates the cathartic and liberating power of letting go of one’s past. Another distinctive element of the story is the near absence of direct words of other characters, which might otherwise break the contemplative fluctuations of the heroine’s thoughts. There is hardly any direct dialogue between her and the old doctor, although they implicitly share the most intimate and raw experiences of their lives. This indirect communication and the general restraint maintained throughout the story prevent it from the potential danger of sentimentalism, while providing the reader space to infer the deep empathy and understanding communicated silently between the injured woman and the discerning old man. Finally, “Stone in Your Heart” is yet another variation on the atrocity and absurdity of the Korean War—Ch’oe Yun’s favorite topic and one to be found in her other short fiction, notably “A Mute’s Chant,” “Keeping an Eye on My

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Father,” and “Whisper, Whisper.” The author’s repeated visitation of the complex issue of the civil war and the incomprehensibility of the tragic fratricide of Koreans undergirds her sense of urgency to attend to the cold-war legacy that still stands as an impasse in divided Korea. In this sense, “Stone in Your Heart” can be read as Ch’oe Yun’s literary endeavor to sharpen awareness of the irrationality of the war and its senseless sacrifice of human lives, which call for thorough reexamination and reparation.

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Ten

Dried Flowers (1995) Pak Wan-sŏ

Despite her late debut as a writer in 1970, at the age of thirty-nine, Pak Wan-sŏ (b. 1939) is known for her indefatigable creative energy spanning four decades. One of the most prolific modern writers, Pak has nine collections of short stories, fifteen novels, and seven essay collections to her credit. Pak is also noted for her wide thematic versatility, which ranges from critiques of patriarchal marriage institutions and extended family systems, to asymmetrical husband-wife relationships, gender discrimination, the generation gap, immigration, consumerism, social injustice, government corruption and repression, to name but a few. Armed with her characteristic wry humor, sarcasm, and deliberate exaggeration and verbosity, Pak pokes fun at familial egotism, obsession with social standing and prestige, and crass materialism—most often observed in urban middle-class housewives. Born in a village in Kaep’ung District near Kaesŏng in Kyŏnggi Province, Pak Wan-sŏ lost her father at age three. Her widowed mother then moved to Seoul to further the education of her two young children. Upon graduation from Sungmyŏng Girls’ High School in 1950, Pak entered Seoul National University to study Korean literature, just before the outbreak of the Korean War. During the war, her older brother, her mother’s greatest hope in life, was killed, making it necessary for Pak to abandon her schooling to support his family and her mother. She was never able to resume her college education. In 1970 Pak’s Namok (The naked tree) was published—a fictionalized autobiographical account of her own family’s Korean War experience that 186

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won first prize in a competition sponsored by the women’s magazine Yŏsŏng tonga (East Asian women). This made Pak, a middle-aged housewife and mother of five children, a literary sensation. The theme of war trauma and its long-lasting repercussions, expressed in The Naked Tree, was to become one of the central leitmotifs of her major works. Many of Pak’s most memorable stories belong to this category, including “Puch’ŏnim kŭnch’ŏ” (Nearby the Buddha; 1973), “Kamera wa wŏk’ŏ” (Camera and walkers; 1975), “Kyŏul nadŭri” (Winter outing; 1975), “Tŏwi mŏgŭn bŏsŭ” (The heat-stricken bus; 1977), Mongmarŭn kyejŏl (Thirsty season; 1978), “Ŏmma ŭi malttuk, 1, 2, 3” (Mother’s stake; 1980, 1981, 1991), “Pogwŏn toeji mothan kŏttŭl ŭl wihayŏ” (To restore what’s lost; 1983), and Kŭ hae kyŏul ŭn ttattŭt haenne (That winter was warm; 1983). One of Pak’s distinctive contributions is her pioneering effort to address women and gender issues. Pak is particularly skilled in exposing the charade of appearance-conscious, middle-aged housewives obsessed with social climbing and fads of the consumer-driven urban culture of Seoul. Pak’s Hwich’ŏng kŏrinŭn ohu (The tottering afternoon; 1978), which levels criticism at the egotistic and foolhardy ambitions of a mother who drags her entire family into destruction, is the best example of this group of work. On the other hand, “Ŏttŏn nadŭri” (An outing; 1971), “Chirŏngi urŭm sori” (The cry of an earthworm; 1973), and “Chippogi nŭn kŭrŏkke kkŭnnatta” (Thus ended my housekeeping; 1978) share a common theme of the awakening of middleaged housewives to the oppressive nature of their lives in a patriarchal family system, and their efforts to find their true identities. Pak also played a leading role in addressing the issue of divorce, as shown in her full-length novels Sara innŭn nal ŭi sijak (The beginning of living life; 1980) and Sŏ innŭn yŏja (A woman who is standing; 1985). The prevalence of “boy preference,” a form of gender discrimination in contemporary Korea even among educated upper classes, is indicted in “Haesan pagaji” (Gourds for a birthing mother; 1985) and “Kkum kkunŭn ink’yubeit’ŏ” (The dreaming incubator; 1993). From the late 1970s, Pak began to focus her attentions on the problem of the elderly in light of the disintegration of the traditional family network in an increasingly urbanized and industrialized Korea. The most notable development is the power shift from the older to the younger generation, accompanied by a diminution of respect for seniors and a tendency to regard the aged as burdensome. The problem of this alienation of the gray generation is variously dramatized in Pak’s short stories such as “Thus Ended My Housekeeping,” “Gourds for a Birthing Mother,” “Odong ŭi sumŭn sori yŏ” (Ah, the hidden sigh of the Paulownia!; 1992), “Hwan’gak ŭi nabi” (A butterfly of illusion; 1995), and “Marŭn kkot” (Dried flowers; 1995).

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Although autobiographical strains underlie many of Pak’s narratives, she began to produce full-scale self-narratives from the 1990s. Kŭ man’tŏn singa nŭn nuga ta mŏgŏssŭlkka (Who devoured those luxuriant singa plants?; 1992) and Kŭ san i chŏngmal kŏgi issŏssŭlkka (Was the big mountain really there?; 1995) are full-length novels tracing her childhood and life thereafter. In writing the first book, Pak observed that she came to feel the need to give voice to her personal experiences as a human witness to the historical realities of Korea’s recent past. Pak Wan-sŏ is the most awarded Korean woman writer today. She has been the recipient of the nation’s most esteemed literary awards, including the Korean Writers’ Award (1980), the Yi Sang Literature Award (1981), the Republic of Korea Literature Award (1990), the Isan Literature Award (1991), the Hyŏndae Literature Award (1993), the Chung’ang Cultural Grand Prix (1993), the Tong-in Literature Award (1994), the Hahn Moo-Suk Literature Award (1995), and the Daesan Literature Award (1997). In view of Pak Wansŏ’s literary and cultural achievements, Seoul National University conferred an honorary doctoral degree on her in May 2006.

Dried Flowers At first I saw only his hand. It had a ring on it. I could tell at a glance that the dark blue stone set in the white-gold ring was an aquamarine. I knew it was not an expensive stone, but it was not a common one either. That’s not to say I had a good eye for gems. That wasn’t the case. I once had a friend who owned a gemstone shop (it’s now gone) in the underground shopping mall below a five-star hotel. Charmed by my friend’s talent for talk, I frequented her shop. Her talk, however, was mostly trivial and had little to do with practical skills like judging the quality of jewels or telling genuine stones from fakes. I wondered if the beauty of a precious stone could control the destiny of whomever it charmed, just as a beautiful woman unwittingly falls prey to her own beauty. My friend knew all too many sorrowful and mysterious tales associated with gemstones, and she also had plenty to say about humans’ uncontrollable desire to own masterpieces in jewel work. Her clever, colorful explanations were so captivating that I fell completely under the spell of her words. At times it seemed as if she were running the shop

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because she had herself become a captive of such tales—not to make money or for love of gemstones. Her story about the aquamarine was, however, somewhat different from her other mesmerizing stories. She said that a good-quality aquamarine should be the color of the deep sea, but that such stones were very rare, for the following reason: “There once was a young man who lost his true love at sea. He devoted the rest of his life to buying first-rate aquamarines with all the money he made, and when he died, he had a large burlap bag full of them.” For some reason, my friend told me this story in a rather brief and lackluster manner—a story about a young man who, robbed of his lover by the deep sea, had thrown his soul into sea-colored crystals instead of jumping into the water to die with his beloved. I wondered whether the apparent artlessness of my friend’s talk was in fact consummate artistry. For, though I wasn’t particularly impressed by her story at the time, whenever afterward I saw an aquamarine, I shuddered as if pierced by the stone’s deep blue color, slicing my chest like a cold, sharp razor. When I reached the express-bus terminal, panting and puffing—having missed the last train—the place was jam-packed and the tickets for the last bus already sold out. I couldn’t believe it, because I was there a good two hours before the departure of the last bus, and Seoul-bound buses were scheduled to leave every ten minutes. It was a Saturday afternoon. What I had missed at the train station was not the train itself but the time to buy the ticket. I was on my way back home after attending my youngest nephew’s wedding in Taegu.1 As one of the elders of his family—at least in name—I felt betrayed and piqued at the thoughtlessness of his family, who had sent me a wedding invitation without reserving a return ticket. Granted, I was to blame for not having purchased a round-trip ticket myself, not expecting I’d have to return home the very day of the wedding. My oldest nephew had moved to Taegu because of his job and had made his home there for the past five years. Every time I called him, he asked me to visit his family, so I thought he would invite me to stay at least a couple of days when I, his father’s younger sister, came to attend his youngest brother’s wedding. My family were Seoul natives, but after my oldest brother and his wife died in quick succession, their four children scattered throughout the country, each led by his job. Even this groom, their youngest son and the only one working in Seoul, had chosen a girl from Taegu and decided to get married there. If he had chosen Taegu for his wedding simply because of the influence of the bride’s family in the local community, I would have been annoyed. But since my oldest nephew also lived in Taegu, I decided to put up with it. As

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a matter of fact, the groom, though not particularly choosy, had had difficulty finding a wife, and it was his older sister-in-law living in Taegu who had finally succeeded in bringing this marriage off, after arranging dates for him with a number of girls; naturally, the bride was a local girl. The wedding hall was filled with the jarring sounds of the regional dialect, which made me feel rotten, already dampened by the disrespect shown by my oldest nephew’s wife toward her elders. She told me she had informed the bride’s family to omit the p’yebaek, and without knowing this beforehand, I had come all the way from Seoul draped in a Korean dress solely for appearance’ sake at the p’yebaek ceremony.2 She defended her handling of the matter by saying curtly, “We don’t even have any older relatives left who would miss the ceremony.” What does she mean by saying there are no elders? What about me, her aunt-in-law? Shocked by the way my nephew’s wife dismissed me so rudely to my face, I looked around for someone who would take my side—for some older folks who would join in chewing out the disgusting “favor” my nephew’s wife had done the bride’s family and to get upset about it. “Good heavens, why should a bride have a wedding if she is not to go through p’yebaek? The couple might as well just live together and skip the wedding altogether. To tell you the truth, this is the first time I’ve ever seen such a thing. We are a respectable family, and this is simply outrageous. Truly preposterous! Anyone who looks at us will laugh at us. Don’t you think there’s something indeed wrong with a family like the bride’s, who jumps so readily at such a suggestion? Believe me, this is more than a simple family matter to squabble about. This is about our beautiful traditions, and they require careful handling, you see.” But I found no such allies—everyone was a stranger to me. Who am I—an aunt-in-law—to my nephew’s wife anyway? Even according to the law, I am but an outsider who married into her husband’s family. It occurred to me that my nephew’s wife deliberately treated me in accordance with this view, because she didn’t even offer me a proper place for elders and or help me to mingle with the partying crowd. All of a sudden, I lost confidence in myself and even felt unsure whether it was appropriate to perform a p’yebaek ceremony when the groom’s parents were no longer alive. I wondered if I knew anything for sure. I would turn sixty next year, and the young people’s disregard of me made me feel dismal and even panic-stricken. In the reception hall, decorated with a pair of Chinese phoenix figures carved in ice, the bride and the bridegroom cut their wedding cake. A cloud from dry ice floated up around them, and cheers, applause, and the popping of champagne bottles rang out. Even here, where the festive mood was reaching its peak, all I heard was the dialect of the bride’s side. The insult inflicted

