Korean Literature Now

PROFILEKim Bo-Young

Kim Bo-Young is one of South Korea’s most active science fiction writers. She launched her literary career by winning the inaugural Korean Science & Technology Creative Writing Award in 2004 and has gone on to win the annual South Korean SF Novel Award three times. Before turning to writing, Kim worked as a game developer, screenwriter, and graphic designer as part of the now-defunct Garam & Baram Corp. English translations of Kim’s short story “An Evolutionary Myth” and novella How Alike Are We have appeared in Clarkesworld magazine and of the short story “Whale Snows Down” in Future Science Fiction Digest. Her books in English translation include I’m Waiting for You (HarperVoyager, 2021) and On the Origin of Species and Other Stories (Kaya Press, 2021). The latter has been longlisted for the 2021 National Book Awards. She served as a consultant to Parasite director Bong Joon-ho’s sci-fi film, Snowpiercer.

INTERVIEW

Interview with Kim Bo-Young: Why the Stars Shine in Earth’s Sky Vol.53 Autumn 2021

Your short story “How Alike Are We” (2017) can’t be excluded from any discussion regarding Korean literature’s achievements in the 2010s whether one is a fan of science fiction or not. The story keenly observes the changes Korean society is yearning for in the wake of tumultuous events, from the Sewol ferry disaster in 2014 through the so-called “AlphaGo shock” in 2016 to the feminism reboot ongoing from 2015. I imagine the story must have undergone countless revisions and rewrites. I’m very curious what that process was like.The message of a completed story can turn out quite differently from what you intended to write. My original plan had been to invert the “human in a mechanical body” trope in science fiction and write about an “AI in a human body.” But as I wrote, I struggled with the question “Why did this AI want to become human?” Maybe because humans can easily do what machines can’t, I supposed, but failing to pinpoint an answer, I stopped writing and put the story aside for a long time. [For anyone who hasn’t read the story, please skip the bracketed paragraphs below as they contain spoilers. The English translation is available online in full at the Clarkesworld magazine website.—Ed.] [The answer came to me while I was watching The Masked Singer with my older brother. My brother, who has a mild developmental disability, wanted to know whether the masked singer was female or male, while the rest of us watching tried to guess their name or age or profession. It occurred to me then that our ability to instantly tell someone’s gender relies on the countless stereotypes and biases we hold about it. Short means female, deep-voiced means male, and so on. My brother was having trouble perceiving gender because he doesn’t stereotype. I reasoned that an AI would have precisely the same difficulty. This is a logical conclusion. AIs don’t reproduce sexually, so they have no gender, so they have no reason to distinguish between genders. Whereas humans immediately assign a binary gender to even an AI who explicitly says they don’t have one, that they are, so to speak, agender.] Once I found the answer, the story developed quickly. Then a publisher approached me for a solar system-themed anthology, where I decided to include this story that had been brewing for a long time. But right around the story’s due date, Korean Gamergate occurred. [In 2016 a video game voice actress tweeted an image of a T-shirt reading “Girls Do Not Need A Prince.” The tweet prompted a backlash among male gamers and resulted in the voice actress losing her job.—Ed.] There was an outpouring of complaints by gamers insisting “I don’t want to see work by a feminist in my games” and demanding such work be removed. Their definition of a feminist was loose at best. Anyone who said, “That’s no reason to remove someone’s work” was branded a feminist and attacked. The worst hit were game illustrators, many of whom were women and part-time subcontractors unprotected by labor laws, so a number of companies took down their illustrations in an attempt to defuse the uproar. But a series of all-too-successful complaints only fueled the frenzy, which spread to other creative industries and to Korean society at large with repercussions felt to this day. Game narrative design being my main source of income at the time rather than fiction writing, I suddenly had to stop everything I was working on. Amidst that madness, the story I’d been writing felt