INTERVIEW

• The Best Thing A Novel Can Do Vol.43 Spring 2019

  Saito: Have you ever thought of writing poetry? I’d love to read your poems. Park: In that case, I’ll write some.   Saito: I look forward to it. In your opinion, what is the best thing fiction or poetry can do? Or the worst thing? Park: I think of a scene from George Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess. A black tenement in the 1920s, men drinking and playing craps . . . A woman sitting on the steps in front of a run-down house, singing to her baby. It’s a lullaby. The season is summer, of all times. Summertime in the slums is when rats and fleas run wild and everything stinks. But this is what the woman sings to her baby:   Summertime, and the livin’ is easy Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high Oh, your daddy’s rich and your ma is good-lookin’ So hush little baby, don’t you cry   All of this is a lie. The baby’s father is not rich. And the mother’s life is one of poverty and hardship, with little time to think about good looks. And need I say, father, mother, baby, are all black in 1920s America. Life’s not easy for them, can’t be easy. The lyrics are meant to be ironic, so the bits about the cotton and fish are probably 100 percent lies, too. And hello, what about the Great Depression? But then if you were that baby’s mother, what kind of lyrics would you sing to the crying baby? If you were the goddess of this planet, what would you sing to a human race in tears? For me, fiction is about writing about those lies, those lyrics. And when that baby grows up, the time will come to tell the truth: “This is why your father had to live the way he did, and your mother . . . and you . . .” That the river and cotton fields belonged to someone else, and that all they had to look forward to was working for two cents a day. Someone has to tell them all this. And writing those lyrics is also the role of fiction. But get this, that song may seem more truthful, but it’s just as fictitious as the other lie. Why? Because the world doesn’t change. OK, so what then? But it’s by lying to ourselves in both instances that we are able to get through our lives, and even muster the power to change them. That may be the best possible thing fiction can do.   Saito: One question I get all the time is about the attraction of Korean literature. I always answer, thinking it’s so hard to sum up in a few words, that it’s about vitality in all its forms. Even from the quietest, most somber work, you feel that vitality. What do you think of my answer? And what would your answer be? Park: I think you nailed it. I would probably say something along the same lines. South Korea is not the country of the “morning calm” at all. Imagine if the Bill of Rights, the Industrial and French Revolutions, the world wars, the Cold War, genocides and civil wars, military coups and dictatorships, the fight for democracy and workers’ rights, rapid economic growth and collapse, the digital revolution and smartphones . . . Imagine you took all of those things and crammed them into a few decades instead of centuries, what kind of person would you be? But that’s what actually happened in South Korea. You could say it was a tough place to survive without “vitality in all its forms.” If you’re thinking, “They must be crazy,” then that’s just one manifestation of that vitality. Let’s say that you, the reader, are an American. If you compare your life and mine, I was born into circumstances similar to your grandfather’s or father’s, and now I use smartphones and FaceTime like you do. It’s people like me that write, or are driven to write, Korean literature.   Saito: It feels like more of your writing is set in countries and lands other than South Korea these days. If that is so, is there any special reason? Does it feel different from writing something set in South Korea? Park: You’re right, I enjoy writing stories set in foreign countries. Do I enjoy going abroad? Not at all. I don’t like traveling. Why use foreign settings, then? Well, I guess you could say it’s to write about South Korea. It’s like when you travel abroad and it gives you the distance to look at yourself or your country objectively. Whether it’s set in the past or future, I don’t feel different at all from when I write stories set in South Korea. Even if all of the characters are foreigners, it’s a Korean story I’m writing. Then again, people are alike wherever you go, so it could be a story from there. If you look at the big picture, everything we do, regardless of what country you’re from, is part of the great human comedy. The American comedy, the British comedy, the Japanese comedy, the Korean comedy. Distinguishing between countries is pointless when the human race seems to pretty much overlap on the whole.   Saito: You excel at music, art, sports. Is there anything you can’t do? Park: I never think about whether I’m good or bad at something. I just do what I enjoy doing. So what’s hard for me is to do something I don’t like. For instance, if I were to get stuck in a debate with someone who believes in something religiously, dogmatically. That’s not my thing at all, so I would just agree with whatever he or she said and then go off and do something more enjoyable. I pride myself on training my brain to be good at finding things I like to do, like a sniffer dog.   Saito: What is something that you could do but rather wouldn’t? Park: Be a K-Pop idol.   Saito: I was at one of your events at Niigata last year, and something you said really stood out to me. You said you weren’t too concerned with how the younger generation would react to the music in your work, because they had their own stories to tell. How did you read the work of established writers when you were young? Park: I didn’t have very deep thoughts about them, if you know what I mean. I have zero respect for the older generations (throughout the history of humankind), and I expect the next generation to treat me exactly the same way. My reasoning is that if you want to wake up to the modern age, you need to wake up to the fact that your father didn’t know a damn thing, that nobody gives a damn about the history of your tribe, your country, your nation, the god you worship. Strictly speaking, we haven’t evolved past totemism and shamanism. That’s the way I see it. But I really hope to break past all that, a little bit at a time. Niigata was a truly beautiful corner on this earth. Please say hello for me.   Saito: Two years ago, you said that the greatest Korean movie of all time was Memories of Murder. Has there been any other movie to top it since then? Park: Not for me. I think Memories of Murder was made at a time when artistry and commercialism had, for whatever reason, struck a perfect balance in the South Korean film industry. The tables have turned very rapidly in favor of commercialism since then. I don’t know when, if ever, that balance can be struck again. I do hope.   Saito: Do you exercise every day? Do you think fitness is important for a writer? Park: What fitness has to do with writing, I couldn’t say because I think that the balance between body and spirit is not exactly the same as fitness. For me, I would say there are two kinds of really good writing. The first kind is to write a boy’s story from an old man’s point of view, and vice versa—to write an old man’s story from a boy’s point of view. It may sound weird, but this kind of writing is infinitely more balanced compared to a boy’s story written from a boy’s point of view, or an old man’s story written from an old man’s point of view. And for me, it’s that balance that counts, fit or not. So to answer your first question on exercise, I’ll just say that I try to strike a balance every day.   Saito: Do you dream a lot? Do your dreams influence your work sometimes? Park: I rarely dream. Occasionally I’ll have one that makes me sit up and take notice. But for me, the reality we live in is much more dreamlike than any dream. I love things like dreamcatchers or wind chimes. I love to watch them moving in the wind. I guess I prefer to be on the edge between dreams and waking, rather than rely on or have my eyes fixed on one or the other.   Saito: I’ve read that you write short stories as if they were letters to someone. Do you have a specific person in mind when you begin a story? And do you sometimes get a reply? Park: I do write short stories as gifts to people I like, to my friends, to people I take an interest in. I do it because I like it, not to receive something in return. I’ve already received so much before that, so the process of writing stories is my way of saying thank you.   Saito: Do stories come from inside or outside of you? Park: I don’t know. I just write. When I think about it, this world could be a story. So what I’m doing isn’t writing so much as perceiving or reading. Yes, that sounds more accurate. Everything is a story in this place. I just show up. If you look around, you can’t find anything that’s not a story.   Saito: Tell us a little about what you’re working on now. Park: I’ve some works in progress, and some things slated for publication. If we’re talking about projects in the planning stage, I’m thinking about taking on mythology one of these days. I have an idea for a story called “Son of Sodo.” I’m also rewriting Peter, Paul, and Mary, a novel I wrote a few installments for a long time ago. It’s about actors in the adult film industry in 1970s’ San Francisco. More precisely, it’s from their point of view in their old age. I’m also working on a story called “White Christmas.”   Saito: Sounds like a treat. Now I want to know about your current works in progress and those coming out soon. Could you tell us about your publication schedule? Park: I think my novel Holy Land is coming out first early this year. And then I have a novella called Lucy that’s going to be published in a bilingual edition (Korean and English). Later this year I have Mass Game Generation, a novel I’ve expanded from a few installments published years ago. Then there’s Elephant, a novel I’m serializing right now, but I don’t know how much material I’ll have when it’s finished and whether it’ll be published this year or pushed to next year. Apart from that, I’m going to publish my third collection of short stories in a three-volume set, called 3ple. As for that one, I’m thinking next year, probably. All of this is ongoing, so things are up for change. But there you have it. I had fun writing them, so I hope you’ll have fun reading them.   Saito: I know I’m going to have fun waiting for them and reading them. And so will your other readers in Japan. I’ve been looking forward to Holy Land, in particular, for two years now. I’m positive this book is going to be translated into multiple languages and read all over the world. I hope you’ll stick to your course of not becoming a K-pop idol and continue writing fiction and poetry for a very long time. Park: Thank you.   by Mariko Saito Poet, Translator

