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Magazine VOL. 67 Spring 2025 In 1979, a band dressed in peculiar outfits released a song called “Video Killed the Radio Star,” the video of which would be chosen by MTV to launch its channel two years later. Yet, despite the song’s portentous title, radio still lives on today. It might be on the decline, possibly even on life support, but it has survived for a long time—and perhaps always will. When video technology first emerged and began taking over the arts, it was perceived as a threat by many artists. Suddenly, it seemed as if there was no longer any need to go to museums, cinemas, or live performances. Something similar occurred with literature.

Featured Writer Interview with Kim Ae-ran: Attentive Minds and Literary Forms To prepare for this interview, I reread all of your works in chronological order. There was something dramatic in realizing that I’ve grown up alongside your characters. I was reminded of the early 2000s and felt quite emotional. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the progression of your characters accurately reflects not just my past, but also the trajectory of Korean society and families in the twenty-first century. It’s also fascinating that your novels have inherited elements from Korean literature of the 1990s—small stories, lonely selves, preferences, and personality, just to name a few. With your novels, you’ve proven the paradox that even the most private stories are still universal and connected to society. Could you share more about how your writing journey began in relation to these themes?

Featured Writer They Said Annyeong One morning seven years ago, I was cutting apples in the kitchen while Heon-su stood next to me and brewed some coffee as he turned on the song, “Love Hurts.” “Hey, I’ve heard this somewhere before.” “I’m sure you have,” Heon-su said as he slowly made circles in the air with the gooseneck kettle. “There are several versions.” “Yeah?” I glanced over at his tablet. “Which one is this?” “My favorite. Kim Deal and Robert Pollard.” We both stared for a moment into the two faces on the screen as we listened to the song. “I like it.” “Yeah?” Heon-su smiled. He knew I wasn’t that into music. “It sounds like a farewell song. The kind sung by someone who doesn’t often express their pain.” “You sound like such an adult.” “I am an adult.”

Featured Writer [Review] When We Say Goodbye: Kim Ae-ran’s “They Said Annyeong” Kim Ae-ran debuted in 2002 with her short story “No Knocking in This House.” At the time, she was a junior studying theater at the Korean National University of Arts and a first-time winner of the Daesan Literary Award for College Students, established by the Daesan Foundation. Three years later, her short story “Run, Dad!” was awarded the Hankook Ilbo Literary Award, making her the youngest recipient in its history. The Hankook Ilbo said that given her young age, the decision to give her such a prestigious award was both “shocking” and “monumental.”

Cover Feature [Cover Feature] Don’t Ask Me When the Script Will Be Ready; I Don’t Have an Answer for You Some writers seem to have all the luck. Loved by tens of thousands, if not millions, of readers, they sometimes appeal not only to publishers but also to broadcasting networks; they land screen adaptation rights, along with a handsome advance. Exciting news for the writer and the publisher alike. If they show potential, some of these lucky writers are invited to write the script themselves. I happen to be one of them. A year after signing the scriptwriting contract, however, I sit at my desk, face grim, stomach churning with acid reflux, asking myself the question: am I really lucky to be writing my own script?

Cover Feature [Cover Feature] Becoming Utterly Ordinary As soon as news broke that writer Han Kang had won the Nobel Prize in Literature last October, I searched for themes related to Korean literature that could be explored in a film magazine, then put together a special feature on media adaptations of Korean novels. The article, published later that month, covered eight novels, from Gu Byeong-mo’s The Old Woman with the Knife to Hye-young Pyun’s The Hole, although the total number of works considered for the piece exceeded ten. Several of these adaptations were released in 2024 alone. Troll Factory and Because I Hate Korea, both based on novels of the same name by Chang Kang-myoung, reached theaters in March and October, respectively; the Netflix original My Name Is Loh Kiwan, adapted from Cho Hae-jin’s novel I Met Loh Kiwan, was also released in March.