too superficial. I told my publisher that I just couldn’t publish the story as it was, and pinched for time, I sent the revised story to my editor chapter by chapter, daily serial style. That’s how my bafflement at the hate and madness that can suddenly spread in a restricted environment ended up in the story. On the flip side, Gamergate prompted the Korean publishing industry to take a deep interest in feminism. And it didn’t take long for the industry to realize that most feminist utopian and dystopian fiction was in fact science fiction. Existing Korean SF writers were reexamined, a slew of general fiction readers—the majority of whom were women—consequently crossed over to the genre, and new SF writers also shot up in number. Paradoxically, 2016 was a breakout year for the Korean SF market. ©Ozak “I’m Waiting for You” and “On My Way to You” are two linked epistolary stories about a man and woman whose unsynchronized timelines bar them from reuniting for their interstellar wedding. Compared to “On My Way to You,” which is told from the woman’s point of view, the man’s telling of “I’m Waiting for You” feels a lot more condensed. Why did you choose the letter format?From the outset, “I’m Waiting for You” was written not to be read, but to be heard when the person who had commissioned the story proposed to his girlfriend. The story’s first version was a cassette tape recorded by the groom. My first draft had music cues. Since the story would be narrated to a romantic partner, I chose the letter form for its conversational tone, and since it wouldn’t do for the girlfriend to get bored and leave mid-reading, I omitted and condensed a lot. The man would narrate the whole work himself, so the woman wasn’t featured in the story. Everything in this story was written with a single goal: that she might, as she listened, be moved to accept his proposal. Except—I feel a little apologetic toward the couple for saying this—when I was writing “I’m Waiting for You,” my thoughts kept turning to the parents waiting for their children aboard the Sewol. There was no special reason for the association. It’s just that there was little else I could think about that year. I’m also sorry to say that the person I had in my thoughts while writing “On My Way to You” was my mother, who had passed the previous year. There was little else I could think about that year, too. Sewol parents would miss their children even if the world should end. As I would miss my mother even at the world’s end. Love isn’t so complicated. ©Ozak In both “How Alike Are We” and “On My Way to You,” an AI, a technological being, acts as the arbitrator and problem solver of a catastrophe that has befallen human society. The AIs in both works follow a strictly mathematical and logical algorithm. Yet the conclusion they draw is to stand on the side of good, not evil. I found this interesting. What is artificial intelligence to you?My answer may not be what you expect. Artificial intelligence is the way I understand my family, and how I understand my life with my family. My brother has a mild developmental disability that can be categorized as Asperger’s. When I was young, there was poor awareness of disabilities and it wasn’t easy to find professionals and professional services. My parents had me believe that my brother was normal and I grew up believing so. As with many children with older siblings, my brother was my first friend, my first window into society. But as I grew older, the problem that the world neither understood my closest and most familiar friend nor noticed his existence—yet had so many people like him—became one of my life’s major preoccupations. The logical reasoning of artificial intelligence is not unlike the way someone with Asperger’s thinks. My brother does not judge, whereas a neurotypical person will judge even when they say they do not and thus has no idea what it feels like to never judge. I project such qualities onto my AI characters. So for me, imagining the personality of an AI is easy, comfortable, and fun. The gaze of my machines reflects my brother’s lifelong struggles, as well as my own feelings of disconnect with this world that come from having been socialized through my brother growing up. I don’t think the AIs I portray are ethical. They are simply logical in a way that humans aren’t. This just appears ethical to the human eye at times. Important themes in your work like “the evolution of ethics” must have required careful consideration in storytelling. Does