• The Face of the Twenty-first Century: Novelist Park Min-gyu Vol.12 Summer 2011

  A writer who likens writing to a boxing match, Park Min-gyu leaves behind his slacker past for his improved writing self.   Park Min-gyu debuted in 2003 and was the recipient of The Hankyoreh Literature Award and the Munhakdongne New Writer Award. His powerful imagination, understanding of the minority, and original narratives led him to become an iconic figure in 21st century Korean literature. He was recently chosen as the face of Korean literature in the 21st century in a poll of literary critics, and hailed as “spokesman for the trends of the 21st century,” and “challenging the lethargy of the young generation while seeking a new form for the novel.” Kim: I’m pleased to meet you. You went to last November’s Guadalajara Book Fair in Mexico, didn’t you? Did you buy a lot of Mexican wrestling masks? I recall that you were photographed with a wrestler mask for the cover of your short story collection Double. I’m asking because that image made such an impression on me. Park: I didn’t buy many because before that, I’d already purchased a lot through the Internet. Normally, I watch Mexican wrestling through UCC channels, but since I was able to watch Lucha Libre in real life, it was great. The photograph for Double was taken with me wearing the wrestling masks of El Santo and Blue Demon, two wrestlers I like a lot. I thought it would be fun. Kim: When I read your books, I think of Paul Lafargue’s book The Right to be Lazy. Of course I’m not saying that you’re lazy; since 2003 when you debuted, you’ve diligently published four novels and two story collections. I feel your works contain unusual reflections on laziness and acts as a safeguard for it. Park: I was born in 1969 and spent my childhood in Korea while the country was a developing nation racing towards economic growth. I grew up in an environment that pressured you to be industrious and move with incredible speed. Maybe our generation wasn’t able to appear lazy, or just couldn’t be lazy. But within that environment, I managed to grow up lazily. I was constantly lagging behind. I was incredibly happy…because I was lazy. (laughs) Kim: Perhaps your reflections on laziness is in consideration of and connected to those who haven’t been able to keep up with the pace that society demands. But if you’ve been lazy since childhood, you must have struggled fiercely at school. Park: School… It was difficult. School is where extreme competition is encouraged, the mediocre life is emphasized, and a place where you are warned by being told a straggler’s life means to be defeated. There’s been many times when I hated it so much I just wanted to disappear. If there’s an empty seat in the classroom the teacher would know, so I would move a desk and chair into the storage room and leave. Since I wasn’t studying, I hung out all day long. Kim: I’m guessing you listened to a lot of rock music at the time. Didn’t you once form a band and even have a concert? Park: The band was just a hobby. I like the bands that were playing around the time of the Woodstock Festival in 1969. These days I’m listening to a lot of classic blues music, like Blind Willie Johnson.   Critic Kim Dongshik and novelist Park Min-gyu   Kim: I remember that a guitarist was an important character in the short story “The Yogurt-Selling Woman.” When did you start becoming interested in writing? Park: In high school I was really interested in the arts. I didn’t need formal lessons like music or art classes, but since I was focused on the actual practice of art more than grades I ended up entering a creative writing program. Kim: So the appetite for the arts became an entrance into writing. Park: That’s right. At college I rarely showed up for classes. I majored in poetry so I rarely took classes on the novel. There wasn’t any actual reason I had to major in poetry. Watching the upperclassmen at college, I noticed that poetry classes had less homework compared to the fiction ones. I thought it’d be easy, so I did poetry. Even then my main focus was having a good time. Kim: That sounds like you. (laughs) It seems to me that feeling pleasure and freedom while amusing yourself is an important aspect of art. Throughout you’ve produced a distinctive body of work. In much of your work, the paragraph suddenly shifts mid-sentence into another paragraph, and in Ping-pong the woman’s dialogue was printed in pink and the man’s, blue. In Pavane for a Dead Princess you included the CD meant to be its background music. Your sense of the role of media seems inimical. Park: Personally, I like the old-fashioned thick book. I wanted to make Double thicker but I was told that if it was too thick people wouldn’t read it, so it was published in its present skinnier form. And how I change the line or paragraph in the middle of a sentence, and that kind of thing, I do it just because I like it that way. At first I actually thought that was the way it was done. Since I had majored in poetry, I figured that prose also had spaces between the lines. I didn’t know the grammar of the novel, I wasn’t educated about it. So there are reasons like that too. Kim: It sounds like you were able to be free because you didn’t know the conventions of the novel. Park: Until I published Castella I didn’t know about the third person point of view. I just wrote everything in first person. If you don’t know something you’re supposed to be ashamed about it, but even when I don’t know something I don’t have a complex about it. 1. Sammi Superstars’ Last Fan Club Park Min-gyu, Hankyoreh Publishing Co. 2003, 304p, ISBN 9788984311046   2. Castella Park Min-gyu, Munhakdongne Publishing Corp. 2005, 336p, ISBN 9788982819926   3. Legends of the World’s Heroes Park Min-gyu, Munhakdongne Publishing Corp. 2003, 187p, ISBN 9788982816796   Kim: The early work such as Legends of the World’s Heroes or Sammi Superstars’ Last Fan Club reveals a cynical, critical attitude toward heroic characters. In contrast, short stories such as “Nearby” and “Napping,” there’s a focus on the lives of the powerless and sick elderly. I’m wondering now if words like ‘hero’ and ‘the elderly’ are key to understanding your work. Park: I focused on heroic characters because I think Korea’s complex about being on the margins has extended to a collective envy of the hero. Korea has always been a peripheral, weakercountry since it’s never really had true power. Basically, I think power is evil. Even today the laws of the jungle still dominate the world. When I look back, I can see that at times when I had power I also caused harm to others around me. My life’s goal—can I call it that? is to grow into an old, powerless man. I want to grow old like a plant, not harming anyone. When you write you discover the original (reality) you and the other you. The ‘I’ in reality enjoys eating meat and playing survival games as a hobby. That person is the ‘I’ who hits someone while playing paintball and feels pleasure. But while writing, I discover a totally different person from the one above. That’s why I learn so much while writing. During the writing process I come to understand this other better person, and I think the person I am in reality improves because of it. I just wanted to write back then so I started writing novels, and I didn’t believe a person could become better by reading at all. But as I kept writing I realized that even a guy like me could change. These days I humbly accept the ‘writing me.’ Kim: As you see yourself change through the process of writing, you must also sense that the world we live in is also able to change a little. Park: It’s amazing. I feel letters aren’t something that people made but something that’s always been there. People just used the letters that were already there. It’s like there’s something to that script that cause good stories to emerge. And in the letters there’s something in them that causes the writing to endlessly continue. Kim: An introspective relationship seems to form between the writing of novels and violence in your work. Park: Since I was young I went to boxing matches with my father. I liked the attacks and the destruction, and enjoyed the display of power. But as I began writing fiction, the ratio between violence and the elderly (plant-like) stuff of life changed to 49:51. A change occurred. In that moment the people without power who’d get hit, robbed, and pushed down seemed so pitiful and their situation, touching. I got to understanding compassion for the powerless. Kim: Then it seems wrong to view wrestling or the martial arts merely as a cultural interest or hobby. There seems to be a connection to your self-image in the writing of your novels. Park: As I mentioned earlier, I don’t know much about novel writing techniques. Actually the inspiration I get from matches I’ve watched have given me many hints. At first you rush wildly at the other, but as time passes you learn how to step and even rest while you clinch the opponent. I think writing a novel resembles this aspect of martial arts, which is why I glean a lot from watching boxing and martial arts matches. The important point is I don’t have much knowledge about the martial arts, but the person standing and fighting in the ring is me. Can I say the feeling of running in a ring is like writing? I’m the kind who writes instinctually, with energy. 4. Double Park Min-gyu, Changbi Publishing Co. 2010, 620p, ISBN 9788936435882   5. Pavane for a Dead Princess Park Min-gyu, Wisdom House 2009, 420p, ISBN 9788959133918   6. Ping Pong Park Min-gyu, Changbi Publishing Co. 2006, 258p, ISBN 9788936433550     Kim: So it’s not from theory or books that have been given the stamp of literature, but through the intense flow of martial arts or wrestling matches that you instinctually feel the literary, and read it, and capture it. Park: Since I don’t know anything about literature that’s possible. But in the martial arts or wrestling there’s also an introduction, turn, and conclusion. For example, Mexican wrestling resembles a circus or a festival. American-style wrestling is a world away from a well-constructed narrative. The Mexican style of wrestling might be slack and poorly composed, but there are some very subtle aspects to it. That’s why UNESCO should designate it as part of the World Heritage tradition and protect it. (laughs) Kim: The issue of living in a capitalistic world is embedded in many of your works. It’s one of the most important traits of your novels. Park: You could say that the issue of living in a capitalistic world is my subject. I should think harder and seek an answer. It’s the basic question that people of my generation can ask. Looking back, South Korea wasn’t truly a capitalist society during the period of 1970-80. Though of course, soon after, it raced into becoming a capitalist society. My generation and I were the ones who lived in a fully developed capitalist society and will be the last generation to have complete memories of this. Kim: There must be some moments when you felt that you were imprisoned by a life of capitalism. When was this? Park: It was before I’d debuted, when I was in my early 30s. But one of those days I’d had the thought that ‘Money’s king.’ Before then, I’d lived a life that had nothing to do with making and saving money. I’d been infected with the capitalist virus, much like getting a cold, and this shocked me. I thought hard on this and ultimately handed in my resignation at work. This was when I’d already gotten married and just had a kid. This shock also played a large role in my sudden decision to begin writing. Kim: Your novel Pavane for a Dead Princess takes issue with lookism in society. Lookism is the face of popular culture for capitalism. But why does lookism continue to persist? According to your novel, the envy and shame that the people discriminated against feel is what gives lookism its power. In order to destroy lookism, the novel suggests that instead of opposing it, one should point out how silly it is. You can call this Janus-like life’s strategy toward capitalism; I feel that this is a point of true reflection. Park: That’s where self-introspection lies buried. I used to think that you could change the world but the world didn’t change at all. Now I see that those who wanted to change the world or those who didn’t had the same ambitions. The failure of the generation I belong to is that they knew determination, but they didn’t know how to be enlightened. We were always determined. With our fists clenched, we were resolved. Let’s live a better life, let’s change the world, let’s battle, let’s win, and so on. There was no true awakening. Isn’t it the same structure that governs the conglomerate passing on stocks to the descendents and the middle-class parents that send their kids to after school cram schools all day long? (laughs) Kim: It isn’t a lagging behind caused by external forces but a lagging behind that one voluntarily chooses that often appears in your work. It’s an asymmetrical life’s strategy to coping with a capitalist system. Park: The form has changed, but choosing to lag behind was around long ago. Personally, I think voluntarily choosing to straggle is a happy road. Suicide is the opposite. I don’t think falling behind is anything to be afraid of, or something to feel defeated by, and most of all, falling behind is definitely no reason to kill yourself. Above all, because the work force is important to a capitalist society, the system isn’t going to just leave the slackers alone. The exploited might feel fear, but the ones exploiting feel fear too, so there’s no reason to be afraid. Kim: Personally, I liked “Nearby” from the collection Double best. We live to reach some goal, but the story ultimately implies that we can only get near it. The word ‘nearby’ makes me rethink the meaning of the blank space inherent in it. How are you spending your time these days? Park: I’m in the middle of writing another novel so I basically just write. When I go to my writing studio I read and write, and when I return home I spend time with the family. My studio’s in Chuncheon, where I’ll spend two to three weeks out of a month. I usually write at night. I like looking up at the sky. If I drive out a little bit, I can see the stars well. Kim: It sounds like we’ll be getting a new novel from you soon. Thank you for your time and your thoughtful responses.   By Kim Dongshik

