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Magazine Vol. 66 Winter 2024 In Buddhism, the four agonies of human existence—birth, aging, illness, and death—are collectively referred to as saengnobyeongsa. The surface interpretation of the four-character idiom is horrifying: being born is in itself described as agony, followed immediately by aging and battles with illnesses, which culminate in death. However, the more we consider our existence, the more we discover its hidden beauties. Old age is no exception. It is a period of life when we lose some of our abilities and capacities, but in other ways we gain wisdom.

Featured Writer Interview with Jin Eun-young: Buttons from the Gift Giver As a long-time fan, it’s an honor to interview a poet whose work I’ve followed so closely. I’m aware you’ve had some big changes in your life recently. Going from Seoul to Gwangju is a big move. The scenery outside your office window must have changed a great deal as well. I’m curious how the new office looks, where you’ve placed your new desk. Could you set the scene for us?

Featured Writer Ten Poems by Jin Eun-young In Houyhnhnmland¹  Books soaked in the wine of his blood Nakba in Arabic— Shoah in Hebrew— The somehow beautiful shape of the lips around such words

Featured Writer [Essay] Love at Once: On the Poetry of Jin Eun-young Jin Eun-young’s poetry is “beautiful and political.” This expression comes from the poet’s own considerations over the schism that emerges between social engagement and engaged poetry—when we raise our voice at society through poetry, can that voice avoid falling into cliché? If so, can we ensure the words spoken in that voice remain political?—but it is now used by most as a description of the poetic oeuvre she herself has built. Perhaps at some point we’ve simply come to think of it as the proper description of her poetry. Since the entrenchment of neoliberalism in Korean society during the 2000s, whenever there has been a political struggle or societal tragedy, and literature has not shrunk from the moment but bravely engaged in literary fashion, Jin Eun-young’s poetry has been there to speak.

Cover Feature [Cover Feature] In Search of Aging's Light Toward the end of Proust’s Time Regained (volume 7 of his novel In Search of Lost Time), Marcel, the narrator, upon returning from the sanatorium in Paris where he spent several years, is invited to an afternoon reception at the home of the Duc de Guermantes. Marcel is astonished to be reunited with people he hasn’t seen in ages, as everyone, including the master of the house, looks completely changed, made up with “generally powdered” faces as though they’re taking part in a play or a masked ball. The “mask” is the face of old age, a consequence of time. “The heads have been in the making for a long time without their wishing it and cannot be got rid of by toilet operations when the party is over.”

Cover Feature [Cover Feature] Aging in Remembrance of the Future Mawe is an elderly man in his seventies living in the neighborhood of Yeonhui-dong. As soon as he turned twenty, he left his hometown in the remote mountains of North Gyeongsang Province and boarded a train bound for Seoul. Watching as the familiar sights of his hometown slipped further into the distance, he found himself lost in the scattered thoughts of everything he was leaving behind and all that was to come. He couldn’t help but cry when he thought of his first love, who left him with nothing but the hazy memory of her retreating figure and the sting of a refused proposal to run away together to Seoul. As he wiped his tears, he vowed to make something of himself and return one day.

Cover Feature [Cover Feature] Aging and Death Attuned to Ecological Hospitality From 2008 to 2017, I worked as a geriatric social worker, caring for poor, elderly people who, in terms of health, were in their middle- to late stages of life. For the past fifteen years, I have been working with twenty to thirty elderly individuals of various classes, genders, and regions to record their life histories through oral accounts. I published a book titled Farewell Diary that closely documented the last three years of a wealthy elderly woman’s life until her death at the age of eighty-seven. In the last five years, I have focused primarily on being on the ground supporting the homeless around Seoul Station, where I have witnessed firsthand the aging and passing of those considered to be on the “lowest rung” of society. Through my interactions with these individuals, I have had a preview of the physical aspects of my own eventual aging and death, which in turn prompted me to engage in extensive research and inquiry.