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on me by my nephew’s family turned into a miserable loneliness, as if the dialect of the bride’s side had ganged up to alienate me. I suspected that the ridiculously voluminous skirt of my pink Korean dress—one that I had made for my own daughter’s wedding—which would either balloon up or trail on the floor, appeared ludicrous—or worse, wretched. I realized how pathetic it was for an unimportant guest to put on such a garish outfit and attract unnecessary attention. As if I were being punished for my dress, I grew more self-conscious every minute, and having lost my appetite, I was only going through the motions of eating. “By the way, what train ticket did you buy, auntie?” asked the wife of my second nephew, staring at me without batting an eye. Although I was seated right next to her, she hadn’t even said a proper hello to me because she had been so busy feeding her own children. At first, I didn’t catch the meaning of her first expression of interest in me. I stammered, “Ticket? What ticket?” “I mean your return ticket, auntie. My goodness, you came down from Seoul without a return ticket? You know, today is Saturday and . . .” Instead of answering her, I searched with my eyes for my oldest nephew’s wife, who was still busy threading her way through the crowd, greeting guests. My second nephew’s wife, however, tracked down her older sister-in-law much quicker than I and fussed over me as if some disaster had occurred—me, who was cutting my beefsteak slowly and clumsily like an idiot, showing no concern about my return trip. “It may not be too late, if only we hurry,” said the older one, looking at her watch. At that moment, it finally dawned on me that I had to return home that very day. My expectation that they would ask me to stay overnight—at least out of courtesy—was dashed. For fear of tears welling up in my eyes, I stuffed roughly cut pieces of meat into my mouth. “Take it easy, auntie, as we still have some time,” said the younger one. “No, I don’t think so. We have to consider the time it takes to get to the station,” said the older one. “We’ll drop her there on our way home, then. I feel bad that I won’t be able to help you out, but we will leave a bit early,” said the younger one. “Really? I think that’s a good idea. Even if you stay here, there won’t be much left to do. Taking auntie to the station is helping me. I leave it to you, then.” Completely ignoring me, my oldest nephew’s wife and my second nephew’s wife, who had come from Ulsan, carried on their discussion.3 The younger one and her family seemed to have come to the wedding in their own car. It was a rather old Hyundai Excel model. All my nephews and their wives, except for the newlyweds, came to the car to see us off. My second nephew’s wife sat in the back with her two children, a boy

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and a girl. I sat in the front passenger seat and kept looking at my nephew as he drove. “Why are you staring at me, auntie?” “You seem to take after your father the most . . .” “When I was young, people told me I took after my mother’s side, though.” “No, no,” I disagreed strongly but without much confidence. “I haven’t seen cousin Hyŏngsŏk for a long time. I hoped he’d come with you this time . . .” “He’s just left the country on business, and his wife also has to work, so . . . ” “Honey, when are you going abroad on business?” cut in my nephew’s wife from the backseat in a ringing, almost impudent voice. “Why, do you want to live alone?” “Because I’d like to get away from this kind of function once in a while too . . .” “Hey, don’t you know there’s a difference between brothers and cousins? What’s wrong with you?” The smile on his lips, however, betrayed a loving adoration for his wife. “What’s the big difference? I didn’t even get any gifts from the bride’s family. I heard your sister-in-law told them to omit gifts. You see, in my case, she made every effort to make me bring gifts for your family. Look at me, honey—do I look as spiteful as all that?” “Okay, okay. Hey, what’s the problem, as long as I care for you?” They carried on this sort of frivolous teasing all the way to the station, not giving me a chance to say anything. The parking lot at Taegu train station was full, and the attendant whistled to stop us from driving in. Taking advantage of this, my nephew and his wife dropped me like a piece of luggage and drove off. I could almost hear their “Good riddance!” in unison. My feelings about them were the same. It was great to be freed from their disgusting antics, and my worries about the ticket were secondary. It also felt good to say in favor of my sons, Hyŏngguk and Hyŏngsŏk, and their wives, that they don’t behave in such a poor manner in my presence. Saemaŭl train tickets were sold out, and the remaining Mugunghwa train had standing-room-only tickets. I sprinted toward the express-bus terminal, clutching my silk skirt—six feet across—on which half a dozen people could have easily sat without touching the dirt if I had sat sprawled out on the ground. Luckily, the terminal was not far from the train station. When I was

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told that even bus tickets were sold out, however, I could no longer keep my spirits up. The jam-packed crowd, the stale air, and the totally unintelligible clamor of the regional dialect were unbearable enough, but far worse was my pink Korean dress. I knew I had to return home that very day—if for nothing else— to free myself of this absurdly flashy attire. Obviously, my distress was written all over my face, because someone asked me if I was traveling by myself. I just nodded. The person told me that I would have better luck in the boarding area than standing in front of the ticket window and wasting time. His idea was to get on board right before departure and grab the seat of someone who had missed the bus. As the saying goes, “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” and I found a way out of this pandemonium! I rushed to the boarding area without even properly thanking the person who had provided me such precious advice in this unfamiliar place. But I wasn’t the only clever one—not by a long shot. There was a separate long line of people who had bet their luck on unclaimed seats. I was greatly relieved, though, that we were to board in due order—never to sneak in or fight with one another for a chance to get on the bus. Although the ten-minute intervals felt long, each time a bus left, one or two in the waiting line boarded. Still, my chances of leaving the city that day were growing slimmer and slimmer, because passengers who had bought tickets but missed their bus were given priority over those who were waiting with no ticket at all. I had no patience to stick around waiting for that slim, unreliable chance. I got all the more impatient because of my darned silk dress. The silk fabric of former days had clung to the body warmly, but for unknown reasons, today’s silk was so flimsy that it billowed up uncontrollably at the slightest stir of the wind, regardless of the season. To make matters worse, the boarding area was in the open air. As the autumn sun began to set, I could feel the drop in temperature on my skin. I gestured urgently to the young woman behind me in line that I had to go to the restroom and asked her to save my place. I felt the only way to get lucky, if it were even possible, was to go inside to the lobby and check. I thought that the bus company, if they had a scrap of conscience, might add a few more buses to the Seoul-bound line, given that it was Saturday afternoon. It even seemed possible that a few people like me could put our voices together and pressure the company into doing so. With a sudden surge of energy, I charged into the lobby, my silk skirt fluttering like a flag, and right there, incredible good fortune was awaiting me. From the opposite entrance, an old man leapt inside, holding two tickets up

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high like in a dream, and I realized on the spot that he had come to return his tickets. I quickly blocked his path to the ticket window and asked the destination of the tickets. They were for a Seoul-bound bus leaving in thirty minutes. “Sir, please sell me the tickets. How much would you like?” “I heard I can get a full return if I take them to the ticket office.” The old man held on to his tickets lest they be taken away from him for less than their full price, although I meant to offer him more than what he had paid. Probably my facial expression appeared sly when I first approached him and opened my purse. When I offered to pay full price, he then insisted that he had to sell both tickets. Apparently it was a hassle for him to sell only one ticket to me and return the other to the ticket office. I didn’t mind buying both tickets, because I could return the one I didn’t need myself. Before I had a chance to explain what I had in mind, however, a hand appeared asking to share the tickets. It was the hand sporting an aquamarine ring! I had yet to see its owner’s face, but I had neither the leisure nor curiosity. I clutched the express-bus ticket firmly in my hand, my heart full and beating fast as if I had snatched a lucky lottery ticket. In order to savor this mood at more leisure, I treated myself to a cup of coffee from the vending machine. The remaining thirty minutes were just enough time for such an indulgence. It was impossible to find a seat in the lobby, but I was absolutely content to drink my cup of hot coffee leaning against the wall. It hardly bothered me that my attire was totally inappropriate for both my pose and location. The coffee tasted exceptionally good. Maybe I was relishing not the coffee but the memory of aquamarine that had slipped unnoticed into my mind. I boarded the bus five minutes before departure and took a window seat. He got on just before the bus left, but I didn’t look at him. When he took off his khaki trench coat and put it on the overhead luggage rack, the lining of the coat flipped over slightly, revealing a London Fog label. I was rather pleased by his refinement. The most annoying thing when one is traveling alone by train or express bus is to sit next to a passenger who never stops eating milk, bread, oranges, and the like and insists on sharing it all with you. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about that on this trip. Even then the aquamarine ring and the London Fog coat were two separate entities in my consciousness. Outside the bus window, the darkness changed from misty gray to a light inky black. Finally the bus left the mist of Taegu behind and entered the freeway. Unfolding his newspaper, he lightly brushed my shoulder. “Pardon me.” The voice was dignified and courteous. I simply nodded as if to say, “It’s all right,” without looking at him directly. Again I caught sight of his ring on the

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hand holding the newspaper. I liked its simple, sturdy setting, which matched nicely his firm, thick-boned, masculine hand. Surprised by my own interest in a stranger’s clothing and personal effects, and by a peculiar stirring in my heart, I decided I had better put a stop to such wandering thoughts. I pushed my seat back and closed my eyes. A light, sweet drowsiness came over me. In spite of considerable fatigue from the long-distance round-trip I had made that day, part of my consciousness was kept awake by my curiosity about the man. I jerked up as if I had just woken from a deep sleep, and tried to look out of the window, but the steamed-up glass pane was as hazy as frosted glass. When I tried to wipe the window with the curtain, he handed me a bunch of tissue paper. Instead of saying “Thank you,” I again nodded, took the tissue from him, and wiped the window. The bus was traveling through a vast stretch of fields. Although the road signs that appeared every quarter mile told the distance to Seoul, what I really wanted to know was how many hours were left to our destination. But with the usual Saturday afternoon traffic congestion, I thought, it would be meaningless to compute our arrival time based on distance. “We’ll soon arrive at the Kŭmgang rest area,” he said to me. “Ah, I see,” I said briefly to show that I understood. At the rest area, we were told that the bus would stop for twenty minutes. After he got off the bus, I lingered a little, and then got out. The public restroom, though not dirty, was wet. While I took care of my needs in the toilet, I heard someone dousing water outside. Cleaning in name only, they were practically flooding the tile floors. I was irritated at the hassle my bulky Korean skirt caused. When I came outside the restroom and looked for the bus, he flashed me a smile from under a streetlamp where he was having his coffee. I quickly looked away because his smile was so irresistible. On the whole, the way he was standing there impressed me like the last scene of a good movie. His outfit—a wine-colored V-neck sweater over a blue shirt and a pea-green wool muffler thrown casually around his chest—was as showy as that of a new-generation pop singer, but it went well with his silvery hair. I hastily let go of the skirt that I had hitched up to my knees, baring my underclothes, and quickened my steps toward the bus with a peevish look. I felt both embarrassed and angry, because even on the dry ground, I looked like I was wading through a pool of water. When I took my seat on the bus, I continued watching him outside. It seemed to me that he not only dressed stylishly but also kept his weight under control very well. He had long legs and no potbelly, and his gait was leisurely and dignified. I looked up at his neatly folded trench coat on the rack. I, too,