FICTION

• Jeol Vol.43 Spring 2019

        Beads of snow . . .      . . . scattered down. A soft metallic clang sounded from behind a huge iron door that was flanked by a long wall. Considering the door was forty to fifty ja thick, the noise was only as loud as the snow beads ricocheting off the frozen ground. A side gate had opened. A silver-haired old man stepped out, but he trod so lightly that his feet made no sound. The snow beads, sapped of their vigor to stay afloat, let out the faint crunch of rice grains being crushed. The old man had a brief exchange with a guard who’d followed him out, but his voice made no sound. With a heavy clang, the iron door gathered back all its possessions. The only things left in the open were the old man, his bundle, and the vast expanse of earth that had broken out in snow beads in places and thus looked like the plucked, raw skin of a chicken. The snow kept . . .      . . . falling. The old man’s eyes drew a 之 in the sky,2 where the sun and moon were aligned with Earth, before coming to rest on the sight ahead. Three men, hairs grizzled from bits of snow, stood before him like snowmen. The old man lowered his head.      Daehyung!3 Warm puffs of air spouted from three mouths in unison.      The old man was Kim Il-hae, better known as Master of the Celestial Fist. A few snow beads picked that moment to fall on the corners of his eyes, moistening them. Nnneeaoowww, a plane that’d taken off from a distant airport passed overhead just then.      How come, muttered Celestial Fist, the dragon slices through the skies and yet sounds so feeble?      It’s because of the law regulating the Weighted Equivalent Continuous Perceived Noise Level, said the youngest of the three middle-aged seosaengs4 as he wiped his fogged-up glasses.      Because of the law, you say . . . Snow beads fell on Celestial Fist’s furrowed brow again. But bits and pieces of snow couldn’t cover the past decade that cast a deep shadow there, like a canyon drawn in bold strokes.      You went through a lot, Daehyung. Between the other two men, Choi Il-u, a.k.a. Master of the Blue Dragon Sword, spoke. He was a giant of a man, not given to talking much. As if he were trying to steal it, or as if it were entirely natural, he took over Celestial Fist’s bundle. A disinclined gleam in the old man’s eyes stirred his grayed eyebrows for a second, but the hands that handed over the bundle were compliant. The short-statured man standing to the side pressed his palms together in greeting and bowed. He was Seon U-jin, also known as Horse of Sky, Clouds, and Mist. He looked between fifty and sixty. It was hard to tell his age from his face. The same was true for Blue Dragon Sword who could’ve been anywhere between sixty-one to seventy.      How . . . have you all been? Celestial Fist said, glancing around at the party.      Instead of answering, Blue Dragon Sword’s dark eyebrows quivered dimly like a forest swept by rain. Nnneeaoowww, another plane passed overhead. The noise was loud enough to interrupt the huddle’s conversation, but not to break the Weighted Equivalent Continuous Perceived Noise Level limit. Little by little, the flurry of snow was . . .      . . . petering out. As if he’d teleported there, Sky Horse was already seated in a van parked a few steps behind them. Vroom rattlerattle, vroom . . . rattlerattlerattle rattle . . . The small decrepit six-seater van trembled like a horse that’d ruptured a tendon. On its flanks, the words Samu Farms were emblazoned in red.      Take a seat, Daehyung.      As he started to move at Blue Dragon Sword’s suggestion, Celestial Fist addressed the remaining middle-aged seosaeng. You don’t have the mien of a martial artist, so who are you, Young Brother?      He’s Lee Jang-rok, a talented lawyer who’s been following me since last year. Blue Dragon Sword answered for the seosaeng who was bent in a deep bow.      A lawyer, you say . . . Celestial Fist nodded and extended his right hand.      It’s a great honor, said Lee Jang-rok, also known as Pinnacle of Sky and Great Law, as he received Celestial Fist’s hand with two trembling hands. He was holding the hand of a legend.      I want to tell you something, you’ll hear it only after the sad times are gone      Close your eyes and feel, how you touch my heart, how my gaze follows you      The radio had a lot of static. They drove on the highway for a while before passing through a small tollgate and speeding along a quiet expressway. Nobody spoke so Celestial Fist couldn’t tell where they were headed. He didn’t ask. He had no way of knowing what changes had occurred in their warrior bond in the time he was confined. Jo In-deok, or Icy Waters Thousand Hands, was nowhere to be seen. Maybe they were headed to Jo’s house. Then again, maybe there was some bad blood between them. Like the tracks of a fine-and-wide-toothed comb running through a widow’s hair, at times sparse and at times dense, irregular streaks of snow hit the steamy car window with their teeth. Celestial Fist gently closed his eyes. In the past decade, both the land and the world would’ve changed. Swept away, people’s hearts and feelings would’ve changed too. The river of humanity would’ve kept flowing, like a column of ants heading for a pot of honey. Yes, the world once looked like no more than an anthill. He had led a cohort of warriors and had saved or taken lives if it was in line with the moral code of the great cause. He was a legend . . . he was a god. It had been a time when the great cause was alive, but those days were long gone. Celestial Fist opened his eyes, as though waking up from a long, drawn-out dream. Outside the window was an uninterrupted succession of mountains and mountains, rivers and rivers. He had turned exactly two hundred and eighty this year. He had looked on at the nation’s many vicissitudes and witnessed the murim’s5 decline. This indestructible body once exalted by the entire martial world, he was weary of it now.      