Special Feature [Essay] Words That Bestow Life: In Honor of Han Kang’s 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature Here, in offering these remarks on Han Kang’s 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature, I speak not as a critic so much as a contemporary reader of her works. Distanced from both the writer she writes about and the reader who reads her criticism, the critic tosses her gaze down at both. Her language moves in one direction; her critical utterance expresses her superior specialist knowledge about the writer. The contemporary reader, on the other hand, dwells communally among unknown fellow readers in that

Special Feature [Essay] Reflecting on Han Kang As one of her many thousands of readers around the world, I have enjoyed witnessing the ongoing recognition for Han Kang's extraordinary body of work. In January 2016, when Human Acts was published in the UK, one poet and translator wrote to me: “I do think it is a major book, a landmark, a new kind of book about political violence and its effects. It adds to our sense of what it is to be human.” The Vegetarian is still best-known work in the Anglosphere, thanks to being awarded the International Booker Prize back in 2016. The prize was in its first year, which meant that Human Acts also fell within the eligibility window. It surprised me that the judges chose The Vegetarian out of the two—books about historical, national traumas have traditionally been favoured by such prizes. Initially, I found it a shame that Human Acts was overshadowed, especially as this was the more recent work, which showcases Han’s development as a writer and is generally considered her masterpiece

Special Feature [Essay] The Compassion of History: On Han Kang’s Nobel Prize in Literature I think it’s fair to say that few people expected Han Kang to win this year’s Nobel Prize in Literature. Based on its recent turn toward rectifying both geographic and gender imbalances, the Academy was widely expected to select a female Asian laureate, but the frontrunner was China’s Can Xue. Han was on the oddsmakers’ lists, but of the Korean candidates mentioned, the seventy-year-old poet Kim Hyesoon seemed a more likely choice. (One Nobel prediction blog dismissed Han’s chances, stating, “she is on the younger side, but will most likely be considered a serious contender in the next seven or eight years.”) Han is the first Korean winner, the first female Asian laureate in literature, and the fifth-youngest recipient of the literature prize; and once we were over our surprise, those of us who have read and admired Han could delight in her selection and consider what it might mean for the author, and Korean literary culture in general, in the international literary world.

Special Feature Mediating Lyricism and Historicity: Han Kang’s Translators As Han Kang’s translators, what do you think is the significance of this Nobel Prize win? Kyungran Choi Compared to the Nobel Prizes in Literature awarded in previous years, the reaction from French readers to Han Kang’s win has been quite enthusiastic. Even before the Nobel announcement, Impossibles Adieux (We Do Not Part) had already sold more than 13,000 copies and had garnered a lot of attention here, but I heard that immediately following Han’s win, the 8,000 copies available in print were sold out. French media reported on the news, and there were several consecutive days of coverage in the daily newspaper Le Monde from October 10 through 12. The national radio station France Culture invited me and Pierre Bisiou as the translators of Impossibles Adieux on the air for an hourlong conversation about Korean literature and translation. Looking back at the international attention that Korean literature began to receive after Han Kang won the Booker Prize in 2016, it seemed inevit