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owned a fine raincoat, though not of the same brand. Had it not been for that stupid p’yebaek ceremony, I would have brought that coat. Had I worn it, I’d look at least ten years younger than I did now. Without even realizing it, I began imagining myself, the cold wind on my raincoat, drinking a glass of imported wine with him in a nice bar. It must be the aquamarine that was making me so strange. Or perhaps it was because I knew what I really wanted. I had of course been much younger in those days when I had frequented my friend’s gemstone shop with no particular business on hand. But in fact, I hadn’t exactly been young even then. I must have been way over forty, because at the time I had been looking back—with a mixture of pride and emptiness—at my younger days that had been spent in joyless struggle rearing my children and supporting my husband. When such empty feelings set in, I had felt a strange and inexplicable dissatisfaction with both my children (though they had turned out fairly decently) and my husband, who had become a respected, high-ranking company official. My discontent had in turn drained my strength, like a numbness spreading to every corner of my body. Such a feeling of emptiness must have been what made my loaded friend suddenly open a gemstone shop, just the way it had provoked me, barely able to make ends meet, to frequent her shop without buying anything. At the time, she and I were dreading old age—even more than we feared death itself. In those days, there was a bar called Casanova at the corner between the gemstone shop streets and the restaurant section in the underground shopping mall beneath the hotel. Once in a while we enjoyed drinking wine or cocktails there, not because we liked the drinks but because we were impressed by the bar’s ambience. At first we felt shy and guilty for being there, especially without our husbands, so we decided to invite them to join us. They were also old classmates. We behaved like spoiled children, teasing our husbands, “I’m so lonely tonight—won’t you buy me a glass of wine?” but neither of them was persuaded. If they had scolded us, we might have retreated home meekly. Instead, they were generous, telling us to enjoy ourselves drinking, as both of them had previous engagements. Our loneliness seemingly doubled, because middle-aged men appeared far less lonely than we were. That our husbands cared little for us worsened the insecurities about our age. Under such circumstances, I found an irresistible comfort—and some sadness—in imported wines and the atmosphere of a classy bar, all thanks to my moneyed friend. It felt not unlike going to a fancy party decked in borrowed jewels. We were more attracted to the atmosphere of the bar than to wines or whiskeys, and an indispensable part of the atmosphere was an old couple— regular customers of the bar. Dignified, refined, and leisurely, the old man

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and woman always sat at the bar, facing the bartender. The long-legged stools matched them well, like expensive accessories. There were numerous dimly lit, secluded seats reserved for lovers, but the couple chose as their favorite the well-lit and highly visible seats at the bar, and this in turn made the area rather secretive. If the couple took those seats first, other customers who regularly sat there would avoid the area. A peaceful aura hovered around their secretiveness, which we felt that we should respect. Nevertheless, we wanted to see them as old lovers rather than as an old married couple. This was purely our own wishful thinking, and we never found out the true nature of their relationship. From our dark corner we enjoyed watching their every movement. The good-looking bartender served them simple side dishes, such as cheese or pickles, and put ice into their crystal glasses of amber-colored whiskey. These scenes enthralled us like those of a movie. We were unsure of what the couple said or of their facial expressions, but we were both envious and comforted that even aged people could be so attractive. They sipped at their drinks very slowly—almost licking them—and they often clinked their glasses. And as I watched them lightly clink their glasses, I felt as if at that age a genuine harmony between human beings was finally possible—something I had never thought before. Those days I was feeling miserable—as if stricken by an abrupt and premature rheumatism—due to conflicts with my husband, relatives, and children, although the financial situation of my family had by then become fairly stable. At the time, the situation was quite serious to me, although eventually I discovered just how baseless my misery had been. My friend also complained about the meaninglessness of life. Sighing deeply, I commiserated with her. Our extreme glamorization of the old couple was perhaps one attempt to ease our emptiness and fear of ugly old age. Those days ended abruptly with the bankruptcy of my friend’s gemstone business. A drama usually ends with a slow, tantalizing lowering of the curtain, but the downfall of the rich is often incredibly instantaneous. My friend’s husband fled abroad after issuing bad checks, and my friend, left alone, was robbed of her shop as payment for their debts. She lived as poorly as a church mouse, and one day she disappeared without warning to emigrate and join her husband. At once I returned to the real world and again became a good old housewife, tearfully grateful that my family had remained intact while I had been so foolishly distracted. I wondered how many years had passed since my last visit to that hotel. It seemed both long ago and yet like the day before yesterday. Was the Casanova still there? Although the bar might have disappeared with the old lovers and

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the passage of time, my memories of them lingered, and I now dreamt of clinking beautiful crystal glasses with “him” in some classy, exotic bar. I felt as if I had been cherishing this dream and these memories a long time but had had no partner to help me realize them. He handed me a paper cup. It was a tea made of grains of Job’s tears.4 I said, “Thank you,” and looked directly at him for the first time. His lean, handsome face gave me an impression he was an honest man, and his eyes were warm. My heart pounded. Who would believe I could still have such feelings at my age? The traffic became more congested after passing the Kŭmgang rest area. Nowhere could I see road signs telling the distance to Seoul, because the bus driver had willfully exited the express freeway without bothering to seek his passengers’ consent. The bus ran through the darkness along old highways and by shortcuts known only to the driver. Occasionally we passed small villages and township office areas dotted with lighted shops. At every such chance, I tried to peek out of the window for clues as to our whereabouts, and he handed me pieces of tissue to wipe the window. Still, I had no idea where we were because even the country shops had signboards like “Seoul Beauty Parlor,” “Myŏngdong Fashions,” “German Bakery,” “Ŭijŏngbu Casserole,” “Yŏngjae Reading Room,” and so on. These shopping areas, which appeared once in a while between long drives through open fields or on secluded mountain roads, were more unreal than reassuring. Long after I had begun to wonder if we were just wandering around without moving forward at all, the bus finally entered a bustling city, giving me the illusion that we had already reached Seoul. The car plates, however, told me that it was Taejŏn, and it was almost ten o’clock. This time I spoke first. “Here we are in Taejŏn! At least we know this bus is heading toward Seoul.” “You mean you thought we were going somewhere else?” “I’ve been nervous ever since we got off the express highway. I thought the bus might run all night without getting anywhere.” “A bus that gets nowhere . . . how interesting! It’s more poetic than what I’ve been thinking.” “May I ask what you’ve been thinking?” “I’ve been wondering whether innocent passengers were being kidnapped and taken to some unknown place because someone who is on the bus is on a very important mission or carrying a huge sum of money.” “If the bus driver could hear our talk, I suppose he’d think we were pretty obnoxious passengers, because he’s actually been taking all these unfamiliar roads in order to get us to Seoul a bit faster.” “What’s bad is that we have been awake. Look around—everyone’s fast

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asleep! We never would have had such silly thoughts if we’d just trusted the driver and gone to sleep like the others.” Just as he said, everyone was fast asleep except the two of us. I felt a tingling pleasure without quite knowing why. “Are you from Seoul or Taegu?” he asked. “I’m on my way home after attending my nephew’s wedding in Taegu.” “So that’s why you’re so nicely dressed.” “I thought that in every aspect a Korean dress would be easy for p’yebaek and also for properly carrying out my duties as a senior member of the family.” I deliberately omitted that I hadn’t even been treated to p’yebaek. Still, I was glad for the chance to explain my Korean dress, which must have looked idiotic on the bus. Our bus was caught in a heavy traffic jam after passing Taejŏn, and we didn’t reach Seoul until way past midnight. While the other passengers slept soundly, we remained awake and carried on like young people the whole time. We chatted about old movies, favorite actors and music, restaurants with tasty food and good atmosphere, the state of the world, and so on. We completely left out such dreary stories as how old we were during the Korean War, how much we had suffered, or where we had taken refuge. As I rambled on, I discovered for the first time—to my great satisfaction—how talkative, cheerful, well-informed, and witty I was. That didn’t mean that we agreed on everything. Although we passionately agreed on how demeaning it had been to live through the yusin age and under the military regimes, I strongly disapproved of his love for his Chindo dog, as if mere talk about dogs gave me an allergic reaction.5 We had so much fun that I could hardly believe it when we reached Seoul, despite its being so late. Every once in a while city buses passed, but the subway was already closed. Almost all the express-bus passengers lined up at the taxi stand. The night air was cold. He removed his coat and put it over my shoulders. Accepting the coat quietly, I nestled within it. I had long forgotten my concern over age. “Where do you live?” he asked. “In the Kodŏk area,” I replied. I couldn’t believe we lived in the same neighborhood! It was a rather ordinary area. But how could it be ordinary if he lived there? My heart throbbed like that of a teenage girl. Reflexively, the large, beautiful woods that remained outside my neighborhood and the pleasant walking paths there floated through my mind. We got in the same taxi without hesitating. Quite a distance separated his apartment from the residential area where I lived, although they were in the same neighborhood. He took me home first, and when I got out of the taxi, he handed me his name card. I was glad the light was on in the room of the high school student on the

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second floor, though I hardly knew him. I had only heard his mother, who rented the second floor of my house, grumbling on several occasions that her electricity bills were higher than mine because of her son, a high school senior. The woman had a sweet and gentle manner, and I didn’t hesitate asking her to run errands for me—to pay my taxes, for example, or other official bills at the bank. My three-story house had definitely been built with the idea of renting out parts of it. As the owner of the house, I lived on the third floor. The other two floors had two separate units each—all meant to be rented out—but the third floor was constructed as a single-family unit, and at more than thirty p’yŏng was quite spacious.6 As such, it was rather large for a single person, but now I felt it sweet—not at all dreary—to unlock the door in the dead of night and enter the empty house. Though I lived alone, I had a picture of my large family of fourteen hanging on the living room wall. The commemorative photo, half the size of a door, had been taken before my oldest son’s departure for his company’s branch office in the United States. The photo showed my husband and me surrounded by the families of our two sons and one daughter, each consisting of four members. Of these fourteen, my husband had passed on, but around the same time, another grandson had been born; so in my mind the size of my family remained the same. I had yet to see the new grandson, as he had been born in the United States. My oldest son called me once a week without fail—never minding the cost—and sometimes dragged out his phone call in order for me to hear his baby cooing. Both my daughter, who lived close by, and my other son, who lived in Pundang, never missed their daily routine of calling me.7 My home was thus connected closely and regularly with my blood relations by means of the phone line, which truly gave me the strength to live. My hallway light was designed to turn on automatically when the entrance door was opened. Before the light went back off by itself, I quickly reached for the hallway light, and, as usual, my eyes greeted my family portrait. As I breathed in the smell of my house, familiar and damp like the clothes I had taken off, I examined his name card. It was a simple one, showing only his name—without an official title—and phone numbers for house and office. The card seemed to reflect his character and made a good impression, although I knew little about him. I wasn’t particularly curious about the nature of the work going on in his office. As the autumn deepened over the next few days, I could see the tinted foliage of the woods reaching the peak of its brilliance. It was said that the autumn colors at Mount Sŏrak had already passed their season.8 I wondered

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at what time of day he would take a walk with his handsome Chindo dog. He had told me that he—an apartment resident—and his second son, who lived in a separate house, took turns taking care of the dog because it had grown too big to be raised secretly in the apartment. He also said he had never violated any law, good or bad, in his entire life, but now in his old age he was breaking regulations because of the dog, which made him cower before the neighborhood women. I thought that he was living rather comfortably and was also a good person. This meant I knew almost everything I needed to know about him. His name card had been sitting nicely next to my phone. I answered many a call wondering if it was from him, even though I hadn’t given him my phone number. Everybody knows that the party with the other’s number is supposed to make the call, but I couldn’t do it. In fact, I hadn’t even debated whether or not I should call him. Though he knew where I lived, it would be totally out of line with his gentlemanly character to call on me unannounced, so I knew I would get nowhere by vague hopes of seeing him again. The most natural thing was for me to make the first move. Unexpectedly, before long I had a chance to do just that. There was a death in my in-laws’ family. My second daughter-in-law’s mother, who had been living alone in the countryside, passed on. When my son’s entire family, including the children, left for the country, they dumped their pint-size dog in my care. It was a poodle or some such thing, and it was so tiny that it felt like a hand-sewn toy that fits snugly in the palm. Whenever it squirmed, it seemed as if a spring hidden inside its fur was moving it, rather than its own living strength. I was forced to take care of the dog despite my aversion. It didn’t even look like an animal to me. Its owners placed the dog in my care without any instructions whatsoever about its food, where it went to the bathroom, or how to care for it. They probably had had no time to do so, for the sudden news had thrown them into such confusion. I left the bathroom open in hopes that the dog might use it, and to my wonder and surprise, it took care of its business there. However, it just kept relieving itself while refusing to take food. It would run away from milk, rice gruel, and cakes without so much as smelling them. If the dog were left to its own devices, I thought, I would be blamed for having starved it to death. After all my tricks failed, I discussed the matter with the mother of the high school senior on the second floor, who said there must be some special foods the dog was used to. She promised that, as she was going downtown the next day, she would drop by some specialty shops and buy a couple of things for the dog. That evening, I added some soup to my hodgepodge of leftovers and held it out to the dog. Contrary to my expectations, instead of twisting its neck to

