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?

Three keywords come to mind: “noodle shop,” “room,” and “theatre.” I’ll explain each of these briefly.

        My mother ran a noodle shop out of our home in the countryside for over twenty years. In her shop, I learned that cooking is a form of labor long before it transforms into virtue or duty. I also got to see firsthand what it meant to be a proud, economically independent woman. The people who came to the restaurant were people from all walks of life and socioeconomic backgrounds. At the time I hated sharing with those customers our small home where we ate and slept, but now I realize that it was a precious experience for my development as an author.

        By “room,” I’m talking as much about a physical place as an economic class. My early work inevitably contains many of my personal experiences. As a young author, I used to be embarrassed by the smallness of my stories about “home” and that “room.” But not anymore. Much like pointillism, small stories in numbers can become the brushstrokes for a vast sky.

        Lastly, I studied theatre in college. While in school, I saw many performances barely make it to the stage. In the process, my peers and I learned how to accept each other’s imperfections and how to keep our promise to the audience. During that time, I also learned how to look for the meaning of life without relying on a personal god, and how to love without idolizing the other person. Although I can’t say for sure that I was aware of this at the time.

It’s interesting that your experience in theatre has seeped into your novels. I can’t help but think that this is also related to your writing and literature. Noodle shops and rooms are especially present in works like Run, Dad! and Mouthwatering. One thing that plays an important role in the world-building of these early works is what you might call a “resentment-free reconstruction of reality and active imagination.” But in your works in the 2010s and beyond, I think this becomes more complicated. For example, in My Brilliant Life and Vapor Trail, you seem more aware of the harshness or negative aspects of reality. I wonder if this indicates a kind of shift. Or as writer Kim Yeonsu once stated, perhaps laughter and tears all come from the same place. In that sense, something that was latent in your early works has now emerged to the surface. I’m curious what the context behind that change was.

I’ve always wanted to possess a sense of humor that demonstrates a deep understanding of life. I hope I’ve achieved that, at least to some extent. Still, it’s true that in striving for that, I had started to smile less. But after the sinking of the MV Sewol, my pessimism returned to faint optimism, and then after the COVID-19 pandemic, I started to sympathize with Rebecca Solnit who said that both pessimism and optimism are forms of certainty about the future. I once read that certainty interferes with our decision-making. And yet, so long as we cling to a certain amount of hope, it doesn’t so much give us a good answer, but rather, a difficult one—like a cracked jar that leaks light to reveal the dignity of humanity within.

I think Korean literature of late can be split into two periods: literature that was written before the sinking of the MV Sewol, and literature that was written after. When Kim Yeonsu wrote about you, I felt a warmth inside as I sensed the unique and complex connection between you two—awkward and ambivalent, yet somehow friendly. What does the term “contemporary author” mean to you? I know writing is ultimately a solitary act, but I think that relationships between writers must be significant.

What first comes to mind is the Korean phrase “a hill to lean on.” I also imagine this network of writers as a forest. I’m happy to know that my work is not the first shovel in a barren landscape but rather a tree or leaf swaying in unison with other trees and leaves in a forest cultivated by other writers. Within that forest, I sometimes feel the winds of history, and at other times, I’m shaken and humbled by those same winds. Eventually, I may decay and be absorbed into the earth, but that, too, is the way of nature. Contemporary writers are the people with whom I share that uncertain destiny.

I find it interesting that from the beginning of your career, many of your main characters have been children. Your newest full-length novel, A Lie Among Truths, also features a young boy. I can’t help but think that there must be some special reason for this. Perhaps you have a particular affection for coming-of-age journeys?

The young characters in my early works were very interested in themselves. After all, one must resolve their own problems before they can see others and begin to talk about “we.” While writing my latest novel, a certain idea occurred to me: Growing up is all about changing perspectives. I also think that maturation doesn’t have to be about going through the traditional rites of passage; it can happen gradually over a long span of time. So, in this novel, I decided to have my characters initially obsessed with their own wounds, then slowly I let them begin to see the sorrow and wounds of others as intensely as their own. People tend to think growing up is about becoming bigger, but it’s actually about becoming smaller, because the smaller we get, the bigger our world becomes. I’m paraphrasing Jeon Seung-min, of course, from his book of essays, Reading with Intent. Personally, even though I may not have grown up to become a more sophisticated writer, I’ve become someone who can observe the world and people with patience—something for which I am thankful.

Since your last novel, My Brilliant Life, I’d been waiting with great anticipation for A Lie Among Truths. And it was just as moving as your previous work. Of course, this novel is centered around lies. In the line “One secret helps another secret,” the word “secret” can implicitly be seen as a close cousin with “lie.” Now that I think about it, your first novel, My Brilliant Life, also revolves around the hope and disappointment caused by a certain lie. But in your latest work, I think lying becomes much richer. What significance does lying have for you right now? And what is its relationship to storytelling?