Cover Feature [Cover Feature] The Poverty of Imagination Era This is the era of splendid images. Literature is in decline and it seems that visual media has entered a golden age. However, it is interesting to note that film companies around the world, including those in Hollywood, are all suffering from a ‘story famine.’ In this magnificent era of story inflation, when people around the globe are gorging themselves on a glut of stories, some may wonder, “What story famine?” There are hundreds of cable channels on TV; global streaming services like Netflix, Disney, and HBO are springing up everywhere; and thousands of movie theaters are still in operation worldwide.

Cover Feature [Cover Feature] A Novel’s Chance and Its Destiny: On Transforming Literature into Different Media Shortly after my third novel, Intimate Stranger, was published eight years ago, I was contacted by a few studios interested in acquiring rights for the screen adaptation. A famous producer even approached me and suggested I write the script myself. He’d sign the contract on the condition that I participate in the writing. I straight out refused, as I had no idea how to write a screenplay. He said I could learn quickly, but I doubted it would be that easy.

Cover Feature [Cover Feature] At the Boundary between Fiction and Film These days, countless movies from the early days of film, are circulating on YouTube, alongside YouTube shorts. I occasionally search and watch them, only to soon find that I am unable to tear myself away from the screen. I’m fascinated by how digital reproduction technology has continued to advance, enabling me to watch these old black-and-white films in vivid color. But above all, watching these films makes me feel at peace. Most of these films, shot between 1895 and the early 1900s, record panoramic views of cities like Paris and London. There is no narrative, no main character. Just people from the past, living their normal, everyday lives, passing through the square frame of the screen. In this world, free of danger or conflict, I find inner peace.

Korean Literature Now

INTERVIEW Interview with Kim Ae-ran: Attentive Minds and Literary Forms by Kim Mijung

INTERVIEW Interview with Jin Eun-young: Buttons from the Gift Giver by An Heeyeon

INTERVIEW Mediating Lyricism and Historicity: Han Kang’s Translators by KLN Editorial Team