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avoid the food, the dog immediately began to lick up the soup, its red tongue darting in and out. “You learned a lesson, didn’t you, you rascal! How could the likes of you be so picky about food, when even human beings, the lords of all creation, give in when they’re hungry?” Scarcely had I the chance to smile over my victory when the dog suddenly began to yelp, letting out piercing cries and writhing as if it were about to die. I was suddenly gripped by a fear that the dog might breathe its last. The embarrassment of facing my son and his wife would be nothing compared to the reaction of my granddaughter, who was devoted to the puppy and cared for it like its mother. I felt I was going crazy. At that moment, the first source of help I could think of was “him.” My hands shaking, I dialed his number, and when I heard his voice, I couldn’t speak properly because of my uncontrollable sobbing. Yet he managed to understand me, and as he even took the trouble to drive his car to my house, we were able to get to a nearby veterinary office in no time. I burst into another round of tears when I saw him hurrying to my rescue. It was beyond me how I could cry so easily. He held the steering wheel with one hand and with the other patted my shoulder comfortingly. The puppy let out more pitiful whimpers during the vet’s treatment, and I covered my ears with my hands and sobbed, collapsing completely into his arms. I couldn’t stop my delicious crying, though I realized full well that it was purely an act of coquetry. The vet showed me a fish bone he had pulled from the puppy’s throat and said he had never seen a grandmother cry at the pain of a dog, though he had witnessed any number of children do so. The puppy turned out to be all right and returned to its home a few days later. Of course, I never missed it at all, because I had never really liked it. Our phone calls, originally to exchange news about the puppy’s health during its stay at my house, eventually led to our meeting over a cup of tea after the puppy’s return home. I went out for morning walks in order to meet him, and on the first day it snowed, we finally drank whiskey together, toasting for no reason at all in a classy bar whose atmosphere was very much like that of the Casanova. On that particular occasion, I paid for our drinks, and he returned the favor by treating me to some coarse rice wine in a folksy bar, a very nice establishment no different from Western-style bars. If I treated him to Korean cuisine, he would buy me Western-style fare, and in return for my cheap treats, he entertained me with more expensive foods. This didn’t mean we set rules to free us from a sense of burden; nothing was fixed between us. We acted on the spur of the moment. I grew accustomed to his good-looking Chindo dog too, and we even took it with us on our drives in his car. I learned for the first time how many good

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places there were in the outskirts of Seoul. All this happened because I had been crafty enough to cry under the pretext of sympathy for the poor puppy. Now I freely let out shouts of joy at the novelty of the places we visited and didn’t hesitate to hop around like a sixteen-year-old girl. I recognized within me a sort of frivolous, spirited elasticity like a bouncing Ping-Pong ball—like the glitzy performances of new-generation show business entertainers these days, so to speak. In fact, I could have been suspected of putting on a show, because the giddy pleasure I felt was like the joy of playing a game. From the outset, our affair was unreal, because a dream come true is only possible in the world of dreams. I even went this far. One day the phone rang while I was taking a bath. I had two phones—one in the hallway and one in my bedroom—but I had yet to get a cordless. Whenever the phone rang, I walked boldly out of the bathroom naked to answer the phone—one of the advantages of living alone. My bathroom was adjacent to my bedroom, and the phone was on top of a low wooden bureau next to my mirrored dressing table. While talking on the phone, impudently standing on a towel to catch the water dripping from my body, I suddenly wanted to scream, “Look, who is that old hag?” The lower half of my naked body was reflected in the dressing-table mirror—the one I had brought with me at my marriage—which was not that big, as it was old-fashioned. I had gone through three pregnancies and had had three children. More accurately, I had given birth to four children but reared only three, because the third time, I had been pregnant with twins but lost the younger one before his first birthday. The area below my navel looked grotesque. My protruding lower belly sloped steeply down toward the pubic bone with drooping layers of creases that made it look like silk wash squeezed dry. Of course my body hadn’t become this way overnight. Nevertheless, its ugliness shocked me because I was accustomed to my steam-covered bathroom mirror, which revealed only the fairly presentable upper half of the body. I also usually chose only those body parts that I wanted to see and enjoy, either while soaking myself in the bathtub or standing outside it. I quickly picked up my towel from the floor and covered the unseemly sight, vowing, “I’ll never again reveal those parts—even to you, mirror—as long as I live!” For Christmas I bought him a muffler, and he gave me a scarf. Both were showy. We were concerned less with the practicality of our gifts than with the surprise and pleasure we gave to each other. We were very much alike in that respect, but on the whole there may have been more differences than similarities between us. He said it had been a long time since he’d last given a woman a gift. Although I didn’t ask him, he divulged that this was the first time in

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three years, hinting in passing at the death of his wife three years before. Over the course of our relationship, we often alluded to the fact that both of us had lost our respective spouses, but this was the first time either of us formally mentioned the time of our loss. I changed the subject as if I weren’t interested in what he was saying. I figured that, though we might exchange mufflers and scarves, we had no business trading the details of our personal lives. The new year came around, and I was turning sixty. I wondered why the sixtieth birthday and return of one’s year cycle (yukkap) had to be so significant.9 In fact, the phrase “performing yukkap” is never used to compliment anyone, but everyone tried to perform yukkap in front of me, that is, to make a big deal out of my forthcoming sixtieth birthday.10 In fact, it was the first topic my oldest son brought up when he telephoned me from the United States the morning of New Year’s Day, saying that his call would do for his new year’s bow to me. He suggested that instead of having a sixtieth birthday party, I should take a sightseeing trip to the United States. Apparently my three children had already agreed to this plan, and they had decided to put off the party until my seventieth birthday, if it was okay with me. “I really don’t know. But you children shouldn’t worry about it. Listen, I don’t mind if you don’t throw me a party. And that doesn’t mean you have to do something else instead, either. It’s unsettling to think that I’m already sixty.” I spoke halfheartedly, but I meant what I said—it wasn’t an empty gesture. “You see, mom? That’s why we want you to take a trip instead of feeling like that. I’ll take enough vacation time, and then we can easily take a trip, even as far as Europe. We have only a year left in the United States, so if you miss this chance, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.” My son was practically threatening me. He had every reason to do so; he had pressed me to come visit ever since his first year at his company’s branch office in the States. But worse than the idea of a sixtieth birthday party was the thought of oldsters taking airplanes to visit their children abroad, traveling in packs—one made up of members of the wife’s family, the other of the husband’s—as if they owned the world. I hung up the phone, neither accepting nor declining his invitation. When it came to international calls, I always hung up first, worried about the cost. The sixtieth birthday seemed like such a hassle for the person in question, and even more so for the children. When my children learned I was unwilling to travel abroad, they wanted to know if I preferred a party instead, and when they found out I wanted neither, they became very anxious to fathom exactly my innermost thoughts. I knew they would never find out, because even I was unable to figure out what I really wanted. Nevertheless, I was amused

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and even gratified by their concern. After all, isn’t it natural for parents to be proud of children who do their best for them according to custom? My daughter played the usual role of antenna to feel me out. Since she was the oldest, she was closest to me in age, and she was also easiest to talk to, as we were both women. Since she was born thoughtful, I had treated her like a friend since she was young, and her younger brothers, though politely deferential, usually discussed everything with her. Thus she was accustomed to knowing everything that went on in our family. That was probably why she poked her nose into my affairs. She had only the vaguest knowledge of her mom’s boyfriend, and she was very wary of him. In Korean society, unless a person is from outer space, he or she is inescapably caught in the human network of school and regional connections and family ties. So once my daughter took upon herself the mission of information gathering, it was inevitable that not only what I already knew but also additional, previously hidden details about him would come to light. I was at least aware that he had retired a year ago from teaching at a regional university, that he was running a small research institute together with some retired professors of Korean history, and that he had lost his wife three years earlier. Now, thanks to my daughter, I learned for the first time that he and his wife had been an especially close couple, that he owned another house besides the one he had given to his son, that he also had some land in the countryside, and that his oldest daughter-in-law, who took care of him, was pretty, bright, and from a wealthy family as well. My daughter’s interest in the daughter-inlaw was natural, given their closeness in age. Seoul seemed large, but in fact it was small enough that there were all sorts of connections among those who dwelled there from primary school all the way through college—even among those who had never attended the same school. Equipped with her new information, my daughter inquired, with a serious look, about what I was planning to do with that old man anyway. Her bearing was no different from that of a mother disciplining a wanton daughter. “What do you mean by ‘that old man’?” “How can you expect me to call him nice when I know he’s led you on?” When I saw tears welling up in my daughter’s eyes, I began to regret my initial eagerness to defend him. But I knew there was nothing of consequence between him and me that should call for change simply because my children had found out about us. “Led on? Who led on whom? Girl, watch what you say! It sounds obscene.” “Hyŏngguk and Hyŏngsŏk don’t know about it yet.”

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“So what if they did know?” “Mom, what good is it for them to know? It’ll only give them excuses to mistreat and disrespect you when you get older.” “How will they know if you keep your mouth shut?” “Okay! I’ll keep mum about it, but you should be careful, mom. Children also have faces to save, you know.” My daughter went on cheekily acting like a mother tightening the screws on her licentious daughter, assuring her in hushed tones that she wouldn’t inform her father about her misconduct. My daughter’s meddling didn’t stop there, though. This was probably in part because he and I made no special effort to act any differently from before, since there had been nothing to be careful about in the first place. The real cause for my daughter’s concern, however, seemed to be information leaked directly to her from his family. His daughter-in-law turned out to be a college classmate of my daughter’s closest high school friend. On top of that, his daughter-in-law and my daughter lived in the same apartment complex. Once these connections were established among the girls, our personal secrets became open to anyone’s prying, as defenseless as individuals doubly related by marriage.11 Although my daughter considered that her friend, who played the role of intermediary as she knew both sides, might have twisted or exaggerated some of her information, every detail of the conditions of the “other side” thus disclosed seemed to suit the palate of my daughter, who was until then so full of hostility towards him. She even cracked an impudent joke, giggling that she should give me some credit for my good taste. Then one day she asked me quite seriously, “Mom, are you in love with Dr. Cho?” I choked on my uncontrollable burst of laughter and spilled the coffee I was drinking, almost burning myself. It was funny because “that old man” was now transformed into “Dr. Cho,” but also because I knew he didn’t particularly like to be called by that title. Some time ago, after he had had a nice chat with a middle-aged student he’d run into, he told me that he liked his old students to greet him as “teacher” and didn’t feel at all close to students these days who called him “professor” or “doctor.” That was one of his quirks. “Mom, what’s so funny?” “Isn’t it funny that ‘that old man’ has turned into ‘doctor’?” “From the way you’re amused, I can tell you are in love with him—aren’t you?” My daughter pouted a little, but without any hint of dislike. Still, I sensed a sadness about her, and I knew I had to make my attitude clear sooner or later. To stop enjoying my current relationship would make me feel lonely, perhaps several times worse than my daughter’s sadness, but there was no sense in avoiding it indefinitely.

