With the year fast drawing to a close, there's just enough time to fit in one virtual trip to Korea before the clock strikes twelve. Today we're looking at the second book from the Asia Publishers K-Fiction series, and where Dinner with Buffett examined capitalism in the big city, this one is a little more exotic in its themes...
*****
Park Hyoung-su's Arpan (translated by Sora Kim-Russell, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is a story about a story, an examination of what it means to be a writer and how closely what we write is linked to all that has come before. The narrator is a Korean writer helping to organise a third-world writers festival in Seoul, an undertaking which is not quite as altruistic as it may appear.
In his youth, the writer spent time with the Waka people on the Thai-Burmese border, and during his time abroad, he encountered Arpan, the only writer of a tribe with an oral culture. Helping out with the festival, then, is merely a means for getting the affable storyteller to visit Seoul, his first trip away from his mountain home. In reality, though, while the narrator is happy to see Arpan again, the reason for the invitation has little to do with the festival - our friend has a secret, and the time has come for it to be told...
Arpan is another excellent story from the K-Fiction range, a piece which has as one of its focuses the preservation of minority cultures and languages. Park examines what it means to preserve a culture, asking whether the idea is even possible. Whereas no change means it is doomed to extinction, too much outside influence will inevitably lead to a dilution of traditions and perhaps total assimilation. It's a fine line to tread, and keeping the balance is often impossible.
The reader is shown an example of a minority culture in the figure of Arpan, a member of the Waka (a tall people from the mountains). In the Waka culture, height has a heightened(!) significance, with size or volume less important than how high items can be stacked. You can imagine the impression the lofty skyscrapers of Seoul make on a man who lives in a small settlement of rude huts.
At the festival itself, the man from the mountains is even more out of place. There's a clash of cultures, with the audience laughing silently at Arpan, looking down on a man much bigger (in many ways) than they are. While the narrator despises the people in the room, he has his own confused relationship with the visitor:
"I cared more about Arpan than anyone else in the world. Still, I couldn't deny the fact that lurking on the other side of that love was an indefinable hatred. Maybe it was similar to the hatred that later generations feel towards an unconquerable original."
p.21 (Asia Publishers, 2014)
The truth is that the writer is no different to the audience - as we are to discover.
The second main theme concerns the idea of inspiration, being part of a literary tradition, and the temptation of crossing the border into plagiarism. When the writer finally sits Arpan down to reveal the secret he's been keeping, he gives an example of a song evolving across countries and centuries:
"The human arts have never once been pure. Every act of creation we undertake is footnoted and amended with respect to an existing point of view. It builds up layer by layer." (p.65)
It's an interesting idea, and possibly true - but (to lean on literary tradition myself) methinks the writer doth protest too much...
As the writer sits down opposite his imposing visitor, the reader is confronted with a question: which is more important, the writer or the story? The way Arpan ends seems to answer the question decisively. The truth, though, is that no matter how ingenious his justifications are, the writer will always wonder whether he's done the right thing...
*****
Arpan is an excellent, thought-provoking story, enhanced (as the Asia Publishers books always are) by the added extras. The inclusions this time are especially good as we are treated to the writer's own views on the story, in which he explains what he was trying to achieve. It also features an excellent translation by Sora Kim-Russell (translator of, amongst other works, Shin Kyung-sook's I'll Be Right There). In fact, both the books in this series that I've read so far have been far better in this regard than those in the Bilingual series - a welcome sign that the standard of translation is getting better and better.
If you're new to K-Lit, and hesitant to dive into the longer (and more culturally-loaded) seminal works, the K-Fiction series looks like a nice place to start - particularly if you're keen on the idea of having a bilingual version. For those of you outside Korea (i.e. almost everyone...), the whole set is available on Amazon, and buying all five would probably be the cheapest way to get hold of them. I've got one more to look at - hopefully I'll be writing more about this series very soon :)
Regular readers may have heard of Asia Publishers through my reviews of a couple of their Modern Korean Literature Bilingual Edition books (I Live in Bongcheon-dong, The Road to Sampo), but they recently added a new series to their collection. Where the first series focused on some of the older writers on the Korean scene, the recently announced K-Fiction Series looks at stories by the next generation - and the first one I looked at was by a writer whose name is rather familiar :)
*****
Park Min-gyu's Dinner with Buffett (translated by Jeon Sung-hee, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is a story featuring American finance guru Warren Buffett, an endearingly bizarre tale which looks at a day in the life of the wizard of the stock market, one he's unlikely to forget in a hurry. After a meeting with the American President in which they discuss peculiar developments, he rushes back to New York for dinner with the winner of a charity auction.