Don’t wait for a miracle, a rough road lies ahead      With prospects and hurdles unknown, but I won’t change, I can’t give up6      He closed his eyes again. When was the last time he’d battled a master? Must have been more than a hundred years ago. Sa Ma-cheon, a.k.a. Mystic Warrior with Crane Wings, had sought him out after vanquishing the Central Plains of China.7 The duel in Manchuria hazily came to his mind. They were in a wide-open barley field over which the old moon had just risen. He didn’t speak Cantonese but words weren’t needed in a match between masters. Crane Wings’ fists didn’t fly into the wind’s teeth; his own fists didn’t press down into the earth. The crane’s flapping pushed back the old moon a hundred li until the North Sea; the dragon’s ascension made a camellia in Jangheung County shed an old petal. As the sun rose in the eastern sky, Crane Wings scored first. The two men stopped, caught their breath awhile, exchanged nods, and returned to where they’d come from. That was all. Rumors were rife about who’d beat whom, but the two adversaries didn’t comment. Only after much time had passed, a line of poetry recited by an inebriated Crane Wings spread on the tongues of the world and was passed on as hearsay. All night long, not one blade of barley did his fists hurt, but alas mine bent two.      The Joseon Dynasty perished, the Japanese Empire pulled out, the Liberal and Democratic parties stepped in, followed by freedom, constitutional government, separation of powers, and then came war, dealing a deathblow to the pulse of the murim. Hordes of masters lost their lives in bombardments, martial clans were sundered by ideology, snitching, and backbiting, heroes scattered to the North, to Japan, hermits went into hiding in the mountains, and what to say of the rest . . . the Republican Party, the Yusin reforms,8 industrial and economic development . . . At the mouth of the long river of time that had flowed by like water, he suddenly found himself reduced to a man. The immortal body had to have new papers made every time a new age began, and in the New World, he was always an ignorant old geezer. Kim Il-hae, Master of the Celestial Fist, protector of the fortunes of martial artists. He was already a dead man. And so it was for Master of the Blue Dragon Sword, Horse of Sky, Clouds and Mist, and Icy Waters Thousand Hands. They all had attained immortality but they were just like him. The four dragons of the East, who once made the Central Plains and the four heavenly kings of the murim tremble, now faced a sad fate.      The distinguished personage was long gone, and the past half century had been a battle with poverty. All an unlettered old man could do was farm, stay put at home, or perform manual labor. Opponents to duel with or disciples to pass on skills to had disappeared long ago. Law had replaced righteousness and money had replaced power. The world didn’t believe in or need dragons anymore. The world already belonged to small, inconsequential ants that moved in colonies, unseeing and unthinking. And that was the end of the warrior bond of the four dragons of the East who used to have contests to decide who among them was the greatest warrior and at times used to be at severe odds. The more they learned about one another’s circumstances, the more they found themselves wretched. The dragons of the past had turned into fossils, and all that was left in their place were four mud loaches. In a world where the just and great cause had disappeared, the only thing left to do was to get by.      A trivial incident triggered what happened that summer. Celestial Fist was in a new town on the outskirts of Gyeongseong, that is, present-day Seoul. It all began in a bar near his ramshackle lodging. The proprietor had failed to pay protection money for several months on account of the IMF crisis,9 recession, or some similar reason. A group of gangsters had stormed into the bar and was going on a rampage, breaking stuff up. Celestial Fist happened to be passing by and caught sight of the proprietor shedding tears and his woman being harassed. Cease! he said. And soon silence prevailed. The following day, the gang found out where he was staying and launched a surprise attack. To what do I owe this pleasure? was his only response. And then there was a chill in the air. It was the force of his legendary fist. The gangsters were left stunned, just like a mosquito hit by bug spray is clueless about the cause of its death. A few days later, he received an invitation. The boss wants to meet you. Rather than a cordial invitation, it was, in a way, an abduction.      The place they drove him to turned out to be a nightclub in the entertainment district in the middle of town. It was broad daylight and before business hours, so the hall was deserted. And it was dark. Pah! The boss sighed when he caught sight of Celestial Fist as though he found the whole thing preposterous. What the . . . ? Phew, look here, old man. Seems like you dabbled in a bit of sports in the old days, huh? The tone of that “seems like” didn’t strike Celestial Fist as very respectful. The dingy club was crammed with men, as if all the villains of the county had gathered there. Celestial Fist didn’t say anything. Only the darkness rippled for a second, and then faster, higher, and farther than any athlete on Earth, the boss went flying through the air and landed on the stage behind him. An unintelligible moan that could’ve been “lock” or “sock” rang out. The hall was filled with shouts and drawn sushi knives that flopped violently like a rising shoal of halfbeak fish.      Bro, we need reinforcements. Send over some boys, quick! Outside the club, two sedans and five vans screeched to a halt. Hefty men tumbled out and stormed into the club. Bro, we have a war on our hands here, step on it! Nine more vans pulled up. Men with murder in their eyes pulled out tools and rushed into the hall. Bro, Bro-o-o! Ahhhh . . . Oww! Finally, three chartered buses with Seoul number plates arrived. A sea of men bearing katanas, Tasers, tear gas guns, and even shotguns flooded the club. How much time had passed? The whole place fell silent and no one called out Bro! anymore. A swarm of vehicles thronged to the club. Five police cruisers, three police buses, and finally nineteen ambulances.      