Korean Literature Now

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

INTERVIEW Parallel Worlds, Not Knowing, and the Art of Gaping by Janet Hong

COVER FEATURES [Cover Feature] Aging and Death Attuned to Ecological Hospitality From 2008 to 2017, I worked as a geriatric social worker, caring for poor, elderly people who, in terms of health, were in their middle- to late stages of life. For the past fifteen years, I have been working with twenty to thirty elderly individuals of various classes, genders, and regions to record their life histories through oral accounts. I published a book titled Farewell Diary that closely documented the last three years of a wealthy elderly woman’s life until her death at the age of eighty-seven. In the last five years, I have focused primarily on being on the ground supporting the homeless around Seoul Station, where I have witnessed firsthand the aging and passing of those considered to be on the “lowest rung” of society. Through my interactions with these individuals, I have had a preview of the physical aspects of my own eventual aging and death, which in turn prompted me to engage in extensive research and inquiry. At sixty-eight, I myself have also entered old age, and the changes in my body, sentiments, and thoughts are interesting subjects of study. Despite a similar trajectory, experiences, memories, feelings, and interpretations of aging and death vary greatly among individuals depending on their attitudes and perspectives, whether it concerns themselves or others. What is it that makes us fear death?All sorts of doubts about things considered “ordinary,” including feelings and emotions that people say naturally permeate us such as sadness or joy, are the driving force behind my thoughts, writings, and life. One such example is the question, “Why do people fear death?” Death is everywhere around us, and everyone knows that we all die. In fact, for the person concerned, death is a complete disappearance that allows for an eternal escape from all pain and problems—a perfect exit. The fact that all living beings perish is the ultimate consolation for those in the process of dying. Concern for the people left behind may be a reason for fearing death, but with death, even that concern ends, and the rest becomes the business of the living.      These days, I often think, “I might not wake up” before going to bed and “I’m still alive” when I wake up in the morning. If I had died, my life would have ended with me being the only one unaware of my demise, while everyone else would know about it. The same goes for other deaths. Although one may sense the end approaching, at the moment of passing, they are the only one unaware of their own death. Of course, in the sense that those left behind must handle the deceased’s affairs, an individual’s death is not the end from a societal perspective. Whether in life or death, every individual is intertwined with society. Thus, it is understandable to talk about regret or sadness—but invoking “fear,” no matter how much I think about it, seems unwarranted. It is as if we were being deceived by someone and then, caught up in that deception, inadvertently deceive ourselves.      Aging and death are matters of time and beyond human control. When it comes to fearing and confronting something, we need to be clear about what we are dealing with—poverty, isolation, inequality, or excessive medical care that are prevalent in the process of aging and dying. Money and capitalism, and our attitude toward them, are the real matters. If we let disorienting rumors frighten us into believing our enemies over ourselves, irrational fears will seize us. Without a chance to fight back, we’ll drown in a deep well of our own making, pulled under by imaginary ghosts. One way I challenge disturbing common beliefs is by weighing who benefits and who loses from them. “When it comes to the pervasive fear of death, who stands to gain and who loses?” This question also translates to, “Who is fueling this fear?” The first groups that come to mind are the superfluous medical, pharmaceutical, and sports industries, as well as the industries related to old age, death, and religion. They form a conveyor belt plastered with “Nothing’s more important than health,” a slogan that is so widespread it has become an ideology. The consumers, of course, are the ones who suffer the loss. Fear surrounding aging and death is an outrageous rumor, a manipulated ideology, and the flip side of it is aversion. Neoliberalism attaches abnormality, uselessness, and even the notion of “sin and punishment” to death—the destination of life—as well as to aging, illness, and disability, then pushes away and abhors these realities. Finally, when someone dies, we are presented with a range of products and services that urge us to pray for the deceased’s blessing in the afterlife. This neoliberal ideology is the very source of such rumors.      To avoid being deceived by such potent rumors, clarifying one’s stance on aging and dying is a must. This stance is rooted in a person’s outlook on life itself. Thus, the questions to continually ask are, “What makes me happy?” and “Why do I live?” There is no point in discussing likes or dislikes regarding aging and death, as these are inevitable aspects of life that everyone must face. If aging and death are something that cannot be avoided, the course of action should be to enjoy them to the fullest. If this is not possible, then one must just accept and endure life as it comes. The future is uncertain anyway, and pulling out all sorts of variables and getting anxious about them early on only makes life chaotic. Not all preparations are useless, as some do have value, but the most crucial preparation is to establish one’s attitude. In my case, “a life of self-sufficiency, conviction, and shared