COVER FEATURES [Essay] When We Say Goodbye: Kim Ae-ran’s “They Said Annyeong” Kim Ae-ran debuted in 2002 with her short story “No Knocking in This House.” At the time, she was a junior studying theater at the Korean National University of Arts and a first-time winner of the Daesan Literary Award for College Students, established by the Daesan Foundation. Three years later, her short story “Run, Dad!” was awarded the Hankook Ilbo Literary Award, making her the youngest recipient in its history. The Hankook Ilbo said that given her young age, the decision to give her such a prestigious award was both “shocking” and “monumental.”        Such a response was warranted because she was just twenty-five years old and only three years into her professional writing career. But that’s not to forget that Kim had already been singled out by Korean literary circles as one of the best emerging authors of the 2000s. At the time, the memoir genre and writing that emphasized interiority were on the decline. Kim’s fiction, set against the backdrop of the economic anxiety following the 1997 IMF Crisis, was seen as a pioneering work among a newly emerging generation of authors. Her most famous works from this period are contained in her short story collections Run, Dad! and Mouthwatering.        Kim’s insights into life at the time, expressed with immense sensitivity toward the Korean language, are surprising despite her youth. Her intellectually attuned sentences, neither pedantic nor obfuscatory, explore the problem of how to retain one’s existence and dignity in a rapidly neoliberalizing society. Her works revealed the existence of young women’s voices even before the feminism reboot in Korea. Not only do her works disrupt the patriarchal order and affirm the accomplishments of women’s labor from previous generations, but they also uniquely capture the precariat imagination of young women in a consumer society.        Although aware of the dissonance that threatens life in Korea, Kim’s stories also carefully aimed to produce harmony in the lives of its characters through her literary imagination. But in the 2010s, with works like Vapor Trail and Summer Outside, Kim shifted away from discovering the value of life between everyday joys and unexpected tragedies—a shift that may have been influenced by the 2014 sinking of the MV Sewol and the impact of hate—toward darker stories, including eschatological narratives about the climate crisis and allegories about the MV Sewol.Aside from a steady stream of short story collections, Kim has also written two beloved novels, My Brilliant Life and A Lie Among Truths. Both full-length novels share crucial themes of growth, family, and lies—themes that apply to this KLN issue’s short story, “They Said Annyeong.”        “They Said Annyeong” was published in the anthology Collection of Stories on the Theme of Music alongside works by authors Eun Heekyung, Kim Yeonsu, Yoon Sung-hee, and Hye-young Pyun. The story begins seven years in the past when the first-person narrator of the novel, Eun-mi, is listening with her partner and housemate Heon-su to the cover of the song “Love Hurts” by indie rock artists Kim Deal and Robert Pollard. As she listens, she mishears the lyric “I’m young” for the Korean greeting, “annyeong.” This memory re-emerges in the present when her current English tutor, coincidentally also named Robert, asks her how to say “hello” in Korean.        The story switches back and forth between two narratives, one set in the past with Eun-mi and Heon-su, and one with Amy (Eun-mi’s English name) and Robert. Like the song “Love Hurts,” “They Said Annyeong” is a story about hellos and goodbyes. And like Kim’s love stories “Night There, Song Here” and “Where Do You Want to Go?” it also raises questions about the nature of communication by focusing on language and media.        This aspect appears most clearly during Eun-mi’s English lessons. Through the online tutoring platform called Echoes, Eun-mi meets (and says goodbye to) people of various backgrounds, nationalities, ages, and genders. Robert is one of Eun-mi’s many tutors. During one of their lessons, Robert asks her how she differentiates between the two different meanings of “annyeong”—“hello” and “goodbye.” Eun-mi tells him that she “just know[s].”        Such linguistic differences, while subtle, exert great influence on the characters’ relationships. Because Eun-mi and her tutors come from different linguistic backgrounds, they have trouble completely understanding these nuances. For example, Eun-mi is shocked to realize that she and Rose (another English tutor) have starkly different ideas about what constitutes a typical “dating show.” Instead of trying to clear up these misunderstandings, however, Eun-mi thinks that one must accept the inevitable losses and omissions that occur in translation.        Although Eun-mi’s thoughts are complex and layered, in the end, they become reduced to the simplest sentences in translation. Not only does this make communication more efficient, but it is also a way to protect and defend the ego. When talking about the sexual tension in foreign language classes, Eun-mi discreetly notices how the act of exchanging languages exposes one’s most intimate self. In classes where her personal life often becomes the conversation topic of the lesson, Eun-mi resorts to lying—assuming her mother’s career as her own and pretending to like things that she doesn’t—all for the sake of conversational convenience.        