To me, lies are even bigger than fiction or storytelling. After all, a novel is essentially an author’s carefully crafted lie. As has long been known, lies in literature are used as a method to protect the truth. In other words, some truths cannot be conveyed without the use of storytelling. Conversely, some lies only feel like they are true because they have been carefully structured and narrativized. It’s a subtle but important distinction. I try to resist the urge to resort to an easy narrative while struggling to preserve the driving force of the story. If a story feels too comfortable to me, I shift my perspective to make sure I’m an honest liar.

Another interesting aspect of A Lie Among Truths is the introduction of non-human characters, which is something new in your body of work. Rather than simply serving as a plot device, they seem to reflect a fascinating expansion or shift in worldviews. For example, all three of the children who are the main characters suffer their own wounds and live precarious daily lives; yet, they have non-humans that they must look after and protect. I wanted to hear more about this from you.

I wanted to give these children, for whom family is a painful burden they must carry, a different type of family with its own meaning. After pondering how to ensure the children weren’t put in forced positions of salvation while also not relegating them to a place of meaninglessness, I came up with the idea of a companion animal. I didn’t want to overly anthropomorphize or idealize these animals, so I went with a lizard. I deliberately placed it in contrast to the dog, which represents devotion. While humans have long cherished dogs, lizards (like snakes) have been despised by humans since the dawn of time. Of course, snakes and lizards are different, but they share a common history of neglect and mistreatment by humans. By juxtaposing the dog, a symbol of love and loyalty, with the snake, a creature that doesn’t even know people hate it (as movie critic Kim Hye-ri puts it), I wanted to strike a balance and step away from an anthropocentric perspective.

Your desire to avoid anthropomorphism and idealization resonates with me. The last sentence of your book also left a lasting impression on me: “I could have chosen not to return from the dream, but I did.” This is almost the exact opposite of the last sentence of “Who Sets Off Fireworks on the Beach Without Thinking?” from your first collection, Run, Dad!: “This might all be a dream, but just like the wind that traveled thousands of kilometers across the northern pacific to meet me, I must meet that dream.” In other words, the young character from twenty years ago yearned to “meet a dream,” but now, this more recent young character wishes to return from a dream. Why has the meaning of dreams changed for your young characters?

I once said in an acceptance speech that, “What matters more than the height of the leap is the place where you land.” I thought I was showing humility and a young author’s mettle, but now that I think about it, it wasn’t that I was trying to hide my own vanity, but rather some fear I had. After all, to land somewhere, to come back to Earth after a great leap, takes a lot of strength, effort, and courage. And to land somewhere, you first need height. You must experience that height. If we can call that height a dream or a fantasy, then perhaps what my early works captured was the sensation of measuring and savoring the distance between the sky and the earth with my body. In contrast, the arc of landing seems to be contained in my more recent works.

In an interview, you mentioned that you write your characters while imagining them ten years in the future. It occurred to me that the characters in your latest novel could be both future versions of characters from previous novels, and past versions of characters from future novels. Are there any characters from past works that you would like to rewrite?

I’ve sometimes caught myself continuing or rewriting previous short stories of mine. For example, “Knife Marks” and “Covering Hands” both explore motherhood from different angles. “Beginning of Winter” and “Like Raindrops” both explore the grieving process through the motif of applying wallpaper. The youth from “A Proud Life,” who cries because his book gets wet in the rain, becomes a member of the older generation in “A Good Neighbor,” willingly discarding perfectly good books. I plan to continue observing these character transformations.

I also want to ask you about some of the short stories you’ve published after Summer Outside. The two works that come to mind, “Foreign Body Sensation” and “Home Party,” seem more socially aware than Summer Outside. In particular, I think you highlight the hypocrisy and contradictions behind the desire for a middle-class life, a so-called “standard life.” By pointing out the fact that we’re all complicit in this hypocrisy, I think these works are a form of satire directed at the self. In this sense, your work seems to possess a strong sense of physicality as it is firmly rooted in this world. Do you think this rootedness is related to your attitude toward fiction?

When I first started out, the “physicality” of my works was mostly tied to a character’s sense of daily life and their humor. But recently, it has also manifested in this critique of “complicity,” as you put it. I think this is because of my interest in bodies that awaken, that become courageous within their limitations and imperfections. These bodies take many forms—dying bodies, drunk bodies, desiring bodies, bodies that are socially conscious. When these “embodied” people make unexpected choices, I feel great humility. A person’s weight is not measured by their achievement in a single era, but by the sum of their contradictions, flaws, failures, and journeys throughout their lifetime. That is what we call life.

At some point in time, various media elements—TV, internet, emails, webtoons—began to be highlighted and used as narrative devices in your novels. Of course, these forms of media shape stories in their own way. In this day and age, when these different forms of media compete against each other, what, in your view, is the significance of the novel? And what do you think the novel has contributed—or is contributing—to humanity’s story?

In the past, I used to think that the virtue of novels was in their content. Empathy, understanding, imagining the Other—things like that. But these days, I wonder if the true value of literature and reading lies not in content, but in its form. Of course, I also learn a lot through modern media, just like everyone else. I’m often impressed not only by the narrative techniques they use but also by their themes and content. But I’m still skeptical of YouTube and social media, the two most dominant forms of media right now. I guess I’m a bit old-fashioned, despite being neither young nor old.