your concern with ethics ever restrain your imagination? Or have your efforts to stay true to principles helped renew your imagination in unexpected ways?Imagination can’t be restrained. It’s boundless. Every night I watch the images cooked up by my imagination until I fall asleep. It just takes time for me to convert those imaginings into a form people can understand, and to research what I need to realize them. That’s why storytelling can realize only tiny snippets of my imagination. Realism still dominates Korean publishing and many readers find even the most common SF tropes strange or difficult. Writing stories that don’t bore me or my SF readers but are still legible to the uninitiated has thus been a key concern throughout my writing career. It’s like having to satisfy two requirements that are impossible to satisfy at once, every time. This restraint is great enough that I haven’t had the chance to worry about any others. A Plagued Sea (2020), a story about the outbreak of “East Sea Disease,” was published in the midst of COVID-19. I wonder how the pandemic has affected your brainstorming and writing process.A Plagued Sea was written as an homage to H.P. Lovecraft’s The Shadow Over Innsmouth. The disease in my story, I decided, should cause changes to one’s physical appearance, so the references I had in mind while brainstorming were the plague and leprosy. But then COVID-19 broke out while I was writing. Obviously, I couldn’t ignore what was happening and it made its way into the story. My stories always contain my present. Even if it weren’t for the coronavirus, the world’s changes would be mirrored in my work. That said, I live in a remote South Korean countryside, in the mountains with hardly any houses around. Most of my work is done online, there hasn’t been a lockdown yet in South Korea, and my region hasn’t imposed very strict pandemic controls, so for the most part, my everyday life remains unchanged. What I feel more acutely from here is climate change. The vegetation is shifting rapidly as is the crop cycle. Both have been triggered by similar causes, and soon we will face many problems that none of our existing methods can solve. The thought that everything can end in an instant does weigh heavier on me now. All the more reason to live this day and moment preciously. “Scripter” is about distinguishing an AI from a human in the game world—a kind of Turing test. Though published back in 2008, the story is still interesting in today’s world where the metaverse is the next big thing. What would you say are the similarities and differences between imagining games and imagining science fiction?I was a game developer before becoming a writer, and until as recently as 2016, I supplemented my income with narrative design consulting gigs. “Scripter” reflects a lot of my experience as a developer. “Science fiction” is a subject-matter-based classification so you cannot really compare it to games. If I were to instead compare “fiction” with games, I would say they are completely different fields requiring completely different talents and skill sets. A game script acts as a docent who guides user behavior. You calculate distances that users will travel and the time and effort it will take them to navigate the story, planting signs at the right places so they don’t get lost. Since the rewards in a game are simpler and more straightforward than those in reality, where you position the rewards determines whether users fight or cooperate. In fact, a game offers the developer a chance to build a utopia according to their philosophy, but the CEO’s or investors’ desire to make money ends up interfering. Finally, a short question on translation. Is there anything you’re concerned about or particularly wish for when your work gets translated into English?My translators are the ones who have their work cut out for them, so who am I to worry! All I can say is that, as more Korean literature crosses borders, the absence of masculine and feminine nouns in Korean will probably be something translators will have to tackle with increasingly. As Korean isn’t inflected for gender, you can delay revealing a character’s gender or not reveal it at all and leave it open. Many internet-based writers also choose not to disclose their gender. Interviewed by Lim TaehunTranslated by Sung Ryu Lim Taehun is a literary critic and assistant professor at Chosun University. His research interests include literature and technology, and SF culture and soundscape art.