You'd expect a man who's shelled out big bucks to eat with Buffett to be eager to get some insights into his financial dealings. In fact, the winner, a young Korean man, just seems happy to share dinner with the great man, with no ulterior motive. Something's not quite right here...
My last look at Park's work was the excellent Pavane for a Dead Princess, and this is another wonderful piece. The story takes a look at the contemporary world and wonders if there's an alternative to the soulless neoliberal state we find ourselves in. The reason Buffett has been summoned to Washington is that the President has become aware of a threat (one the reader is not entirely privy to) - all we know is that 'they' are coming, and that their values are very different to those the two men share.
It seems a rather unusual threat, but for people like Buffett this is scarier than any alien invasion, the idea of money having little value. On the plane back, he reminisces about his beginnings, a time which may be about to fade into history:
"He thought that people were like sailors on a ship, sailing across time itself, and that he had been living in the great age of investment. That age was not yet over. But he also wondered if he was perhaps still carrying out the business of the past century, the sweet flavor of which had already vanished. He was still chewing his gum."
pp.19/21 (Asia Publishers, 2014)
Little does he know that his first encounter with 'them' is just around the corner...
Ahn, the winning bidder for the meal, is not the kind of person Buffett was expecting, and the dinner doesn't exactly run as he would have expected either. The winning bid is a six-figure sum, but when we find out where it came from, the great financier isn't the only one to get a surprise. With Ahn seemingly uninterested in pumping Buffett for financial knowledge, it all seems a waste... Why did he come to the dinner? Is he happy with the choices he's made?
"I'm fine thanks,"
And then,
"And you?" (p.67)
It's a question that Buffett might need some time to ponder.
Dinner with Buffett is a rather topical story (the traffic jam Buffett runs into on the way to dinner is caused by Occupy protests); in a post-GFC climate, it's a story looking at a possible post-capitalist ideology. The idea is that if enough people turn their backs on chasing the dollar, great things could happen - the way to shake bankers from their complacency is to simply ignore them... It's an intriguing idea, although I'm not sure quite how feasible it is. What's certain is that this is a wonderful story, with Jeong Sung-hee's translation bringing the deceptively casual tone across nicely. Definitely a piece that makes you wonder if it really is that easy to change the world...
*****
The new K-Fiction series has kicked off with five stories by young writers. It has the same format as the Modern Korean Fiction series, with the text in both Korean and English, plus an analysis at the end of the book (the only difference is that the covers are more colourful!). If you're interested in the rest of the series, all five have already been reviewed over at Korean Literature in Translation. I have another two to read and review, so I'm sure you'll be seeing more about them over here at some point too.
But wait - there's more... In Seoul, on the 13th of December, there's an opportunity to meet all five authors at a special event. You can check out this link for all the details - including the fact that it's free! This is an excellent chance to get up close and personal with some of the rising stars of K-Lit, so congratulations to Asia Publishers, Barry Welsh and Charles Montgomery for getting the show on the road.
When you add this kind of event to the great things the Literature Translation Institute of Korea has been doing recently, you can see that this is an exciting time for Korean literature in translation. If any of this sounds like your kind of thing, why not get on board? I'm sure 2015 is going to be just as big as this year has been, with lots of exciting events in store - stay tuned for details ;)
I've already tried a couple of novels by Hwang Sok-yong this year, so I was very happy to receive one of his books in the bundle I received recently. However, where the others I read were fairly lengthy novels (particularly The Shadow of Arms), today's choice is a much briefer affair. Nevertheless, it's a work which is very well known in Korea, one which forms an important part of his legacy...
*****
The Road to Sampo (translated by Kim U-chang, review copy courtesy of Asia Publishers) is a short story in the Modern Korean Literature Bilingual Editions series, and it's one of Hwang's more popular works. It's set in the early seventies and is a brief tale of an unlikely trio of fellow travellers walking through a wintry countryside in search of the local train station.