Despite the misunderstandings that start to pile up, Eun-mi’s English lessons become a path toward understanding these strangers who teach her English through the slow accumulation of information. Linguistically, it can be difficult for non-native speakers to differentiate between “nice to meet you” and “goodbye,” but that doesn’t mean that contextual understanding and situational inferences are impossible. Likewise, although Eun-mi is unable to correct a misunderstanding about raunchy dating shows, she feels a deep sense of socioeconomic camaraderie when Rose shares that she nearly lost her home during a major hurricane.        In “They Said Annyeong” the word “situation” often refers to inevitable human and interpersonal vulnerabilities, such as impoverishment, loss, and pain. The reason Eun-mi starts studying English is that she dreams of escaping such situations. Because of her mother’s illness, Eun-mi’s finances and social life are ruined. When she confesses that her 15- and 30-minute English lessons are sometimes her only interactions with people, we begin to sense the depths of her emotional isolation. For Eun-mi, a woman in her forties whose career has been cut short, her only chance to restart her life is to leave her mother tongue and learn a foreign one.        It is under these circumstances that Eun-mi starts to feel close to Robert, her last English tutor in the story. Eun-mi, Heon-su, and Robert—like many of Kim’s characters—are introspective. But in most cases, this introspectiveness appears as reticence—the characters often don’t expound what they really mean or refrain from talking all together. At such times, the limits of language extend beyond mere linguistic barriers. Heon-su’s observation that “Love Hurts” sounds like a farewell song, “the kind sung by someone who doesn’t often express their pain,” also applies to the main characters.        Such reticence becomes all the more significant when Heon-su and Robert finally reveal their inner thoughts. The courage to do so only comes during states of intoxication. Heon-su, for example, drunk dials Eun-mi after many years to talk to her about the lyrics of “Love Hurts.” Robert is only ready to talk about his family after a glass of wine, after he realizes that it is their last class together. Through Robert’s confession, we too become aware that he, Heon-su, and Eun-mi are all in the same situation. Those who have gone through pain and loss are the ones who can understand others in similar situations.        In particular, each of the three characters finds that their hardship and pain overlap and begin with their parents. The traces of their parents—literally the roots of their existence—put their lives in precarious positions. Eun-mi can empathize with Heon-su, who spent many years caring for his parents in the hospital, but only after her own mother falls ill. By then, it is too late, and she will never be with Heon-su again. Robert says that although many stories end with some great revelation or appreciation for life, the life that he’s experienced has only been a series of losses “without purpose.” Similarly, Eun-mi says that life and death are clichéd, hackneyed, and banal. She says that sometimes relations rupture and people just leave; that being able to cope with the recurrence of such things is the exception to the rule.        It has been twenty years since Kim Ae-ran published “Run, Dad!” This is roughly the amount of time it takes for someone to become an adult. In that story, one of Korea’s best coming-of-age novels, Kim created a father who runs around the world in his shorts. But the story is also a happy lie, a fantasy about growing into better people than our parents. The attachment that Eun-mi has for her mother tongue is an attachment to her roots and traces (i.e., her parents). But now it is time to learn a new language. Although it may be cliché, we need to say “Thank you, I’ve learned a lot. Annyeong.” Eun-mi can now say goodbye. Translated by Sean Lin Halbert  Mi Ryeong Cha is a literary critic and professor in the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences at Gwangju Institute of Science and Technology (GIST). She has published a collection of literary criticism titled A World of Abandoned Possibilities.  Korean Work Mentioned:Kim Ae-ran, Run, Dad! (Changbi, 2005)김애란, 『달려라 아비』 (창비, 2005) Kim Ae-ran, Mouthwatering (Moonji, 2007)김애란, 『침이 고인다』 (문학과 지성사, 2007) Kim Ae-ran, My Brilliant Life (tr. Chi-Young Kim, Forge Books, 2021)김애란, 『두근두근 내 인생』 (창비, 2011) Kim Ae-ran, Vapor Trail (Moonji, 2012)김애란, 『비행운』 (문학과 지성사, 2012) Kim Ae-ran, Summer Outside (Munhakdongne, 2017) 김애란, 『바깥은 여름』 (문학동네, 2017) Kim Ae-ran, A Good Name to Forget (Yolimwon, 2019)김애란, 『잊기 좋은 이름』 (열림원, 2019)  Kim Ae-ran, A Lie Among Truths (Munhakdongne, 2024)김애란, 『이중 하나는 거짓말』 (문학동네, 2024) Kim Ae-ran, et al, Collection of Stories on the Theme of Music (Franz, 2024)김애란 등 『음악소설집』 (프란츠, 2024) Kim Yeonsu, “What Kind of Person is Kim Ae-ran?” Literature and Society (Moonji, 2012)      김연수, 「김애란 씨는 어떤 사람인가요?」, 『문학과사회』 (문학과지성사, 2012)  