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Sometime after “that old man” was transformed into “Dr. Cho,” my daughter told me that she had been introduced to his daughter-in-law and had gotten to know her. The meeting had been arranged by their mutual friend, but my daughter recognized the woman’s face because my daughter often saw her in the supermarket and other places. I could sense that, with the third-party mediation gone, my daughter’s attitude toward his family was growing more favorable. I also felt profoundly sad as I watched her day by day leaning farther toward their side. “Mom, if it’s because of Hyŏngguk and Hyŏngsŏk that you can’t make up your mind, you shouldn’t worry about them. I will do my best to make them understand and keep your dignity intact.” I wondered what kind of secret scheme my children had devised to make my daughter bold enough to talk to me so openly and explicitly. As it was obvious to me that his daughter-in-law was pressing the matter, I began to feel concerned about him. “In short, are you saying you’re going to marry your mother off?” “You are in love with him, aren’t you? How splendid it is to remarry for love! A remarriage not for lack of means nor for lack of children to depend on! I will stand behind you and be proud of you, Mom, no matter what others might say.” I looked over at my daughter absently, so caught up in her ramblings about love, and thought, “What do you know about love, anyway? What’s so special about love? Do you know it’s nothing but life itself?” The more I tried to make light of my situation, the more I felt weighed down. Without our intending it, his daughter-in-law naturally became the topic of conversation between him and me. If I commented, “Wow, that windbreaker looks new! But it’s too chic.” He would reply, “My daughter-in-law bought it for me, but I don’t know why she’s so eager to make me look younger these days,” scratching his head bashfully. The weight on my mind grew heavier as his daughter-in-law, whom I hadn’t even met, loomed more and more in the foreground of our situation. Later, when he told me that his daughter-inlaw wanted to invite me to her house and instructed him to have me set the date, I could hardly keep from exploding at him for speaking of her so often. Although he didn’t press for an immediate response when I dodged the invitation, he looked pitiful despite the fresh fragrance of lotion that wafted from him. Then his daughter-in-law had my daughter relay the same message to me. My daughter ignored everything I tried to say and instead just worried about how she should dress me so I wouldn’t feel shabby facing his stylish daughter-in-law.

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“She must be a filial daughter-in-law, rare in this day and age,” I said. “No doubt about that, Mom. She is so good to him. Can you imagine how difficult it is to take care of a single father-in-law? She said that when the going gets tough, she thinks of it as volunteer social work.” I felt a lump in my throat. I couldn’t decide this important matter on the spur of the moment, out of anger or pity, but I said firmly to my daughter, “Look, Hyŏngsuk, dear. Listen carefully. I, your mother, want to be buried next to your father.” Embarrassed at my words, my daughter didn’t push the topic further. Although our family didn’t have an ancestral burial ground on a rural mountain, my husband’s gravesite in the communal graveyard park had a temporary tomb next to it so I could one day be buried beside him. My name had already been engraved beside his on the tombstone. Thus I already had my own gravesite and tombstone. Only the date of my death was left blank below the date of my birth. I liked visiting the gravesite. I never felt guilty toward my husband while I was seeing Dr. Cho. My desire to visit the gravesite was the closest thing to absolute free will that I had in my daily routine. Compared with the deep peace I felt at the gravesite, the joys and sorrows of everyday life, no matter how great they seemed, were reduced to nothing more than small ripples on a placid surface. The peace I found there was never a dead peace. I found the grasses there lovely—even the ants, grasshoppers, and grubs living in them. When I thought of his body nurturing them and of me someday joining him, my fear of death disappeared—even without any firm belief in the soul—and I felt tenderness toward even the smallest things in nature. I was going to ask my children to cremate my body after it exhausted its usefulness in feeding the grasses and insects, so that it could wander freely about the mountains and rivers. No temptation could draw me away from that guarantee of peace and freedom. My daughter retreated after that conversation, but later she approached me again, giving me the impression that she had heard something more from his side. “Mom, please don’t worry. Even if you remarry, we’ll bury you next to dad when you pass on. Come to think of it, wouldn’t the other party be buried next to his wife too?” I didn’t know how to explain to her that the peace I desired was far beyond that sort of triviality. I didn’t even feel like explaining. “That’s enough. It sounds disgusting. How could you say something like that to your own mother?” “What’s so disgusting? Jacquelyn was buried beside John Kennedy, wasn’t

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she? I guarantee you everything will turn out fine if I hold my ground, even if our relatives or my brothers raise objections. No one has the right to leave dad lonely.” “Enough is enough! What’s gotten into you, really?” “What’s gotten into you, Mom? Everyone knows you are a passionate woman. With that old passion revived, it will be easy for you to overcome such trivial matters.” I couldn’t believe that I’d let my daughter go on with this endless nonsense. Yet her concern was something I could understand. Her straightforward remarks forced me to consider the course of my emotional life up to that point. As the oldest child, my daughter had heard a lot about my younger days. Born to a large family without even a house of its own, she had known all too well my family’s pinched financial state, which had continued well into her high school years and made it a continual struggle for her to pay her tuition on time. My daughter had also been the most frequent audience of my own mother’s grumbling about the causes of my unending hardships. Although my mother had felt sorry for me, she had made it very clear that I had only myself to blame. At that time, my husband’s family had been not only poor (though now the financial situation of my parents’ side and that of my husband’s had almost evened out) but also rough and crude, probably because few of them besides my husband had had regular schooling, and this contrasted sharply with my own parents’ urbane, middle-class background. My daughter, at the peak of teenage sensitivity, had naturally felt uncomfortable, and her grandmother’s grievances had probably done little to reconcile her to the circumstances. When I had fallen passionately in love with my husband, my mother had actually found him agreeable as a potential son-in-law, so much so that she even characterized him favorably as “a dragon soared from a ditch.”12 Nevertheless, she had been firmly against my marrying that dragon. In her view, marrying a dragon from a ditch was not marrying a dragon but getting mired in a ditch. No matter how much my mother opposed my marriage with her endless wailing, all I could see was the dragon, not the ditch. My mother’s predictions had come true, and my desperate struggle against the ditch had continued until I sent off the last of my husband’s sisters in marriage. What appeared to others as a ditch was the reward of my life and the source of my strength. It seemed the blind energy that had veiled my eyes and made me see only one man was now called “passion” by my daughter. It could be called passion or even sexual desire. That very passion was missing from my feelings for Dr. Cho. My feeling of being in love was no different from my younger days, but sexual desire

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was now conspicuously absent. I felt love that was satisfied by emotion alone was nothing but superficial attraction. It seemed my relationship with him was about making a splash. Now that I was no longer blinded by sexual desire, everything became glaringly clear to me. No matter how stylishly he dressed himself, signs of impending old age were all too obvious to me. I could see everything: the dried-up, drooping skin that was revealed whenever he changed his underwear and the flakes of dead skin that showered down from his body; his laborious snoring like the gasps of an exhausted mountain climber; cigarette ashes dropped carelessly everywhere; thick phlegm coughed up as he craned his head desperately; successive farts let out by deliberately raising his buttocks; the stench of stomach acid when he burped, no matter how much he tried to pass for a gentleman; voracious, egotistic appetites; endless nagging mixed with a loss of memory and morbid suspicions of his wife’s morals; stinginess as if he planned to live another hundred years. I knew that love alone wasn’t enough to make one endure all these things without complaint. I believed that in order to overcome them, a couple at least should have shared those beastly periods of procreating and rearing children together. Now I finally came to recognize the beauty of sexual desire, which far surpassed superficial attraction. There was no room for me to reconsider our affair. Moreover, I was way past the age to dream of the impossible. My daughter made an unnecessary remark: “Poor Dr. Cho! What if my mom won’t accept your proposal! His daughter-in-law says she won’t be able to take care of him anymore. If at all possible, she would like him to marry a woman he likes, but if not, she seems ready to marry him off to anyone. I was told that there are plenty of women who want to marry him for the sake of economic security in their old age. Still, his daughter-in-law doesn’t seem to care for women too young for him. I guess it’s not only because of the awkwardness of having a young mother-in-law but also because of the prospect of a prolonged period of responsibility for the woman later. She seems to be thinking of taking in some poverty-ridden old woman. Mom, would you feel okay if someone you loved became pitiful like that?” My daughter insolently prattled on as if she were cracking jokes with her friends. I flared up, “What’s wrong with being poor? You shouldn’t look down on people, you hear? Poverty is far more honorable than doing volunteer work, you know.” Poverty was indeed far more honorable than superficial glamour, I thought. I spat out those words with profound relief, mentally superimposing the face of the daughter-in-law I had never met upon that of my daughter. I no longer wanted to allow either of them to come between us. On our last date, I told him that I was taking official steps to leave for a visit to the United States and that, if possible, I planned to stay there for a long time. Then, care-

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fully placing my hand on top of his ringed hand, I told him that I didn’t want to risk widowhood a second time, for I had already tasted its unfairness once. I tried to read him, fearing that my words, though put in such a roundabout way, might have hit him too hard, but I could decipher nothing. [First published in Munhak sasang (Literary thought), January 1995]

Analysis of “Dried Flowers” A first-person narrative, “Dried Flowers” (Marŭn kkot; 1995) presents Pak Wan-sŏ’s astute examination of troubling issues of today’s Korea in a state of flux. Crafted with her characteristic acumen and acerbic humor, the story dissects the increasing gap between younger and older generations, the breakdown of traditional extended family systems, and the resulting quandary of the elderly. These concerns are played up with the narrative’s focus on the romantic adventure of “I,” an upper-middle-class, sixty-year-old widow and mother of three grown children, and her relationships with her children and relatives. As the story ends with the protagonist’s final decision to terminate her involvement with Dr. Cho, readers—especially older audiences—are asked to reevaluate their own notions about marriage, parent-children relationships, traditional family values, and old age. Ultimately, the story, a representative example of Pak’s knack for reading the signs of the times, raises questions as to what needs to remain unchanged when traditions are at odds with modernity and create confusion and uncertainty among Koreans. The first part of “Dried Flowers” presents an undisguised disapproval of a young generation’s brashness, egotism, and willful disregard of traditionally sanctioned rituals, manners, and intergenerational protocols within the extended family. The wives of the heroine’s nephews are personifications of such trends in contemporary Korea, and their language, decisions, and conduct represent the shallowness and self-absorbed orientation of nuclear family systems in the absence of older people. Personal convenience, practicality, and expediency instead become their guiding principles. Dr. Cho’s daughter-in-law is no exception. Her case may be more problematic, given her good education and high social and economic status. Her interest in her father-in-law’s remarriage is solely motivated by her desire to shuffle her responsibility off to someone else, since she sees him as a burden. Her sophisticated manner of dressing him up and pushing his relationship with “I,” therefore, turns out to be all the more calculated, ego-centered, materialistic, and hollow. She exemplifies the rejection of Korean traditional