The story begins with Yeong-dal, a young worker who has just left a construction site which is closing down for the winter. Meeting Cheong, a fellow worker, at the side of the road, he decides to accompany him for part of the journey, and the two men are later joined by Paek-hwa, a prostitute who has run away from the café-cum-brothel she was staying at. Together, the three of them trudge through the snow, sharing stories about their lives as they go - and as poor workers in a rapidly changing landscape, they have plenty of tales to tell...
The Road to Sampo is a great story, an almost cinematic road trip (it actually was made into a film in Korea). It's a short trip, but it makes for a brief respite from the grind of daily life, an example of the typical, transient friendships of the travelling working classes of the time. In addition, the story has a beautiful winter setting, with the icy winds, the snow and the silent landscape adding to the cinematic feel.
Hwang's story is also a humorous one, with many light touches. When the (slightly naive) Yeong-dal questions Cheong about his work skills, the older man dryly hints at where he picked them up:
"Wow, having all those skills, you must feel very secure," Yeong-dal said admiringly.
"I've been doing them for more than ten years," said Cheong.
"Where did you learn them?" asked Yeong-dal.
"There's a very nice place where they teach you all those skills," answered the other man.
"I wish I could go there," said Yeong-dal naively.
But Cheong said with a bitter smile, shaking his head: "It's easy to go there, but I'm not sure you would really want to go. It is a very big place - only too big."
pp.25/7 (Asia Publishers, 2012)
Let's just say that it's unlikely Cheong ended up there of his own accord... Another memorable moment is when the two men finally catch up with the runaway Paek-hwa. She's a beautiful woman, but they don't initially see her from her best angle ;)
However, there are serious undertones to the story. The Road to Sampo is another of those stories set in a time of upheaval in Korea. The shift from an agrarian to an industrial society is in full swing, a development which has an enormous effect on the workers. There has been a massive shift from the countryside to the cities, and the poor are forced to travel to look for work. Yeong-dal is just one of the many who have been forced to leave loved ones behind in order to make ends meet.
While not the major focus of the author, another area of interest is the role of women in the story. It begins with the wife of the canteen owner, a woman who has taken Yeong-dal into her bed, being casually beaten, and the major female character is Paek-hwa, a young woman whose only chance of making a living is to trade her beauty. She certainly feisty enough, yet at twenty-two she already appears jaded, washed out. It's definitely not only the men who suffered at the time...
The Sampo of the title is Cheong's hometown, the destination he and Yeong-dal are working towards:
"Which way is Sampo?"
"South, that is, as far south as you can go," said Cheong, vaguely pointing his chin to the south.
"How big a place is that? Are there many people living there?" asked Yeong-dal.
"Ten houses or so," explained Cheong. "It's a pretty island, Sampo is. The soil is good, lots of land. Fishing is good too. You can catch as much fish as you want." (p.29)
In truth, Sampo is less a real place than an imagined idyll, a memory of the past, one which is unlikely to be found again. There's no place corresponding to the description of Cheong's Sampo in Korea, but while browsing for connections, I stumbled across a mention - in Finnish folklore... According to Wikipedia, in Finnish mythology the Sampo or Sammas was a magical artefact of indeterminate type that brought good fortune to its holder (I wonder if Hwang was aware of this...). Sadly, it's an item that proves to be rather elusive, and you sense that Cheong and Yeong-dal are also on a trip towards a place they'll never be able to reach...
*****
The Road to Sampo is another entertaining story, the short text enhanced by the added extras. There's the original Korean version, of course (still a bit too tricky for me!), with a short critical review and biography - and it's the biography that really impresses. Hwang's a great writer with a fascinating life, including trips to North Korea, exile and imprisonment. When he was younger, he left school and travelled around the country, working alongside the people Yeong-dal and Cheong are modelled upon. When one of the Nobel Prize for Literature bigwigs bemoaned the move towards insular professional writers a few weeks ago, Hwang was most definitely not one of the writers he had in mind ;)
While I wasn't always entirely convinced by the translation, the quality of story shines through, and it made me keen to try more of Hwang's work. As for the Bilingual Editions, well, they're certainly worth a try too (and if money were no object, I'd be buying up the box sets...). Head to Amazon if you like the sound of them; there are a lot to choose from :)
Today's post not only continues this year's focus on Korean literature, it actually takes it to the next level, showing the time and effort I've put into my new hobby in 2014. As well as introducing an entertaining story and a great new publisher, it also reveals what I've been up to in my spare time when not reading. Intrigued? Then read on...