REVIEWS [Russian] Killing Evil with a Toy Sword Chung Serang, who studied history and literature at university, began her creative journey in 2010, focusing on the genres of fantasy and science fiction. Her works, which have earned her the 2013 Changbi Prize in Fiction and the 2017 Hankook Ilbo Literary Award, have been translated into many languages. Chung’s fantasy novel School Nurse Ahn Eun-young, originally written in 2015 and published in Russian in 2021, provides an excellent introduction to her work.        Chung states that she takes inspiration from writers such as Ray Bradbury, Haruki Murakami, and Donna Tartt while also drawing upon the “real-life experiences” of her friends. It is perhaps the combination of recognizable topics with unusual storylines that makes her works original, engaging, and relatable to a wide audience.        In School Nurse Ahn Eun-young, the fantasy plot unfolds within the real-world setting of an ordinary school. The sincerity of the characters’ emotions elicits empathy, while the battles against supernatural forces make the story dynamic and gripping.        Chung has a rather distinctive approach to writing. She strives to communicate the idea that good literature doesn’t necessarily have to be serious. “You know, even long, serious novels can be compressed into one-line jokes when they are widely read and loved,” she remarked in a 2020 interview with KLN. Chung’s writing is characterized by a simple, light, and fresh style. “I don’t think that people who read books accept the misery of reality and feel content with the way things are, so it’s important that we keep coming together and dreaming of a better world, and that we do it in the most enjoyable way.” This philosophy is reflected in School Nurse Ahn Eun-young—a book that can be read in just a day or two but still addresses meaningful personal and social issues.        The protagonist, Ahn Eun-young, is a young woman and, as the title suggests, she works as a school nurse. But that’s not all. She also possesses a unique talent: she can sense the thoughts and emotions of both the living and the dead, and perceive evil spirits. The students and teachers have no idea that she can delve into their minds and souls. She can even see manifestations of their erotic fantasies and deep romantic feelings. When evil spirits begin harming those around her, Eun-young leaps into action. Her methods are unconventional—she combats evil with children’s toys. Unfortunately, the author does not explain why she possesses these extraordinary abilities or whether her mission is limited to helping specific people and battling certain spirits, leaving readers to speculate.        The book comprises numerous mini-stories with unpredictable endings. Most of the plotlines are unconnected to each other. While this structure might feel unusual to those who prefer linear narratives, it ensures that the reading experience is never dull. Throughout the book, Eun-young is supported by her loyal yet reserved friend, Hong In-pyo, a classical Chinese teacher. Initially unaware that he has a strong protective aura shielding him from spirits, In-pyo starts to willingly share his energy with Eun-young, making her supernatural battles even more effective.        Ahn Eun-young and Hong In-pyo are the only constant characters in the novel. The quirky nurse and the reclusive, melancholic teacher seem destined to become friends—or perhaps something more? Fans of “slow burn relationships” will enjoy reading about their interactions. Other characters come and go throughout the book. This variety allows Chung to explore a wide range of topics, both common and less so, including bullying, unrequited love, and kleptomania. The cast of characters is diverse, including a talented fortune-teller, a national rock star, and an adoptee. The blend of disparate plotlines captivates readers and surprises with its originality.        It’s no surprise that this book caught the attention of filmmakers. In 2020, the novel was adapted into a Netflix series, The School Nurse Files. Many viewers noted that the series was a breath of fresh air compared to traditional K-dramas with their flawless characters. The use of computer graphics effectively visualized the supernatural creatures, while the cinematography and the talented acting conveyed the book’s energy and vibrancy.        In conclusion, School Nurse Ahn Eun-young is more than just a struggle between good and evil; it also delves into human challenges, emotions, and the hope for a better world. It is a light, captivating read that provides an escape from everyday life while subtly raising important questions.  Maria V. SoldatovaAssociate Professor, Russian State University for the Humanities

Book for You

READINGS A Short Story Reading by Novelist Kim Ae-ran: "They Said Annyeong"

READINGS A Poetry Reading by Poet Jin Eun-young "In Houyhnhnmland"

READINGS A Novel Reading by Son Bo-mi "The Substitute Teacher"

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