        I should also mention that, with the rise of YouTube and Instagram, there has been a rise in people talking about themselves. Historically, there have never been so many “first-person perspectives.” But with so many “I”s in the world, why has self-alienation become so prevalent? In this age where self-obsession and self-alienation coexist, how can we engage with second- and third-person worlds in a healthy way? Is there a way to be an agent without being a main character? I often ask myself these questions because I, just like everyone else, am not free from such influences. That’s why I think attention has become the moral issue of this era. In a world of dopamine addiction, the strength and time to focus on one object, one issue, might itself be the key to living ethically. This makes me think anew about the importance of literature and reading.

I’m fascinated by your comment about “being an agent without being a main character.” It almost seems loosely connected to your affection for adverbs over nouns. I am reminded of your discussion of adverbs in the book of essays, A Good Name to Forget. Teachers often warn students not to use adverbs too often because they are not essential to sentences and can lead to superfluous writing. And now that I think about it, as I write these questions and consider how they will be translated, I unconsciously try to minimize my use of adverbs. Could you share more about your deep fondness for adverbs?

When I was young, I read a lot of writing manuals. While reading those books, I was often scolded by the authors for breaking their writing rules—authors who had never even met me! What I should have taken as mere guidelines became absolute truth, and this left me feeling discouraged. My essay about adverbs was my lighthearted rebellion against those early teachers. It was just a small act of defiance, but I got a real kick out of it. In all seriousness, however, adverbs do lead to a lot of wasted verbiage. Perhaps that’s why it’s more apparent in writing than in spoken communication. I suppose my point was that adverbs are a necessary waste. I wanted to defend vibrancy, playfulness, flexibility—all of which require adverbs. Ironically, the short stories and novels I personally admire are those with restrained poeticism. But even someone who hates vegetables can become a vegetarian. Perhaps what I love so much is not adverbs themselves, but rather what you might call the adverbial. And maybe that’s why I’ve never quite connected with rigid, “noun-centered” writing that asserts absolute certainty and claims a monopoly on the truth.

The adverbial definitely seems at odds with today’s demands for cost-effectiveness, speed, and stimulation. The meaning of family in your novels has also undergone significant transformations. In a 2017 interview, you described family as three things: the first Other we encounter in life, the place where we practice emotions, and a pole that helps us jump over bars. If I asked you what family means to you now, would you answer differently?

I doubt there are many people who have a smooth narrative of their own childhood. It’s my guess that most of us live with certain gaps and omissions, regardless of age or nationality. I often write about children who must fill in the holes their parents could not. In those stories, the tools of humor, imagination, and lying were very useful to me. Conversely, I have sometimes been too idealistic when depicting parents and children, attempting to erase feelings of guilt over parental devotion and sacrifice. I guess I needed an indirect method through which to engage with reality. That’s probably why I got a good laugh when I heard writer Ko Mi Sook say recently that family is a hotbed of lies. In my early years, I frequently used child narrators, but now, in my forties, I have become responsible for looking after my own parents. Through this, I’ve come to accept that we don’t need to idealize family to understand or care for it. At the same time, we don’t necessarily have to be apathetic about the empty spaces inside us, either.

In your short story “They Said Annyeong,” which is featured in this issue of KLN, there is a scene in which the main characters part ways without being able to say goodbye. I guess I’m in the same situation right now. But before we leave, I want to ask you one last question: What are three works of yours that you want international readers to know about and why?

Limiting myself to short stories, I guess I would suggest a few of my early works as well as my more recent ones. Two of these, in fact, will be included in my fifth short story collection, set to be published this year.

“Home Party” is one.

In writing this story, I wanted to tackle the topic of money during the COVID-19 pandemic. Or more specifically, I wanted to write about “social currency” and the parties held during times of isolation by the people who possessed it. No setting requires more social performances than parties, and what better character to play such a role than a struggling actor? That’s the idea behind that story.

Then there’s “They Said Annyeong.”

In the English language, subjects and objects are relatively clear. If only life were as simple. The main character of this story feels the wonder and angst of navigating between one’s mother tongue and a foreign language. A lonely woman, she uses learning a new language as an excuse to learn about life.

Finally, “Who Sets Off Fireworks on the Beach without Thinking?”

Throughout my career, I’ve written stories in only three different styles: writing a story I know in a familiar way, writing a story I don’t know in a familiar way, and writing a story I don’t know in an unfamiliar way. This novel was written in the last—and least frequent—style. That’s why, whenever I read it, I feel a strange mix of nostalgia and liberation. It’s a fun and beautiful story about two characters in the middle of the night battling for narrative control over a single story.

Translated by Sean Lin Halbert

Kim Mijung is a literary critic and lecturer at Soongsil University. She is the author of Moving Constellations, 

a collection of literary criticism, and the co-author of How Do Post-War East Asian Women’s Narratives Converge? 

She has also translated The Power of Affect.

Korean Works 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)