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expectations of daughters-in-law and the disintegration of the family solidarity they are supposed maintain. The implied contrast brought out by the juxtaposition of these characters and the children of “I” suggests the importance of sustaining multigenerational family systems as a safety net for the elderly. The firstborn son’s concern for “I” is exemplary and even exceptional, making “I” feel valued and secure. Although her daughter’s busybody role backfires, her intention is genuine and her relationship with “I” is basically one of mutual trust and camaraderie. The children of “I,” therefore, speak for the author’s espousal of the value of traditional family organization and arrangement in light of growing fragmentation of Korean society caught in the process of rapid industrialization and globalization. Another key concern in “Dried Flowers” is the mounting problems of the elderly in Korea, which coincided with the lengthening of life spans and the lack of proper care for older people in their later years. As the title indicates, however, Pak flavors the story with a good dose of humor. The narrative, with its vibrant portrayals of the latest trends in lifestyles, social mores, and dating customs of the elderly, provides an entertaining and informative commentary on the ways Koreans are handling this conundrum. A large part of “Dried Flowers” is devoted to detailing the modish and carefree activities of companionship between the sexes in old age, as captured in the rendezvous scenes of the heroine and her male companion, Dr. Cho—a trend that has apparently caught the fancy of the Korean upper-middle class. At first “I” pursues dates with her companion, in hopes of realizing her unfulfilled daydreams of a romantic relationship in exotic and sophisticated settings reminiscent of Western movies. She carries on her affair—albeit a purely platonic one—flirting in an exaggerated manner, often fully aware of her own frivolity and affectation. Their dates sweep them into the realm of dreamy romance with no strings attached. In the end, however, “I” realizes that her relationship with Dr. Cho has been nothing but a glamorized fantasy and that it is doomed to eventually run up against the hard rock of reality. The heroine, too judicious and levelheaded to knowingly indulge in such self-deceiving games, sees that her affair is nothing more than a mimicking of a postmodern fad, which the progressive younger generation approves of and even encourages but which, she finds, is sophomoric at best and hurtful at worst. She resolves to meet the challenge of her old age, even death, on her own terms and within the framework of the traditional Confucian rule that widows stay single for the rest of their lives—the only option she finds both comfortable and consistent with her real need to be independent. In this sense, the narrative pokes fun at the unrealistic expectations of such romance

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in old age, viewing them through the eyes of the affluent and self-possessed heroine. “Dried Flowers” sends a skeptical message that concepts such as romance and remarriage of the elderly are too alien and affected to be accepted as authentic means of coping with old age in today’s Korea. And “I” refuses to be pushed around by such ideas. Sadly, however, some individuals like Dr. Cho may be forced to follow this new trend. Unlike “I,” Dr. Cho has lost the support network of old family systems and has also been deprived of the power of self-determination—symptomatic of the weakening of the long-standing patriarchal foundation of Korean society as it is affected by new ideas about family and marriage from the West.

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Notes

Preface 1. My previously published translations that have been revised for this anthology are Na Hye-sŏk’s “Kyŏnghŭi,” in Korean Studies 26, no. 1 (2002): 61– 86; Kim Wŏn-ju’s “Awakening,” in Korean Studies 21 (1997): 22–30; and Pak Wan-sŏ’s “Dried Flowers,” in Korean Literature Today 4 (Winter 1999): 66–93. Introduction 1. The “Three Rules of Obedience” (samjong chido) prescribed that a woman, before marriage, should obey her father; after marriage, her husband; and after her husband’s death, her son(s). This effectively defined a woman’s identity by her subordinate relationships to men in her life cycle and within immediate familial boundaries. The “Seven Vices” (ch’ilgŏ chiak), on the other hand, encapsulated conditions for divorcing women: disobedience to in-laws, childlessness, adultery, jealousy, larceny, talkativeness, and hereditary illness. Here, the injunction against “jealousy” meant that a woman had to accept her husband’s philandering or maintenance of concubines without complaint, while the ban on “talkativeness” signified the literal as well as figurative silencing of women. For details about principles, codes, and rituals that regulated the lives of traditional Korean women, see Martina Deuchler, “Confucian Legislation: The Consequences for Women,” in her Confucian Transformation of Korea: A Study of Society and Ideology (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1992), 231–281.

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2. The famous phrase coined by Virginia Woolf in her essay “Professions for Women.” See Woolf, Women and Writing, edited and with an introduction by Michèle Barrett (New York and London: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1979), 58. 3. See Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own (New York and London: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, c. 1929; reprint, 1957), 54. 4. The Hyŏndae Literature Award was established in 1955 by the publisher of the monthly literary magazine Hyŏndae munhak (Modern literature), with the objective of discovering new young authors. The annual prize was first awarded in 1956. Later its policy was revised to include established writers. Sharing the same purpose, the Tong-in Literature Award was initiated in 1955 to commemorate Kim Tong-in (1900–1951), a pioneer of the Korean short story genre, and became an annual award in 1956. Likewise, the Yi Sang Literature Award was established in 1977 in memory of Yi Sang (1910–1934), an innovative and gifted writer whose career ended with his early death. It is also conferred annually. 5. Most representative of the court women’s prose writing is Hanjungnok (Record of sorrows; 1795–1805), by Princess Hyegyŏnggung (or Lady Hong; 1735–1815), the wife of Prince Changhŏn (or Prince Sado; 1735–1762) and the mother of King Chŏngjo (r. 1776–1800). Hanjungnok, Lady Hong’s memoirs, was produced late in her life and was written to reveal the details of the tangled court politics that led to the horrendous death of her husband, who suffocated inside a rice chest in which he had been locked by his father, King Yŏngjo (r. 1724–1776). 6. See Sharon L. Sievers, Flowers in Salt: The Beginnings of Feminist Consciousness in Modern Japan (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1983), 163–188. 7. For more information on this topic, see Yung-Hee Kim, “From Subservience to Autonomy: Kim Wŏnju’s ‘Awakening,’” Korean Studies 21 (1997): 5–7. 1. A Girl of Mystery 1. The places cited in this story are the best-known scenic sites in and around P’yŏngyang. 2. “Songs of Melancholy” is a famous folk song expressing longing for one’s lover, with the scenic Taedong River as its backdrop. 3. “Kahŭi” means “a beautiful girl,” whereas “Pŏmnye” means “a plain maiden.” 2. Kyŏnghŭi 1. The Japanese name of the school is Shiritsu Joshi Bijutsu Gakkō. Founded in 1901 at Yumichō in Honkō Ward in Tokyo, it was the first Japanese fine

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arts college for women. Burned down in 1908, the school was rebuilt at Kikusakachō in Honkō Ward. 2. The magazine Hakchigwang (Light of learning), was published by the Korean Student Association in Japan in 1914. 3. Na was married on April 10, 1920, to Kim U-yŏng (1886–1958), a Kyoto University graduate and friend of her elder brother. 4. As a result of this unprecedented event, Na was lionized in Seoul society. The exhibition hall was crowded with thousands of visitors, and some of her works were sold at high prices. One month after this show, she gave birth to her first child, a daughter, Nayŏl. 5. Lasting from June 1927 to March 1929, the trip began in China and included Russia, Switzerland, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Italy, England, and the United States. The tour was arranged by the Japanese government as a reward for its officials who served in such remote outposts as Manchuria. 6. During her visit to England, Na Hye-sŏk had a personal interview with a former member of the suffrage campaign group led by Emmeline Pankhurst (1858–1928), to learn about the British women’s movement. 7. Na Hye-sŏk had an extramarital affair with Ch’oe Rin (1878–?), a prominent Korean leader and friend of Na’s husband. One of the thirty-three signers of the March 1919 Declaration of Independence, he stopped in Paris during his travel to Europe in 1927 to attend international political conferences. Later, Ch’oe became a pro-Japanese collaborator, for which he was tried and imprisoned after liberation along with Na’s husband, Kim U-yŏng, on similar charges. During the Korean War, Ch’oe was kidnapped to the North, and thereafter little is known about him. 8. For a study in English of Na Hye-sŏk’s biography and “Kyŏnghŭi,” see YungHee Kim, “Creating New Paradigms of Womanhood in Modern Korean Literature: Na Hye-sŏk’s ‘Kyŏnghŭi,’” Korean Studies 26, no. 1 (2002): 1–86. 9. Its author was an art critic, Yi Ku-yŏl, and it was published in Seoul by the Tonghwa Ch’ulp’angongsa. 10. The first international symposium on Na Hye-sŏk was held by Chŏngwŏl Na Hye-sŏk Kinyŏm Saŏphoe (the Memorial Foundation for Chŏngwŏl Na Hyesŏk) on April 27, 1999, in Suwŏn. In addition, two separate collections of Na Hye-sŏk’s works and a biography have been published; see Sŏ Chŏng-ja, comp., Chŏngwŏl Ra Hye-sŏk chŏnjip (Collected works of Chŏngwŏl Na Hyesŏk) (Seoul: T’aehaksa, 2000); Yi Sang-gyŏng, ed., Na Hye-sŏk chŏnjip (Collected works of Na Hye-sŏk) (Seoul: T’aehaksa, 2000); and Yi Sang-gyŏng, Ingan ŭro salgo sipta: Yŏngwŏnhan sinyŏsŏng Na Hye-sŏk (I want to live as a human being: The eternal modern woman, Na Hye-sŏk) (Seoul: Hangilsa, 2000). 11. The nyang was one of three principal monetary units used in Korea during the Japanese occupation period. The highest unit was the wŏn, equivalent to

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ten nyang; one nyang was equal to ten chŏn. Around 1927 a teacher’s monthly salary was approximately seventy wŏn. 12. Judging from the context of this reference, Madame “Sŭraaru” may be a mistaken transcription referring to Anne-Louise-Germaine de Staël (1766– 1817), popularly known as Madame de Staël. At the center of intellectual high society during the French Revolution and the Napoleonic era, she was interested in the intellectual emancipation of women and penned novellas on feminist issues. 13. As in the previous note, Mrs. “Wŏttŭ” may be another incorrect Korean transcription, in this case for Beatrice Webb (1858–1943), a British socialist and one of the leading intellectuals of her day. She collaborated with her husband, Sidney Webb, to author books on trade unionism (1894) and industrial democracy (1897), as well as a nine-volume history of English local government (1906–1929). She also wrote a pamphlet, The Wages of Men and Women: Should They Be Equal? (1919). The Webbs were instrumental in the founding of the London School of Economics. See Janet Todd, ed., British Women Writers (New York: Frederick Ungar, 1989), 697–698. 14. Yen Hui (Anja or Anyŏn in Korean) was Confucius’ best disciple, known for his wisdom and quick understanding of his master’s teaching. 15. In terms of translation, this literary technique makes it extremely difficult to convey the intention and flavor of the original, because such a convention does not work well in English. For my translation, therefore, I changed the text to the past tense wherever it was appropriate. 3. Awakening 1. Reportedly Yi Kwang-su suggested Kim Wŏn-ju’s pen name, “Iryŏp,” to encourage her to become the Korean counterpart of Higuchi Ichiyō (1872– 1896), the acclaimed Japanese woman writer of the Meiji period. 2. Tōyō Eiwa Girls’ School (Tōyō Eiwa Jogakuin) was founded in 1884 in Tokyo by Martha J. Cartmell, a Canadian Methodist missionary, and started with two students. Now it is a women’s university with an enrollment of nearly 2,600 students. 3. The word ch’ŏngt’ap is the Korean pronunciation of the Japanese seitō. Obviously, during her sojourn in Tokyo in 1919, Kim had been exposed to, and no doubt strongly affected by, Japanese feminist activism, still vigorously led by Hiratsuka Raichō and her colleagues. 4. Kim Wŏn-ju’s son was named Ōta Masao and was first reared in the home of his father’s friends in Tokyo but later grew up in Korea, adopted by his father’s Korean friend. He studied painting at Tokyo Imperial University, financed by his father, who never married. With his name changed to Kim T’ae-sin, Kim

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Wŏn-ju’s son is a painter and is a resident priest (with the Buddhist name “Iltang”) in Chikchisa Temple in South Kyŏngsang Province, Korea. For details of Kim Wŏn-ju’s relationship with her son, see Kim T’ae-sin, Lahula ŭi samogok (Rahula’s songs of yearning for mother), 2 vols. (Seoul: Han’gilsa, 1991). 5. For a more detailed analysis of “Awakenings,” see Yung-Hee Kim, “From Subservience to Autonomy,” 1–21. 4. Hydrangeas 1. The contest was sponsored by the magazine Sinsidae (New age). 2. The newspaper Kukche sinbo (International news) was the sponsor. 3. For more information about Han Mu-suk’s life and works, see Yung-Hee Kim, “Dialectics of Life: Hahn Moo Sook and Her Literary World,” in Creative Women of Korea: The Fifteenth through the Twentieth Century, ed. Young-Key Kim-Renaud (Armonk, N.Y.: M. E. Sharpe, 2003), 192–215. 4. “Ch’usa” is the pen name of Kim Chŏng-hŭi (1786–1856), a master calligrapher of the Chosŏn dynasty. 6. When Autumn Leaves Fall 1. Noryangjin is an area of Seoul near the Han River. 2. On January 14, 1951, during the Korean War, the South Korean and the United Nations forces were compelled to retreat from North Korea in the face of a massive offensive by the Chinese army. This resulted in a large-scale exodus of Koreans from the North to the South. 3. Juliette Gréco (b. 1927), French popular singer and actress of the beat generation, began as a Parisian café singer associated with the left-bank existentialists. She is known for her haunting songs, many of which were adapted from the well-known French poets. 4. Solveig is the hero of the tragic love story Peer Gynt (1867), a play written in verse by Henrik Ibsen. By Ibsen’s request, Edvard Grieg composed incidental music for the play, most famously “Solveig’s Song,” an all-time classic. 5. The Sibal was the first Korean-made automobile, appearing on the market in 1955, just after the Korean War. It was usually used as a commercial taxi. 6. Straight Is the Gate (La porte etroite; 1909) is one of the major works of the French novelist André Gide (1869–1951). The novel concerns the doomed love between Jerome Palissier, a sensitive boy who grew up in Paris, and his cousin Alissa, from the Normandy countryside.