FICTION

Stars Shine in Earth’s Sky Vol.53 Autumn 2021

Dear Brother, I received your letter with much joy. Forgive me for not having replied sooner. You don’t need to be so concerned about my health. Though I understand why you are worried, I have no desire to start treatment. What chance of cure it promises is of no consequence to me. It’s not the potential risks or side effects that bother me. My condition is simply a part of me, and I am not at all inclined to tinker with it at this point. Please do not take seriously what our mother and father have been saying. They’ve always talked about me as if l were cursed with a terminal illness. Even my thirty-year survival thus far has not succeeded in persuading them to relax and give up this belief. If anything, each additional birthday of mine seems to have further solidified their conviction that my good luck is drawing to an end and that this might be the year that I meet my doom. Photograph by An Woong Chul It’s true that people afflicted as I am often don’t live very long. It’s also true that I fatigue more easily than others, that my nerves are quick to fray, often diminishing my mental acuity. And yet as long as I stick to my routine of going unconscious from time to time, none of these issues bother me. The only tricky part for me is syncing my daily rhythm to those around me. Following my move to this island, I’ve built myself a box very much like the one I used in the dormitory. It’s made of wood and stands two meters high and nearly ten meters wide, and boasts a viewing slot and a breathing hole. When the proper hour comes, I climb in and latch the door from the inside. This box keeps me safe while I am unconscious and prevents me from being disturbed by others. Fortunately, people here seem to regard my ritual as just another eccentricity of someone who has studied too much. They probably think I’m meditating inside. I’d be curious to see the looks on their faces if they were ever to learn that, once inside the box, I plummet into a state of total oblivion for a minimum of five to six hours. I don’t bother to inform them of my condition, however, as some might believe it to be contagious. Of course, it is not. One in every thousand babies is said to be born with it. If you include children who have only mild symptoms and those who’ve suffered without knowing what afflicts them, the number would be much higher. Each time I lose consciousness, our parents worry that I’ll never come to again. They used to prod me into alertness, but I’d soon faint again, and they would have to shake me until I recovered. We’d repeat this performance over and over again. Their fear was much stronger when I was younger, but trying to prevent me from one of these spells only seemed to contribute to their frequency. Before you were born, I was a frail, sickly child who could barely sit or stand properly. My brain always felt shrouded by a thick fog, making it impossible to think clearly. I had frequent hallucinations, and my nerves were so frayed that I couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and what was imagined. My “controlled fainting” ritual was inspired by a housekeeper who briefly stayed with us. Though uneducated, she was very wise. Having suffered from asthma since childhood, she knew the trick to living with an illness. She advised me to stop fighting it. She said that having an illness is like having a friend with a bad temper. Then she offered to help me find a way to get along with mine. Had it not been for her, I would’ve died young, like so many others with my condition. Even if l had somehow managed to stumble along in the manner I did before she taught me otherwise, it’s unlikely that I would have been able to maintain a sound body and mind. What she did was simply allow me go unconscious. During the six or eight hours that I was in that state, she did not try to rouse me. When our parents found out about this, they were so furious and distraught that they almost reported her for child abuse. But in the weeks that followed, my health and appetite improved. I grew strong enough to play outside on my own, and I even learned how to control the times when such spells would take place. That was when I finally realized that nothing was wrong with me. Our parents still find it difficult to accept that I faint regularly, almost as if on schedule. They feel shame each time I go into my box. They try to insist that I not give up, that I can get better. That’s why I left home and found a place of my own. I only hope that you will know that my love for them and for you has never diminished. I have recommended my method to others with my condition, but it’s never easy to get the parents on board. Most are shocked by the idea of letting their children stay unconscious. And yet those who do subscribe to my method have written to tell me all about the improved health of their children. I suspect that parents who claim to see no improvement are unable to trust the method wholeheartedly and tend to prematurely rouse their children from unconsciousness. Few are those who can stand on the sidelines and simply watch their kids lie seemingly lifeless for hours. Some of the books I’ve consulted suggest that those with my condition have lower IQs. That’s nonsense. Shouldn’t a person who has lived with this condition her whole life know more about it than so-called experts who have only studied it for a few years? Symptoms are only a problem for those afflicted who resist the condition. That is to say, people with my condition need to lose consciousness, and yet treatment is always focused on preventing that from happening. One book even asserts that people like me exhibit symptoms of schizophrenia, I assume because of the often bizarre hallucinations we experience during our spells. I do not yet have an explanation for these occasional hallucinations, but unlike with schizophrenia, they never appear while I am not unconscious, and moreover, they have never caused harm to me or anyone else. All this is probably new to you, as I’ve never talked to you about it before. Our parents didn’t want me to. Their preference has always been that I show only the side of me that is normal and more or less in step with others. All these years, they took pains to keep you from seeing me