Good Lord! was the sound that escaped from the mouth of a cop when he saw the scene. Goons lay scattered as far as the fourth cubicle of the five-cubicle women’s restroom, not to speak of the stairs, hallway, stage, hall, and thirty-three private rooms and lounges. Only two mops in the last cubicle and an old man were left standing. The man had his hands clasped behind his back and wouldn’t speak. Do you work here? said the police officer, who’d exclaimed Good Lord! earlier, to the old man who appeared to be a cleaner. Celestial Fist didn’t respond but he felt lighthearted. Like a cleaner who’d cleaned up.      Hell yeah, he’s from a gang too. I told ya, they caught us by surprise. The rest skedaddled. The old timer’s their kingpin. The beacons o’ justice turned up too late, so how’re the powerless supposed to survive? We’re democratic citizens who pay our taxes, y’know?      The old man maintained a stony silence so the police had to base their report on the gang’s testimony.      Is that true?      The old man wouldn’t confirm or deny anything and simply stared out the window. Those days, a few birds would fly past, it would rain at times, and eventually the drowsy sun would go to sleep bringing in another night. Three people died and twelve were crippled, but Celestial Fist felt no particular emotion. The injuries and deaths were the outcome of the tool swinging and pawing in the air. A warrior would never do that. The goons were weak and insignificant opponents, like a swarm of grasshoppers that gets crushed when stepped on. They made for adversaries too embarrassing to be called evil or even punish, let alone kill. In short, it was a world where you could no longer step on and kill grasshoppers that would die if trod on. In a world where the great cause had disappeared, there was law, and of that world, he was already weary. A tremulous, pleading voice echoed in his ears. Fine . . . let’s resolve this le-le-legally. In that darkness, Celestial Fist suddenly felt lonely. There was a time when even villains had their justification. The loneliness of not having a bad guy worth battling, the light’s loneliness when it can’t make shadows anymore—no one could understand.      Do you accept the charge?      He nodded. Intimidated and manipulated, the proprietor couple gave a testimony favorable to the gangsters. Somewhere outside the window, birds issued reed-pipe cries, and the sun and the moon and the stars squandered time in playing tag.      Do you accept the charge?      He nodded again. The gangsters had capable lawyers, and the lawyers had pull with the prosecution. It was a world where everything was resolved by law, according to the law. By nodding, he meekly accepted this world. He clenched his fists, now about as useful as a pine tree offering shade to a grave, and with a clean and pure heart nodded, and nodded again. The world would keep flowing. A world where justice and evil were like a ripple sparkling in the moonlight, like fine rain.      I’ll love you forever just like this, my wandering ends now      Good-bye to this world’s recurring sadness      Why don’t you turn it off? Blue Dragon Sword drawled.      Sky Horse put his hand on the volume dial but waited until the end of—That was “Into the New World” by Girls’ Generation,10 requested by a listener who’s a fan of Yoona and Jessica!—before turning it down.      Those girls, they’re pretty . . . They were popular in prison too, murmured Celestial Fist, his gaze fastened on thin air. Though the prospects didn’t look good, he hoped the New World would turn out well.      Blue Dragon Sword was also gazing outside the window in silence. In the distance, beyond a fleeting pine grove, the sun’s halo spread damply. Maybe there was a factory in the vicinity, because further away, on the highest crest of its highest peak, a blue mountain was wearing a parasol-shaped cloud. Blue Dragon Sword peered down at that stretch of world and gently closed his eyes. His long mane of hair tied in a doturak ribbon swayed to the rattle of the old van. Like a song requested on the radio no one listens to, it had a plaintive, forlorn rhythm. The age of the generation of heroes was long gone. It was the age of Girls’ Generation now.      The four dragons all had their prestige, but Celestial Fist was the only champion Blue Dragon Sword looked up to. Celestial Fist was the only one who could block the baedal—his sword that was charged with his chi and which weighed 108 geun—with his bare hands. They had waged battle for the position of One-Above-All some hundred and twenty years ago. The battle raged from the highest ridge of Mount Geumsan in Namhae County, hopped over a few islands, and continued on to the open sea. Blue Dragon Sword was also the only one to survive Celestial Fist’s “Hit the Ox over a Mountain” move. Even from thirty feet in the air, his baedal sword of 108 geun parted the waves. One moment, it was a bolt of lightning, the next an exploding firecracker. Blue Dragon Sword used moves like “Fly by Riding the Sword” and “Control the Sword with Chi” . . . Three islands disappeared, and a tsunami swept over the islands of Tongyeong and Daemado, but Celestial Fist didn’t flinch even once. Blue Dragon Sword heard his sword wail and it occurred to him that even if he were to rend the planet in two he wouldn’t be able to do anything about the man in front of him. The young moon on the third day of the lunar month, of which it was said only an early-rising daughter-in-law could catch sight of, was about to hide itself. Abruptly, Celestial Fist withdrew from his fajin11 stance and smiled gently.      How about putting away your fine blade, Young Brother?      Only then did Blue Dragon Sword realize—within twenty li of his sword’s reach, two fishing boats had come in and were in the midst of lowering their nets. Daehyung! I guess this shamefully skilled dunce fell into a stupor. On a rocky island of three to four pyeong, Blue Dragon Sword went down on his knees.      When it comes to skill, I can’t exactly brag myself. As for the result of today’s match, how about we consider it buried in the depths of the sea or in thick fog? Celestial Fist said with a wave of his hand.      