practice” is what ultimately makes me happy, both then and now. Living simply, with just enough materials to uphold self-respect, is both a way to live frugally and to reinforce these principles. Should I continue to live the way I do now, I will age with the passing of time, and old age, illness, and disability will follow and shape me. If death does not arrive before the moment where my body and mind can no longer sustain themselves, I intend to take death into my own hands. What comes after is not my concern. I am neither curious about life after death nor the remaining time I have in this world. I plan to live as it comes. When the body and mind feel like “this is it,” some people open the door to death themselves; some offer their bodies to beings in the mountains, the sea, and the air. The manner of death is also each person’s responsibility. My life, from beginning to end, is solely and uniquely mine, and I desire a free death. I have serious doubts on views that regard choosing one’s own death as a sin. For the people remaining in this world who will be hurt by my choice, I leave my convictions about free death in speech and writing whenever I have the chance.      I often hear people around me, both young and old, expressing that they cannot bear life and wish to die. Hearing these words so frequently is what I find truly unbearable. Sometimes, to those who have the capacity to grasp the meaning of my words, I offer a blunt response: “Living and dying are nothing extraordinary. This world and life itself are absurd, after all. The life or death of a person is a matter of utmost significance only to the individual concerned and a source of sorrow for close acquaintances, but it has little social consequence and can even be a positive thing from an ecological perspective. The decision to live or die is yours to make; if you choose death, then see it through. However, if you choose to live, you must clearly define the kind of life you will lead regardless of all the absurdities, contradictions, and hardships life holds. Then live the way you desire and that serves the common good of society until your final breath.”      People often say that the fear of pain in the process of decline is greater than the fear of death itself. This sentiment holds more truth than simply stating a fear of death. The future, however, is an extension of the past and present, and it steadily approaches with each passing moment. Aging and illness generally do not strike suddenly; the deterioration happens so stealthily that you might not even notice it yourself. Only acquaintances you haven’t seen in a while might catch the changes. On rare occasions, you may be suddenly hit with such changes but that is something to accept as “my turn.” If there is consciousness left at the moment of passing and you can think to yourself, “I lived a decent life,” that in itself is sufficient. In case you lose your mental faculties first, it would be wise to prepare for things like refusing life-sustaining treatment. The process of resistance, resignation, and acceptance: “I want to die not knowing this!” Aging is a process of repeatedly resisting, resigning to, and accepting the gradually increasing losses and impossibilities, saying, “Okay, I accept!” and then planning the next step. It involves passing through phases, at times navigating periods of confusion and depression, while strategizing “selection and concentration” that fits the new version of oneself. Since time continues to slip away, aging calls for categorizing what to do and what not to do, focusing first on what you really want to accomplish. The Lower Village that I have been frequenting lately is a venue for a night school for the homeless run by homeless individuals and volunteer teachers. I have been teaching the “speaking and writing class” there for four years. The roughly twenty or so teachers are mostly in their twenties to forties, and I am the only “old person” among them. When faced with tasks that take a long time for me to learn or are headache-inducing, such as installing Google Drive or creating web posters, I sometimes shamelessly say, “I want to die not knowing this. Let the young people who will continue using it handle it!” I take advantage of my “old age” as an excuse, indirectly informing others what it is like to be old and suggesting a division of roles. In the rapidly evolving material world we live in, the “cultural aging” of the elderly is inevitable. To avoid being alienated from a civilization that seems beyond reach, cooperation and division of roles between generations become necessary. It is fine to live and die without mastering certain technologies or cultural trends that are difficult to grasp. You can discern what you would like to learn, even if it is just to get a general sense and even late in life, and then find enjoyment in making use of it. You can also determine what you want to give up learning and ask someone else for help after weighing the cost-effectiveness between the degree of use and the remaining time, and what you do not feel like learning at all. After figuring that out, you can let things be and focus on living with ease. The elderly should steer clear of exerting too much effort on matters that aren’t truly important to them.      