unconscious. They thought that this would be better for you. And in a way, they may have been right. In the end, however, I insist upon my right to be the master of my own circumstances rather than be mastered by them. Perhaps you take it for granted that you live in a world populated by people who are like you. But that very same world appears completely different to people like me. For us, there are no teachers and no students, no colleagues, nowhere to call our own. We must spend our lives teaching ourselves, studying alone, and working to craft a system and an environment to accommodate our needs—all the while fending off those who never tire of saying, “You can beat this.” It is a demanding task. You have no idea how many innocent children have run them selves ragged both in body and mind while fighting a losing battle against this condition. From where I stand, “beating” what we have looks a lot like turning ourselves into someone we’re not. Not that this matters to those who aren’t like us, since it doesn’t mean losing one of their own. But for me, it would mean abandoning myself. Throwing away everything that is truly me. [. . .] Stars shine in Earth’s sky. What I think the Earthlings meant to point out in that sentence was not so much the stars as the darkness. I also believe that the message was a reply. As in, there had already been communication between us a long, long time ago, and Earthlings knew that our sky was always bright. Can you think of a more sensible response addressed to a planet with an eternally luminous sky? I’m sitting outside my wooden box and looking up at the sky as I write to you. It shines as brilliantly as ever. There isn’t a single gap in the light, every inch is gilded and studded with jewels. No question it’s beautiful to behold. But I imagine that Earth’s sky possesses a beauty different from ours. A lone star hangs in their sky by day. It is so close and so colossal that it swallows the light of all the other stars. The light shining down on the planet would change with each hour. Depending on the height of that star, the temperature and landscape would vary, too. Earthlings wouldn’t dare call that star “Star.” They would give it the greatest name known to them. Their satellite wouldn’t be hidden in the light like ours is. They wouldn’t have to determine its whereabouts in the sky by calculating tidal forces, orbital shifts, or axial precession. When darkness comes, their satellite would hang alone in the sky. They would only have to look up to see it. They would know the shadows on its surface as well as they know the backs of their own hands. Both satellite and star would be named for deities. They would pray to the satellite, they would sing and dance in its soft light. And when the time came for them to turn their gaze to outer space, the satellite would be their first stop. After setting foot on that tiny, airless, lifeless, empty rock, they would gather its precious dust in their cupped, spellbound hands. And they would see stars. They’d count them one by one, pointing at each with an out-stretched finger. They’d know each star’s color, size, and brightness. Everyday people, not just astronomers, would be compelled to name the stars. They’d remember the stars’ positions and connect them to draw pictures. They’d gaze up at those pictures and give them all stories. On Earth, each star would be named after a god. There’d be as many gods as there are stars. Every time my unconscious spell approaches, I think of Earth. A world that alternates regularly between light and dark. A world where warmth and cold, activity and rest, change places every day. Perhaps you’ve already guessed it. If there’s only one star that lights the Earth, and if Earth rotates once daily, then darkness comes every clay. Much like the entrance to the cave that I discovered. The star’s light varies in intensity with each hour. It’s a place where light and dark coexist. It’s my belief that most creatures on that planet have the same condition I do. Some of them may be active while it’s light out, and others may be active after dark. Having adapted to one of the two phases, however, they’d pause all their activities for the duration of the other phase. I sometimes wonder whether our ancestors could have hailed from a place such as Earth. If, indeed, there was communication between the two planets in the ancient past, it is not outside the realm of possibility that some of our ancestors might have migrated here from the outskirts of the galaxy. And if they lived in periodic darkness, then they might also have had a condition like mine and like the creatures in this cave. By this logic, I could have inherited my condition, a natural adaptation to the environment from which they originally came, from them. How wonderfully bizarre . . . Imagine! When darkness falls, Earthlings casually retreat to their private quarters to enjoy a period of unconsciousness. No one ridicules this habit. No one grips a person by the shoulder and tells them, “You can beat this.” No parents weep as they tried to shake their child back to consciousness. No child has to live in shame because of a condition they can’t overcome. No one even thinks of any of this as an affliction that needs to be cured. When the dark phase begins, and stars appear in the sky, Earthlings tell each other, “Go unconscious well.” And when the sky turns light again, they ask each other if they’d gone unconscious well. They rest happily without being disturbed, as if what they were doing was perfectly natural. “Rest” is a term I’ve begun using; I felt it was time we found a more positive way to express this state. My brother. I know that you care deeply about me. I’m a native of this planet, so it’s not as if I don’t yearn to be like everyone else. But at the same time, I simply do not see my condition as being a problem. It’s getting late. I, too, must rest like an Earthling. If, one day, you find yourself ready to accept my ideas, I hope that you will greet me by saying, “Rest well.” With love, Your Sister Translated by Sora Kim-Russell & Joungmin Lee Comfort Copyright © 2021 by Kim Bo-Young Translation copyright © 2021 by Sora Kim-Russell & Joungmin Lee Comfort Published with permission from Kaya Press

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