*****
Jo Kyung-ran's I Live in Bongcheon-dong (translated by Kari Schenk, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is one of many short stories released in a fascinating range by Asia Publishers, a Korea-based press. They have had short stories by many of Korea's top writers translated and then put the English version right next to the original Korean in a beautiful little book. In addition, each book contains a short afterword by a literary critic and a biography of the writer along with some of their more notable works.
I Live in Bongcheon-dong was a nice introduction to the series, a story about a woman who lives in, well, Bongcheon-dong... The reader soon learns that this is an outer suburb of Seoul situated at the foot of (and half-way up) a mountain, and the story actually begins in the narrator's house, as she unexpectedly bumps into her father on the roof terrace of their house.
Looking out over the city, the daughter starts to think about her home for so many years, and the story she tells is both wide-ranging and personal. On the one hand, there's an account of the history of the area, explaining how rice fields and marshlands were displaced by apartment buildings in a matter of decades. On the other, there's an attempt to work through her relationship with her father, one which is inextricably linked with the place they call home.
The book is well worth reading, especially if you already have a basic knowledge of modern Korean literature. While the story of the development of Bongcheon-dong is clearly told, it's actually quite a subtle critique of the development of Korea as a whole. The suburb (whose name actually - optimistically - translates as 'supports the sky') was a haven for refugees, both from other parts of the country and areas of Seoul where the illegal residents were forced out during the city council's beautification projects.
It's a topic which is memorably covered in Cho Se-hui's novel The Dwarf. A rapidly industrialising country led to an influx of migrants and lots of illegal housing, and Bongcheon-dong, an area with a bad image, certainly had its fair share:
"In 1961, there were only 7,104 residents, but in 1965 the population reached 10,134, and within ten years this number tripled. The same thing was happening in several other areas on the outskirts that were being incorporated into Seoul. This growth could largely be attributed to the mass migration of squatters after the government decreed that non-regulation housing was to be demolished in the city center."
p.39 (Asia Publishers, 2013)
While things have improved a little since then, there are still people out there who have nowhere else to go...
The narrator's relationship with her father is just as important a part of the story, though. The chance encounter on the roof which starts the book leads to a rare conversation between father and daughter, one in which she discovers things she never knew. This sets her off rethinking the past, reconsidering things she took for granted:
"A few hours later, I start reading a book borrowed from the Gwanak-gu district office entitled 'A Twenty-Year History of Gwanak', but I can't find any mention of sawmills. According to the records, there used to be a village called Bakjaegung where Bongcheon Central market is now. During the Joseon Dynasty, a hut called a 'jaegung' was built for the man who looked after a gravesite, so I wonder if the sawmill was built next to an old gravesite. And was Dad a carpenter from the beginning? Or, did he pick up the trade after settling here? The more I read, the more questions I have." (p.31)
While it's all wonderfully understated, the reader gradually realises that the narrator has had mixed feelings about her family and her home. She's attempted to leave Bongcheon-dong several times, only to fail because of her strong ties to the place. You also sense that she realises she doesn't have long to uncover the secrets of her past; there are several clues in the story that her father is beginning a slow mental decline. Her sudden need to research her suburb's history is actually an attempt to reconnect with her father before it's too late...
I Live in Bongcheon-dong is a fascinating story, and my only criticism is that the historical parts can be a little didactic. The narrator uses texts about the city and the suburb, and at times the story reads like a work of non-fiction, which slightly jars with the dreamy tone used elsewhere. Still, that's a minor quibble, and overall I enjoyed this a lot - and I'm definitely keen to try more of Jo's work :)
*****
As mentioned above, this is just one of an ongoing series of books in the Modern Korean Literature Bilingual Editions series, with five sets of fifteen appearing so far (and I'd love to have them all if money were no object!). The only issue is availability. In Korea, you can get the books through Seoul Selection, both in-store and on their site. If you're overseas, many books and sets are available on Amazon (however, these are unavailable for delivery to Australia, so you'll need to check your local site).
And why is this so good for me? Because for the past few months I've been studying Korean by myself at home! Through a mixture of library books, Youtube videos and free online materials, I'm slowly getting better, and while this book is well above my current level, it's still good reading practice (I did manage to understand a few sentences here and there). Thanks to the publishers, I still have a couple more to try (stories by Yi Mun-yol and Hwang Sok-yong), and I can't wait to get stuck in :)