As I age, I feel that although my physical strength and memory have declined, my insight and ability to form relationships have significantly improved. I experience ongoing progressive symptoms such as farsightedness and arthritis, so I make sure to take care of my eyes and joints by doing eye and muscle exercises whenever I find time in my daily life. My curiosity and desires remain the same, and as always, the challenge lies in making choices. I have significantly cut back on learning new topics of discourse, as I am already well-versed in enough discourse to engage with the people I want to meet. For the studies that are more essential, I rely on talented young activists or professionals, following their work and finding pleasure in learning from it. However, I sometimes find myself hopelessly drawn to settings that stir my instincts, or to study topics that ignite my curiosity—things that bring a thrill, even to an old person! I do not agree with the saying, “If you cannot go all the way, it is better not to go at all,” since you can still enjoy the journey as far as you are able to go. After all, are not most things in life pursuits without a true end, no matter how far you go? Differences and discrimination in aging and death What should be problematized are discrimination and inequality rooted in differences of class, gender, identity, and culture throughout the journey of aging and living. In this sense, while aging and dying are deeply personal matters, they are also political and social agendas. In a society driven by wealth, the aversion toward the elderly is often an emotion directed more towards poverty than aging itself. Old people collecting waste paper on the streets evoke discomfort or, at most, fleeting sympathy. This sympathy and aversion carry an underlying anxiety that in a society with a fragile safety net, one’s own old age could end up like this with just a single misstep. On the other hand, wealthy elders are favored by the state, corporations, and younger generations alike.       The deaths of the poor are often simple and swift compared to those who prolong their lives with money. Having resigned themselves to their fate early on, their minds are less conflicted, allowing them to reach a sense of freedom sooner. As someone unlikely to become a wealthy elder, I feel I have secured the best possible outcome in advance, exchanging the time, emotions, and costs associated with the aging and dying process for a “life and death true to myself.” I reject the gaze that labels the simple and swift way the elderly poor prepare for their departure—both mentally and physically—with words such as “miserable” or “forlorn.” While their lives may have been challenging and their acceptance of death painful, this straightforward and quick process reflects an approach to aging and dying that embodies ecological hospitality.      Many of my acquaintances belong to social minorities, including sexual minorities, so I often hear about the deaths of young people who have taken their own lives. These deaths, largely due to stigma and hatred, can be seen as a form of social murder. Whether someone dies by suicide, illness, or the natural process of aging and decline, I do not express sadness in front of others. As someone without religious beliefs, I also refrain from using common expressions like “in a good place” or “bless your soul.” Instead, for those who lived with too little means or endured too much suffering, I conceal my heart’s celebration of their reaching death by simply saying, “You have gone through a lot. Now you can rest.” Whenever I witness people in power who could not confront their life’s errors or shame and escaped them through suicide, I consider myself fortunate not to have such power.      For me, mourning is a process of reflecting on and interpreting the life of someone who has reached death, and as opportunities or needs arise, examining the positives and negatives, achievements and limitations of the deceased’s life, so that it can serve as a mirror for the living. I desire my own funeral to be as simple as possible. Rather than focusing on the ceremony, I hope that the detailed aspects of my life will spark ongoing debates and controversies. My wish is for the living to sharply and faithfully reinterpret the context, meaning, and limitations of my existence.      My interest extends only up to my own death. Funerals are irrelevant to the deceased; as soon as one passes, everything becomes a ritual and I believe that all rituals contain a significant amount of deception. Funerals are for the living, events that showcase the power and resources of those left behind. They cover up the deceased’s struggles, joys, and sorrows in life with packaging and polite words, turning the matter into a business disguised as “human duty.” This business mobilizes not just blood relatives and acquaintances, but even people who never met the deceased while they were alive. The funeral industry assigns a quality level and price tag to all the products and services down to the smallest item, and employs funeral workers at near minimum wage, all while profiting behind the scenes. I rarely attend funerals, except for public ones for so-called “unclaimed” deaths, such as those of the homeless. However, on the rare occasions when I find myself in a funeral hall connected to a large hospital, the atmosphere evokes the image of a vending machine.      Old age is a messy chapter in life, making it an opportune time to fight until the moment of cessation. When fear seeps in, whether it stems from aging, death, poverty, illness, or alienation, the first step is to face yourself head-on. Only by confronting yourself squarely can you effectively challenge the multitude of rumors that circulate this world.  Translated by Kim Soyoung KOREAN WORK MENTIONED:Choi Hyunsook, Farewell Diary (Humanitas, 2019) 최현숙, 『작별 일기』 (후마니타스, 2019)  Choi Hyunsook has worked as a caregiver and life manager for elderly individuals living alone while also conducting oral history projects. She has published works such as Is the Difference Really So Big Between Heaven and Hell?, Just When You Think It’s a Dead End a Narrow Path Appears, The Life of Grandpas, The Life of Grandmas, The Origin of Determination, the essay collections Facing Life Head-On and Farewell Diary, and the novel The Case of the Missing Old Man Hwang. 