Overborne by the weight of Celestial Fist’s character, Blue Dragon Sword felt a warmth rising in his heart as he stood by the wayside of the solitary path of martial arts. The sound of the two warriors’ hearty laughter caused the night sea to heave even more.      He missed those days. Fist and sword . . . from the Central Plains of China to Saracen, it came to be widely believed that the world was divided between Celestial Fist and Blue Dragon Sword. Heroes staked everything on their blade and crossed mountains, deserts, and seas to issue challenges. Ibrahim, a sword sage from the western lands of India, Shinjang Weoweol, a descendent of the Loulan people, all had to bend their knees before Blue Dragon Sword. But his luck in battle gave way in the summer of 1945, the year of the wood rooster. It was after he’d severed the heads of three of the five pro-Japanese traitors.12 The Zen hermit Takemaru Hanzō from Koga in Japan came looking for him.      How could this humble servant dare face your sword, Great One? It’s just that this is a question of my country’s honor, so I’ve crossed the sea at the risk of my life. Matters of the martial world are best settled in the martial world. I deliver to you this challenge from Kibagami Jubei, the greatest swordsman of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.13      The challenge was in the form of a short haiku inscribed on a tortoise shell: If I’m alone, I won’t get to hear the Buddhist chants for the departed, will I? One breath, one stroke. Blue Dragon Sword recognized the mark of the legendary sword futsu-no-mitama. He gently pointed his forefinger at the bottom of the tortoise shell that awaited his answer. Whiz! Two things happened simultaneously—Blue Dragon Sword’s forefinger passed over the tortoise shell and the shell landed back at Takemaru’s knees. Go tell your National Sword, I’ll come after I cut my nails.      At his thunderous roar, Takemaru kowtowed. As you command.      A short verse was inscribed on the bottom of the tortoise shell: If I’m alone, I’ll still need to trim my nails, won’t I?      A flock of skylarks hastily flew off on the quiet morning as Blue Dragon Sword landed at the Itsukushima Shrine on Miyajima Island in the outskirts of Hiroshima. Kibagami Jubei was seated in the lotus position. A resolve becoming of the National Sword held sway over the Shinto shrine’s wide courtyard and the surrounding forests. The waters of the lake that carried boats, and the trees and forests, all seemed to have assumed the lotus position. With a long breath, Takemaru read out the oath of the observer. The heavy baedal sword produced a fair and dignified ring. At that sound, the pinewoods in the vicinity trembled and winced. Like a dragon exiting a cave, futsu-no-mitama slowly left its sheath, sprinkling its dazzling dragon scales through the air. The sword above all. That they couldn’t share the same sky, the two swords knew instinctively. It was a sweltering August morning. Even as he felt the sweat brimming in his palms, it seemed to Takemaru that the sky and the sea within a hundred li had frozen. With the tips of their swords trained at each other, the two master swordsmen faced off. Somewhere an immature grasshopper chirred impudently. At that sound, the frozen road within a hundred li appeared to crack.      BOOM!        No one could make out what had happened. It was an ear-splitting explosion and, at the same time, a deafening silence. First, a blaze of light, light as if from an exploding sun, enveloped the world before slowly fading out. A wild wind raged. Caught by surprise, Blue Dragon Sword had flopped down and shielded himself with his sword and was turned into a heap of black-and-white ash. How much time had passed? When he dusted off the ashes and spread out his numb legs, he realized everything had disappeared. The baedal sword made of steel tempered for ten thousand years had crumpled like paper. Kibagami Jubei, who had his back to the blast, was melted all the way down to his bones along with his sword. Takemaru Hanzō, blown ten li away in the moment when everything disappeared, was a black lump of charcoal. His body’s energy field ravaged, Blue Dragon Sword slumped to the ground face-first. He was lifeless but still alive. The life his sword had prolonged was feeble and the prospect of what was left of his life was dreadful. Warm tears stained with ash rolled down his cheeks in streaks of black and white. Someone else was One-Above-All.   (Excerpt from Side B, pp. 85–97.)     1. Pronounced “jeol” in Korean and meaning “garrulous,” the archaic character has the most number of strokes (64) among all Chinese characters and is made up of the character for dragon (龍) repeated four times. The protagonists of this story are four immortal martial arts masters known as the Four Dragons of the East who’ve lived through the turbulent history of Korea and who are now well past their prime. 2. The Chinese character 之 is pronounced ji. 3. An archaic honorific used between friends. 4. A seosaeng is a student of Confucianism. 5. 武林; literally “martial forest.” The community of martial artists or the world of the martial arts. 6. Lyrics of the song “Into the New World” by the K-pop girl group Girls' Generation. 7. Called Zhongyuan in Chinese, this region is known as the cradle of Chinese civilization. 8. In 1969, the National Assembly amended the Constitution to allow President Park Chung-hee to run for a third term. After he was re-elected, Park dissolved the National Assembly, suspended the constitution, and declared martial law in 1972. 9. The Asian financial crisis of 1997. 10. Girls’ Generation is a popular K-pop girl group. “Into the New World” was their first single released in 2007. 11. Chinese martial arts technique used to issue or discharge explosive power. 12. Refers to five officials serving under Emperor Gojong who signed the 1905 Eulsa Treaty making Korea a protectorate of Japan. 13. An imperial concept created and promulgated for occupied Asian nations by the Empire of Japan with the supposed intention of creating a self-sufficient “bloc of Asian nations led by the Japanese and free of Western powers.”       Translated by Agnel Joseph This translation is fully funded by a Daesan Foundation grant.