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7. A Dish of Sliced Raw Fish 1. I obtained this information about Yi Sun through my interviews with her family in Seoul in summer 2008. 2. Dylan Thomas (1914–1953) was a Welsh poet and prose writer whose works are known for their musical quality, comic or visionary scenes, and sensual images. Quite Early One Morning, a collection of his prose works, was first published in 1954. 3. Hwagye Temple is located at Mount Samgak, in the northern part of Seoul. 4. A series of Five-Year Economic Plans (the first implemented in 1962) were pushed by then President Park Chung Hee (1917–1979), which resulted in rapid economic growth in Korea. 5. The Ch’anggyŏng Garden, at the royal palace in the heart of Seoul, used to have a zoo, established in 1909 during the Japanese protectorate in Korea. The zoo was moved to Seoul Grand Park in 1983. 6. A major seaport in South Ch’ungch’ŏng Province. 7. Guillaume Apollinaire (1880–1918) was a French poet who took part in avant-garde movements in French literature. Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) was a Dutch postimpressionist painter. Edvard Munch (1863–1944), a Norwegian genre, landscape, and portrait painter and etcher, was a leading artist of his day. Max Bruch (1838–1920), a German composer who conducted the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra (1880–1883), is best known for his Violin Concerto in G Minor. 8 . Kye is a small mutual savings club usually made up of women. 9. The South Gate market, located near the South Gate in downtown Seoul, is known for its merchandise for mass consumption usually by the lower classes. 10. Located on an island in the Han River, Yŏŭido is a district known for its concentration of political and financial centers such as the National Assembly Building, headquarters for political parties, leading TV and radio stations, and the Korean stock exchange building. 11. “Andante Cantabile” is from Op. 11 for Violin and Piano by Tchaikovsky (1840–1893). 12. Inch’ŏn is one of the largest seaports on the west coast of Korea, about fifty miles south of Seoul. 13. The phrase “a historic mission for the national restoration” is part of the Charter of National Education that Korean students were required to memorize and chant at school during the 1970s.

9. Stone in Your Heart 1. A French novelist, playwright, screenwriter, and film director, Marguerite Duras (1914–1996) received degrees in law and political science at the Sor-

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bonne in 1935. A number of her novels are semiautobiographical, such as L’Amant (The lover; 1984), which won the Prix Goncourt in 1984. 2. Kangnŭng is a major seaport in Kangwŏn Province, in the central eastern part of the Korean peninsula. 3. A city in a rugged mountainous region, Kap’yŏng is located near the border of Kyŏnggi and Kangwŏn provinces. From ancient times, the city, with the North Han River flowing to its south, has been known as an important transportation point between Seoul and Ch’unch’ŏn, in Kangwŏn Province. 4. Located in Yangyang County in Kangwŏn Province, Hajodae is a sea resort area renowned for its long stretches of sand beaches with pine forests as their backdrop. 10. Dried Flowers 1. Taegu is the provincial capital of North Kyŏngsang Province, in the southeast region of the Korean peninsula. 2. P’yebaek is a traditional ceremony immediately following the wedding, in which the bride makes bows to the elderly members of the bridegroom’s family. 3. Ulsan, located in South Kyŏngsang Province, is a port facing the Eastern Sea and has been known as the center for heavy industries. 4. Called yulmu in Korean, its grains are used for tea and also in Chinese herbal medicine. 5. Yusin refers to political measures implemented in 1972 to reinforce the military dictatorship by President Park Chung Hee, a former military general who rose to power by coup d’état in 1961. Chindo is an island off the coast of South Chŏlla Province best known for its breed of dogs indigenous to Korea. 6. P’yŏng is a unit of measure for land and the size of houses, approximately equivalent to thirty square feet. The thirty-p’yŏng apartment would be about 1,100 square feet. 7. Pundang is a satellite city south of Seoul, a newly developed region for the wealthy. 8. Mount Sŏrak, in Kangwŏn Province, is famous for its colorful autumn leaves and scenery. 9. Yukkap refers to the year when the zodiac sign of one’s birth year completes its sixty-year cycle. 10. Derived from yukkap, yukkap handa (performing yukkap) originally meant figuring out one’s fortune. Later the phrase became a derogatory expression for improper or unacceptable behavior and action. 11. “Double marriage” refers to a situation in which two members of one family marry two siblings of another family. 12. The expression comes from a Korean proverb, usually used to describe a selfmade man of humble origins.

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Index

aging, ix, 116, 187, 211–213 allegory, 165 An Chung-gŭn (1879–1910), 101 “Angae.” See “Mist, The” “Angel in the House,” 1 Apollinaire, Guillaume (1880–1918), 125, 220n7 art and artists, 24–26, 68, 69, 82, 115–117, 217n9 “Art for life’s sake,” 4 Association of Korean Writers, 84, 101 autobiography, 11, 16, 51, 146, 188 “Awakening” (Kim Wŏn-ju; 1926), 3–4, 56; text, 57–65; text analysis, 65–67 awards, literary: 2, 8, 10, 11, 15, 69, 83, 84, 101, 102, 119, 120, 151, 165, 187, 188, 217n10 Bakhtin, Mikhail (1895–1975), 165 Bluestockings: Japan, 4, 24, 55; Korea, 55 Bruch, Max (1838–1920), 125, 220n7 Buddhists, 26, 56, 56–57, 218n4 Catholics, 151 censorship, 1, 56

“Chagak.” See “Awakening” Ch’a Hyŏn-suk (b. 1963), 11 Ch’angjo (Creation) group, 15, 16 Ch’angjo (Creation; magazine), 16 Chang Tŏk-cho (1914–2003), 5 Charter of National Education, 220n13 Ch’oe Chŏng-hŭi (1912–1996), 5–6 Ch’oe Hyŏn-mu. See Ch’oe Yun Ch’oe Nam-sŏn (1890–1957), 4, 6, 15, 55 Ch’oe Yun (b. 1953), 9–10, 164–165 Ch’ŏngt’aphoe. See Bluestockings—Korea Chŏngwŏl. See Na Hye-sŏk Chŏngwŏl Na Hye-sŏk Memorial Foundation, 217n10 Chŏng Yag-yong (1762–1836; pen name Tasan), 69 Chŏng Yŏn-hŭi (b. 1936), 7 Chŏn Kyŏng-nin (b. 1962), 11 Chŏn Pyŏng-sun (1927–2005), 8 Chosŏn dynasty. See Korea—Chosŏn dynasty Chosŏn ilbo (newspaper), 3, 4, 6, 16, 25, 56 Chosŏn mundan (Korean literary world; magazine), 25, 56 Chung’ang Cultural Grand Prix, 84, 188

229

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230 Chung’ang ilbo (newspaper), 120 Ch’usa. See Kim Chŏng-hŭi clothing, 56, 82 cold war, 165, 184–185 “comfort women” (sex slaves for Japanese troops), 6 concubines, 3, 15, 23, 56, 215n1 Confucianism, ix, x, 1, 2, 53, 68, 218n14 court women, 3, 216n5 Daesan Literature Award, 188 “Dish of Sliced Raw Fish, A” (Yi Sun; 1979), 121; text, 121–146; text analysis, 146–149 division literature, 11 Doll’s House, A (Henrik Ibsen; 1879), 4 “Dried Flowers” (Pak Wan-sŏ; 1995): text, 188–211; text analysis, 211–213 Duras, Marguerite (1914–1996), 164, 165, 220n1 education, x, 4, 66, 68, 83, 100, 146, 147, 165, 220n13. See also author biographies elderly. See aging epistolary narrative, 65, 67 essays, 57, 69 existentialists, 101 “Father’s Law,” 52 feminine mystique, 82 feminism: England, 217n6; in fiction, 65–66; Japan, 4, 24; Korea, x, 5, 9, 10, 11, 51–52, 56, 165; Western, 4, 52, 53. See also gender; women fiction writers; women’s studies in academe fiction by women. See women fiction writers gender: discrimination, 186, 187; equality, 3–4, 9, 101; identity,

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Index ix, 5; ideologies, x, 3, 52, 67; issues, 11, 187; politics, ix, 146; relations, ix, 146; roles, x, 1–2, 5–6, 25–26, 52, 53, 56, 163. See also feminism; women fiction writers; women’s studies in academe generation gap, 186, 187, 211 Gide, André (1869–1951), 219n6 “Girl of Mystery, A” (Kim Myŏng-sun; 1917), 3, 15; text, 17–22; text analysis, 22–23 Gogh, Vincent van (1853–1890), 125, 220n7 Grand Prix of the Republic of Korea Literature Award, 69 Gréco, Juliette (b. 1927), 110, 219n3 Hahn Moo-suk. See Han Mu-suk Hahn Moo-Suk Literature Award, 188 Hakchigwang (Light of learning; magazine), 24, 217n2 Han’guk Literature Award, 101 Han Mal-suk (b. 1931), 7 Han Mu-suk (1918–1993), 6, 7, 68–69, 188 Ha Sŏng-nan (b. 1967), 11 Higuchi Ichiyō (1872–1896), 218n1 Hiratsuka Raichō (1886–1971), 4 humor, 146, 212 “Hydrangeas” (Han Mu-suk; 1949): text, 70–81; text analysis, 81–82 Hyŏndae Literature Award, 2, 188, 216n4 Hyŏndae munhak (Modern literature; magazine), 216n4 Ibsen, Henrik (1828–1906), 4, 111, 219n4 Im Ok-in (1915–1995), 5 Imunhoe (literary club), 55 International Interdisciplinary Congress on Women, 165