REVIEWS [SPANISH] New Families As in her novel Concerning My Daughter, for which author Kim Hye-jin is best known not only in Korea but in several countries thanks to multiple translations, her 2022 novel Counsel Culture also places the theme of care at the center of the conversation. In Concerning My Daughter, one of the protagonists is a caretaker for the elderly. In Counsel Culture, the protagonist has worked as a psychotherapist for ten years. In principle, their common task is to help and—to some extent—protect. Nevertheless, for different reasons, both fail and the terrible ostracization that results disrupts their previously stable lives.      Besides working at a therapy center, Im Haesu, the protagonist of Counsel Culture, is a consultant on a television program where she gives her professional opinion on a variety of topics. One day, Haesu thoughtlessly repeats a talking point that the screenwriters have given her about an actor while on air. Her comment is just one of the many already in circulation about this actor’s chaotic behavior on set and his strained relations with his co-stars. But to her surprise, her opinion becomes the final blow to his online public crucifixion. The actor commits suicide and the shoal of digital commentators line up against Haesu to destroy her reputation and career. The words carelessly spoken on air return to Haesu like a boomerang, leaving her perplexed. “She learned that a few words or one line was enough to stab a person in the heart. In the days following the incident, she died hundreds, thousands of times looking at her phone and her computer screen.”       Her husband, her best friend, her neighbors, her boss, her colleagues—everyone distances themselves from her. The author masterfully reveals all of this very slowly, through the letters the protagonist writes day after day. Letters that never reach their conclusion much less the mailbox. Letters in which       Haesu strenuously tries—but fails—to explain her behavior to her closest relations nor manages to confront those who have done her harm.      Haesu wanders through her neighborhood at night, using the darkness to avoid being recognized. On one of her errant walks, she meets a girl and shortly after, the two of them join efforts to save a stray cat which, like Haesu, wanders through the streets scared and hurt. Here is where another of Kim’s recurring themes appears. The woman, the solitary girl, and the sick and hungry cat quickly form an unconventional family, even more so than the one in Concerning My Daughter. And it’s the girl who becomes the head of this quite unusual family. She makes suggestions and gives guidance in coordinating the rescue project, despite living a solitary life at home and being excluded at school. It is she who names the cat “Turnip.” Not long after, an enormous ginkgo tree on the edge of the neighborhood becomes home for the three of them where  they gather in the afternoons. In this tree, they set a trap to catch the cat and take it to the vet. “The ginkgo tree becomes something of a place of worship to Haesu. The time she spends there waiting for Turnip brings her calm. She does not know where this calm and peace are coming from. Sometimes she stays past sundown, until darkness settles in.” The waiting in this green sanctuary cures her, to the point she finally decides to meet the wife of the deceased actor. Their meeting teaches Haesu how powerful words can be, something she had not fully grasped in her previous life as a therapist.       Kim Hye-jin’s novels move on a scale that some might consider minor. Even her transparent writing, transmitted with serenity and efficacy by her translators, can give the false impression of lightness. There is no epic catharsis, nor lessons. Rather, her book deals with a discovery of themes that concern us today—the nature of care, the reach of language in the age of social media, the intangibility of forgiveness—through ordinary fumblings in the dark and new ideas of family. Kim tells us that if we give these factors sufficient attention, perhaps we can find the path of return. Translated by Lucina Schell  Andrés Felipe SolanoWriter, Gloria (Counterpoint, 2025)

Book for You

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

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

READINGS A Poetry Reading by Poet Kim So Yeon "Second Floor Guest Lounge"

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