• Pavane for a Dead Princess Vol.12 Summer 2011

  I called her. No one answered. We sat with sorghum wine and well-cooked food. It was the kind of night where we just sat staring blankly out the window at the dark. About relationships… We probably went on about how it felt. Johann silently listened to me, nodding a few times. I don’t know anymore, Johann mumbled. I mean, I’ve never been in love… I don’t believe in love, and I’ve never even gotten to dragging it out or going more than a few months with a girl… basically, sex is everything to me, I’m that kind of guy. I don’t know why I’m that way, but there it is… but I can kind of guess what type of person must be loved. Want to see? After fishing through a storage-like space Johann took out a light bulb. It was an odd light bulb, huge with a small, sharp needle-like object shooting out from its top. What is this? It’s Edison’s light bulb. Was it in Kyoto or Yokohama? Anyways, I was on a school trip when I bought it at some antique store that was falling apart. I think all people are like this light bulb. The light bulb was stuck in a wooden case that had been made with such care, and a line that looked like it was made out of cloth stuck out of the lower part of the case. Want to see it? He turned off all the living room lights, and as soon as Johan plugged it in, there was a brightness and softness I hadn’t seen since I was born… A warm orange light rose up, round and soft, from the dark. Wow! I exclaimed. In the dark        it gave off light       like the little prince’s asteroid. I said, It’s like the B-612. Maybe, Johann mumbled. Looking like boys who’d suddenly come out from the cosmos, for a long time we were captivated by the asteroid. Was it in elementary school? Anyways, I once lived in Nara for a short while. We moved, and even though we were quiet about it, the news spread like crazy. A rumor spread that Ishida Ayumi had come. If only that had been true, but I do think that Mom looked almost like her at the time. Even after the neighborhood’s women learned it wasn’t true, my mom was really popular with them. A beautiful woman actually has more power over other women than men. I think that was probably the last time I saw my mother’s beautiful face. After that, I never thought of my mother’s face as one of those rare beauties. The light had disappeared from it. My mother had figured out that her man had met another woman, understand? Like a light bulb that’s gone out, one day her light suddenly disappeared. The surface was the same, like glass, but there were more days when she just looked frightening. That’s when I learned, the human soul’s a lot like that filament. Any beautiful woman’s like that… If the light goes out, it’s over. For anyone, the difference between being loved and not is as big as light and dark. Someone who gives off light is always beautiful. The stronger the light, the more the curve of the glass and the shape of the light bulb is bathed with light. Actually, most girls… the ones who’re just so-so…or girls who just don’t have it… No, with both women or men, most people are like light bulbs without any electricity yet. Once they’ve got electricity coming in, anyone can give off that light, a light that’s more beautiful and blinding than any light bulb that’s lost its light. That’s love. All people are like a wire that has a plus or minus charge. Someone meets someone else and brightens the light of each other’s souls. Everyone wants love but the reason they don’t love one another is because each sees the light out in each other. That’s why they ignore the other. When they’re brightened with light, each… And they don’t know that each is brightened because of the other. Female singers or actresses aren’t actually beautiful because of their looks. It’s because countless numbers of people give them love. An incredible amount of electricity comes in, so they give off an endless amount of light. And that’s not just a simple light… Ordinary people and their endless love collect like fireflies on a summer night. Finally the filament often ends up burning out. It’s because they get arrogant. They start to fall under the illusion that the light is their own. It’s just too bad that it’s the way most light changes. Anyways, they’re finally just individuals. Without receiving love in her life, any beautiful woman’s going to be like a bulb with its light out. She’s going to degenerate into a being uglier than an ordinary woman giving off light. Humans are so dumb because they don’t realize that the light actually began with them. They think that if a single bulb explodes with light the entire world brightens. They don’t know that really, a countless number of lights have to light up for the world to become bright. They give away their energy and stay buried in the dark. And from inside the darkness they envy the others… And since they’re surrounded by darkness…they cast all their votes at them. And so these poor people vote in a dictatorship, and people who don’t seem the type allow people inside some screen to receive their love, because of this. Because they don’t trust, or expect, their own light…or one another’s light… Because they don’t try to discover each other. Ultimately, the darkness of the world begins with one another’s darkness. Meaning, because of people like me. People who’ve just removed their own filament… People who don’t give their love to anyone… So that’s why I fail. To me, the world is like a broken electric board with endless dark bulbs stuck to it. I’m different from you… Hey, what am I doing, talking about all this dark stuff to an amigo who’s just fallen in love? No, no, it’s fine, I said. Staring vacantly… Johann who’d been staring at me held up his glass and said quietly,        Well, cheers!       To Anios and Anianeus! You claimed you’d said it without meaning to, but that’s what you said. It’s because she was like that bright light bulb that had just turned on… Those exact words stayed with me even after I left Johann’s house. After walking and walking under the brightly lit street lamps, I called her. She didn’t answer. The darkness of the phone booth, the endless echo of the dial tone, stayed with me. As I was walking back with two magazines…the wait for a bus I had to take as I let it keep drifting past me…the night I took a different bus route… Even now I can’t forget it. A ten o’clock night bus feels like a sleepwalker wandering his same unfamiliar route again and again. Should I go one more stop? After staring out the window I suddenly got off in front of a department store. Heart pounding, I ran toward a row of telephone booths. I made a phone call. No one answered. Even after hanging up and getting my change back… for a long time I couldn’t leave that glass cell. It was because I was worried about her. I didn’t know why, but for some reason    * Translated by Krys Lee. AUTHOR'S PROFILE Park Min-gyu debuted in 2003 with two widely-acclaimed novels: The Sammi Superstar’s Last Fan Club and Legend of Earth’s Heroes. He has authored the short story collections Castella and Double, and the novels Ping Pong and Pavane for a Dead Princess. His books in translation include Pavane for a Dead Princess (Dalkey Archive, 2014), Pavane pour une infante défunte (Decrescenzo éditeurs, 2014), and Ping-Pong (Editions Intervalles, 2016).

REVIEWS

• [SPANISH] A Review from Bed Vol.55 Spring 2022

• The Little Man and His Large Fridge: Castella by Park Min-gyu Vol.45 Autumn 2019

• Humor, Baseball, and Park Min-gyu: The Sammi Superstars' Last Fan Club by Park Min-gyu Vol.39 Spring 2018

• Sonatina for an Apocalypse: Ping Pong by Park Min-gyu Vol.35 Spring 2017

• The Soul of the World: Castella by Park Min-gyu Vol.26 Winter 2014

• Questioning the New Era: Pavane for a Dead Princess by Park Min-gyu Vol.25 Autumn 2014

• Lessons from Life’s Minor League: Sammi Superstars' Last Fan Club by Park Min-gyu Vol.15 Spring 2012

• A Limitless Imagination at Work: Double by Park Min-gyu Vol.11 Spring 2011

• Can You Love an Ugly Girl?: Pavane for a Dead Princess by Park Min-gyu Vol.6 Winter 2009

BOOKS