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Index Iryŏp. See Kim Wŏn-ju Isan Literature Award, 188 journalists, 16 Kaebyŏk (Creation; magazine), 3, 4, 16, 25 Kang Kyŏng-ae (1907–1943), 5 Kang Sin-jae (1924–2001), 7, 83–84 Kang Sŏk-kyŏng (b. 1951), 8 Key, Ellen Karolina Sofia (1849–1926), 4 Kim Ch’ae-wŏn (b. 1946), 8 Kim Chi-wŏn (b. 1943), 8 Kim Chŏng-hŭi (1786–1856), 219n4 Kim Hyang-suk (b. 1951), 9, 10 Kim Hyŏng-gyŏng (b. 1960), 9 Kim In-suk (b. 1963), 9, 10 Kim Mal-bong (1901–1962), 5, 68 Kim Myŏng-sun (1896–ca. 1951), 3, 4, 15–17 Kim Tong-in (1900–1951), 15, 216n4 Kim Wŏn-ju (1896–1971), 3–4, 25, 55–57, 218nn1, 4 Kong Chi-yŏng (b. 1963), 9–10 Kong Sŏn-ok (b. 1963), 11 Korea: Catholic persecution of intellectuals (19th century), 69; Chosŏn (Yi) Dynasty (1392–1910), 1, 3, 7, 69, 101; civilian government (1993–), 1, 10; coup d’etat (1961), 7; division into South Korea and North Korea (1948), 1, 6, 11, 101, 116, 165, 219n2; FiveYear Economic Plans (first implemented in 1962), 124, 220n4; industrialization, 8, 10, 187; Japanese colonial rule (1910–1945), x, 1, 3, 5, 6, 8, 68, 83, 100, 101, 116, 117, 119, 217n11; Korean Protectorate Treaty (1905), 101; Kwangju Revolt (1980), 9, 10, 165; labor

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231 movements, 9–10; March 1919 Independence Movement, 3, 24, 55, 217n7; military government (1961–1993), 1, 7–8, 164, 165, 199, 221n5; nationalism, 100; student revolution (1960), 7; Yusin (political measures; 1972), 199, 221n5. See also Korean War; modernity Korean Academy of Arts Prize for Literature, 69 Korean Artists Proletariat Federation (KAPF), 4 Korean Association of Women Writers, 69, 84, 101 Korean Novel Award, 151 Korean Novelists’ Association, 102 Korean PEN Club, 69, 102 Korean PEN Literature Award, 151 Korean Republic Academy of Arts, 84 Korean Republic Academy of Arts Award, 84 Korean War (1950–1953): x, 1, 6–7, 8, 11, 84, 100, 101, 106, 117, 165, 183, 184–185, 186–187, 217n7, 219n2 Korean Women Students’ Association, 24 Kristeva, Julia (b. 1941), 165 Kukche sinbo (newspaper), 219n2 kuyŏsŏng (tradition-bound woman), 66 “Kyŏnghŭi” (Na Hye-sŏk; 1918), 3, 24, 66; text, 27–51; text analysis, 51–54 life, mystery of, 183–184 “Light at Dawn, The” (Yi Sŏk-pong; 1985), 151; text, 152–161; text analysis, 161–163 linked short stories, 10, 120 literary circles, clubs, 3, 55, 56 literary critics, 164 literary elements, xi, 2, 4, 53, 54

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232 long-river novel, 7 lost generation, 118 Maeil sinbo (newspaper), 16 magazines, 3, 4, 10, 15, 16, 24, 25–26, 55–56, 164, 187, 217n2, 219n1 Mangong (1871–1946), 56, 57 Mangyangch’o. See Kim Myŏng-sun “Marŭn kkot.” See “Dried Flowers” men fiction writers, 4 middle class women, x, 81, 116, 120, 148, 186, 187 “Mist, The” (Kang Sin-jae; 1950): text, 85–97; text analysis, 98–99 modernity, x, 5, 211. See also Korea— industrialization movies, 16, 84 Munch, Edvard (1863–1944), 125, 220n7 Munhak sasang (Literary thought; magazine), 164 “Nagyŏpki.” See “When Autumn Leaves Fall” Na Hye-sŏk (1896–1948), 3, 4, 11, 24–26, 55, 56, 217n10 narrative structure, xi, 2, 10, 53, 54, 65, 67, 82, 84, 120, 165, 183 newspapers, 3, 4, 6, 16, 25, 56, 68, 119, 120, 151, 219n2 North Korea. See Korea O Chŏng-hŭi (b. 1947), 8 Paek Sin-ae (1908–1939), 5 Pae Su-a (b. 1965), 11 Pak Hwa-sŏng (1904–1988), 4, 5 Pak Kyŏng-ni (1927–2008), 2, 7 Pak Sun-nyŏ (b. 1928), 8 Pak Wan-sŏ (b. 1931), 2, 8–9, 186–188 Pankhurst, Emmeline (1858–1928), 217n6 Park Chung Hee (1917–1979), 220n4, 221n5

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Index patriarchy, ix, x, 1–2, 23, 26, 52, 56, 98, 100, 186, 187 periodicals. See magazines Poe, Edgar Allen, 16 poetry and poets, 15, 16, 56, 57, 87, 150 political literary themes, 9–11 postmodernism, 165 poverty literature, 4–5 prizes. See awards, literary psychological realism, 6 Pulgyŏ (Buddhism; magazine), 56 “Pyŏng’ŏ hoe.” See “Dish of Sliced Raw Fish, A” religion: Buddhists, 26, 56, 56–57, 218n4; Catholics, 151 Republic of Korea Literature Award, 188 roman-fleuve. See long-river novel “Saebyŏk pit.” See “Light at Dawn, The” Samchŏlli (All Korea; magazine), 26 Samil Culture Award, 69, 84 Seitō. See Bluestockings—Japan semiotics, 165 Seoul sinmun (newspaper), 120 “Seven Vices,” 1, 215n1 sex slaves for Japanese troops (“comfort women”), 6 Sin Kyŏng-suk (b. 1963), 11 Sinsidae (New age; magazine), 219n1 Sinyŏja (New woman; magazine), 3, 55–56 sinyŏsŏng (new/modern woman), 4, 26, 52, 53, 54, 56, 66 Sinyŏsŏng (New women; magazine), 25 socioeconomic themes, x, 9, 146, 148 sociopolitical themes, x, 9 Sŏ Ha-jin (b. 1960), 11 Son Chang-sun (b. 1935), 7 Song Wŏn-hŭi (b. 1927), 8, 100–102 Sōno Ayako (b. 1931), 151 Son So-hŭi (1917–1987), 6, 7

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Index South Korea. See Korea Sŏ Yŏng-ŭn (b. 1943), 8 Staël, Madame de (Anne-LouiseGermaine; 1766–1817), 218n12 “Stone in Your Heart” (Ch’oe Yun; 1992), 165; text, 166–182; text analysis, 182–185 structuralism, 165 Sudŏk Temple, 26, 57 “Suguk.” See “Hydrangeas” Sungmyŏng Literature Award, 151 Taehan ilbo (newspaper), 119 taeha sosŏl. See long-river novel “Tangsin ŭi mulchelbi.” See “Stone in Your Heart” T’ansil. See Kim Myŏng-sun Tasan. See Chŏng Yag-yong Tchaikovsky, Peter Ilich (1840–1893), 220n11 Thomas, Dylan (1914–1953), 121, 128, 220n2 “Three Rules of Obedience” (samjong chido), 1, 215n1 Tonga ilbo (newspaper), 3, 4, 6, 16, 25, 56, 68, 120, 151 Tongguk University special literary award, 102 Tong-in Literature Award, 2, 165, 188, 216n4 “Ŭisim ŭi sonyŏ.” See “Girl of Mystery, A” Ŭn Hŭi-gyŏng (b. 1959), 11 urbanization. See Korea— industrialization Van Gogh, Vincent. See Gogh, Vincent van Webb, Beatrice (1858–1943), 218n13 Western culture, 68, 146, 212

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233 “When Autumn Leaves Fall” (Song Wŏn-hŭi; 1961), 101; text, 102–115; text analysis, 115–118 women fiction writers: autobiography, 11, 16; awards, 2, 8, 10, 11, 15, 69, 83, 84, 101, 102; career length, 2, 4, 8; historical overview, 2–11; internationalism, 4; modern vs. traditional, 1, 26, 69; national division literature, 11; obstacles, 1–2, 4; politicization, 9–10, 23, 100, 164; short story as opportunity, xii; success, 2, 7, 10, 11. See also feminism; gender; women’s studies in academe Women’s Literature Award (Korea), 84 women’s studies in academe, ix, 10, 11, 26. See also feminism; gender; women fiction writers Woolf, Virginia, 1, 2, 216nn2, 3 World War II, 6 Yang Kwi-ja (b. 1955), 9, 10 Yi Hye-gyŏng (b. 1960), 11 Yi Kwang-su (1892–1950), 4, 6, 15, 55 Yi Kyu-hŭi (b. 1937), 8 Yi Sang (1910–1934), 216n4 Yi Sang Literature Award, 2, 165, 188, 216n4 Yi Sŏk-pong (1928–1999), 8, 150–151 Yi Sŏn-hŭi (1911–?), 5 Yi Sun (b. 1949), 8, 119–121 Yŏjagye (Women’s world; magazine), 16, 24 yŏnjak sosŏl. See linked short stories yŏryu chakka (lady writers), 2 Yosano Akiko (1878–1942), 4 Yŏsŏng tonga (East Asian women; magazine), 187 Yun Chŏng-mo (b. 1946), 8

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About the Translator

Yung-Hee Kim is a professor of Korean literature in the Department of East Asian Languages and Literatures, University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. She received her doctorate in Asian studies from Cornell University, taught at the Ohio State University, and was a visiting scholar at the Institute for Research on Women and Gender, Stanford University. She is the recipient of numerous grants, including those from the Fulbright Program, the Korea Foundation, and the Daesan Foundation. The focus of her research has been on modern Korean writers’ fiction in the context of early Korean feminist movements. Her publications have appeared in Korean Studies, Journal of Women’s History, Who’s Who in Contemporary Women’s Writing, and the Review of Korean Studies. She is the author of Songs to Make the Dust Dance: The “Ryōjin hishō” of Twelfth-Century Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994) and a coauthor of Readings in Modern Korean Literature (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2004).

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Korean literature HAWAI‘I STUDIES ON KOREA

in English, the ten short stories by modern Korean women collected here touch in one way or another on issues related to gender and kinship politics. All of the protagonists are women who face personal crises or defining moments in their lives as gender-marked beings in a Confucian, patriarchal Korean society. Their personal dreams and values have been compromised by gender expectations or their own illusions about female existence. They are compelled to ask themselves “Who am I?” “Where am I going?” “What are my choices?” Each story bears colorful and compelling testimony to the life of the heroine. Some of the stories celebrate the central character’s breakaway from the patriarchal order; others expose sexual inequality and highlight the struggle for personal autonomy and dignity. Still others reveal the abrupt awakening to mid-life crises and the seasoned wisdom that comes with accepting the limits of old age. The stories are arranged in chronological order, from the earliest work by Korea’s first modern woman writer in 1917 to stories that appeared in 1995—approximately one from each decade. Most of the writers presented are recognized literary figures, but some are lesser-known voices. The introduction presents a historical overview of traditions of modern Korean women’s fiction, situating the selected writers and their stories in the larger context of Korean literature. Each story is accompanied by a biographical note on the author and a brief, critical analysis. A selected bibliography is provided for further reading and research. Questioning Minds marks a departure from existing translations of Korean literature in terms of its objectives, content, and format. As such it will contribute to the growth of Korean studies, increasing the availability of material for teaching Korean literature in English, and stimulate readership of its writers beyond the confines of the peninsula.

AVA IL A BLE FOR THE FIR ST TI M E

Julie Matsuo-Chun

ISBN 978-0-8248-3409-8

Honolulu, Hawai‘i 96822-1888

Questioning Minds

Kim Whanki, Moonlight (Wŏlgwang), 1959. Oil painting on canvas, 92 cm x 60 cm. Courtesy of the Whanki Foundation, housed in the collection of the Museum, Korea University, Seoul, Korea.

UNIVERSITY of HAWAI‘I PRESS

SHORT STORIES BY MODERN KOREAN WOMEN WRITERS

translated and with an introduction by

Yung-Hee Kim

COVER A RT:

COVER DE SIGN:

K IM

Yung-Hee Kim is professor of Korean literature in the Department of East Asian Languages and Literatures, University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa.

Questioning Minds

90000

9 780824 834098 www.uhpress.hawaii.edu