Literature has probably never lost hope. Hope is the sort of thing that can never be completely attained or lost; it is always waxing or waning. People are well aware of this fluid nature of hope. Chinese writer Lu Xun, for example, said that hope is like a dirt path—it grows the more people walk along it and disappears when they don’t. And literary critic Terry Eagleton said that authentic hope, unlike optimism which is closer to faith and natural disposition, needs to be underpinned by firm and systematic reasons. Holocaust survivor Ruth Klüger wrote that, because hope is born from angst, it is angst before hope that sustains life. Indeed, there are no shortcuts, no providence to hope, so we have no choice but to walk with others toward the world we desire, seek precise reasons to continue that walk, and in the process accept as a friend and travel companion the angst that appears at every turn.

       Thus, it seems that today I won’t be able to write about books filled with beautiful utopias and inevitably bright futures. Instead, I’m forced to talk about books that confront the landscapes that exist on the other side of angst and ignorance, books that struggle just to hold onto their dignity in the world’s mire, books that stubbornly persevere for a chance at solidarity. If we are to talk about hope without fanciful delusions, we need a mature outlook on life that doesn’t ignore its contradictions, an outlook that can discern between light and darkness, not just on a personal level but on historical and societal levels as well. In that sense, the books I will discuss here all just barely manage to create hope. Although each book’s outlook differs in direction and method, they all share the fact that they discover authentic hope through careful navigation between the various levels that make up our world.

In A Small Neighborhood (Moonji, 2020) by Son Bo Mi, the main character is reunited with her father (whom she hasn’t seen since she was eleven) at her mother’s funeral. Her father is embarrassingly persistent in his requests to meet in private because he has something important to tell her. But the main character has no interest in listening to her father, who never contacted her before and never sent child support. She rejects his offer and ignores his subsequent attempts to get in touch. But then one day, she hears about the disappearance of Yun Yiso, an actress managed by the talent agency where her husband works. She feels deeply affected by Yun Yiso’s disappearance and the public’s indifference to it. Yun Yiso, who was once very famous, suddenly fell from the limelight many years ago, and now not even her disappearance is enough to garner public attention. Of course, like most people, the main character has no reason to care about Yun Yiso, yet she is obsessed by the actress’s disappearance. Then one day, she recalls that her mother’s sole friend was a charming young woman, just like Yun Yiso. This realization causes her to search through the childhood memories of her mother, and through that process, she finally resolves to meet her father and hear his story.

       On the one hand, A Small Neighborhood is a mosaic constructed of small fragments from the main character’s memory, articles from her husband’s scrapbook, and her father’s story. On the other, it’s a thrilling mystery in which the main character must find clues as to why her mother was so overly protective of her and uncover the truth behind the cryptic stories her mother used to tell her as a child. At the end of the novel, the main character must confront the fact that the stories of the small neighborhood that her mother used to tell her, and which construct a major part of her identity, were all fabricated. Only then does she realize the true meaning of the story about the fire that occurred in that neighborhood and the truth about her older brother who perished in it.

       The book never states that the main character succeeds in breaking free from ignorance and false consciousness, or that she opens her eyes to some greater truth. Rather, it focuses on understanding how her mother’s own stories and those from history were woven together into the stories she told her. Of course, the stories that the mother presents to the main character for the sake of her happiness and safety are nothing but fabrications. Even so, the elements of the stories themselves are not necessarily false. It’s hard to deny that the stories achieved their goal in making the main character happy and safe. But such an “unfalse fabrication” is not a completely foreign concept to the reader. Whether on a personal level or on a historical and societal level, we all use narratives to make sense of the world. For instance, Koreans understand their identity as victims of colonial rule—something most Koreans alive today never actually experienced—through minjok narratives. Likewise, through gender narratives, we feel anger and shame over things we never personally experience, and through class narratives, we decide to whom we will express animosity or goodwill. And all narratives inevitably require some amount of fabrication. We cannot understand a world without fabrication, let alone live in it. It is precisely this kind of necessary fabrication that the mother so carefully crafts for the main character.

       If we accept that growth is possible, then it would be contingent not on the process of exposing all the fictitious elements that constitute our lives, but rather on the time after we become aware of its fabricated nature and how we choose to live our lives after that revelation. The book shows how necessary and justifiable the mother’s narrative was, but on the other hand, it also shows that the main character needs time to understand the nature of those fabrications. It is during this period that the character makes an important decision: Will I remain a child who naively avoids the ironies of life, or will I mature into an adult who confronts them? At first, the main character falls into shock after realizing that the stories her mother told her as a child are made up, but later, she acknowledges that her mother’s stories formed her life. While she is aware that a large portion of her identity is based on fabrications, she simultaneously accepts that those made-up stories are still important to her. By accepting this, the main character matures into an adult. The main character is her mother’s heir, but she inherits more than just her mother’s wealth—she also must now bear her mother’s debt. No one appears out of thin air; we all must accept the deception and fictions that come with our predecessor’s legacy in order to live our lives as mature adults. Once the main character accepts this, her next task is deciding what kind of narrative she will craft. It is only at this point that hope appears in the novel.

Whereas A Small Neighborhood focuses on the maturration of a woman who grew up during the military dictatorships of the 1980s, Eternal Heritage (Munhak Dongne, 2021) by Sim Yunkyung focuses on the idea of historical inheritance through Byeoksusanjang Mansion, which was built by Japanese collaborator Yoon Deok-young. The book is set in 1966, and at that time, Byeoksusanjang had been transformed from a jeoksangaok [(lit. house of the enemy) colonial-era homes that belonged to Japanese colonizers and collaborators] into the headquarters for the United Nations Commission for the Unification and Rehabilitation of Korea, or UNCURK. The main character, Haedong, who is fluent in English because he was raised in a missionary’s house after being orphaned, works at UNCURK as an interpreter for an Australian diplomat named Ackernan. One day, Yun Won-seop, the youngest daughter of the incarcerated Yoon Deok-young, cunningly forces her way into UNCURK and her father’s former estate. Ackernan, who is intrigued by and sympathizes with Won-seop, allows her to have free run of her father’s former estate. But Haedong, whose father died in prison for participating in the independence movement during the Japanese colonial period, feels intense humiliation over the way Won-seop struts around as if she still owns the place. At the same time, Haedong is also disappointed by how protective Ackernan is of Won-seop and how he is charmed by the way she acts like fallen nobility.

       Once Won-seop successfully forces her way into her father’s old estate, it is Haedong who is tasked with cleaning up after her. Unable to stand it, he eventually decides to resign. But when Haedong thinks about how rare it is to find a job that pays in US dollars in 1960s’ Korea, he decides to tear up his resignation letter. Then one day, Ackernan tells Haedong that he is entrusting the project of cultural restoration to Won-seop, and that Haedong will be her personal assistant. Unable to stand the shame and contempt he feels towards Won-seop and her good fortune, Haedong writes another letter of resignation. Once again, he finds himself unable to turn it in. Not only is he worried about his financial stability, but he is also confronted by a clear and strong power. A mansion that remains in good condition no matter how much the world has changed; the descendants of Japanese collaborators who stubbornly dream of resurrection; and the new people in power who feel charmed by those descendants—it is these powers that demand Haedong’s surrender.

       Haedong is presented with two choices. Rejection and denial: Things that are tainted must be destroyed. Or indifference and acceptance: There’sn o use in resisting the unchanging principle of power. Thankfully, the book succeeds in escaping this ultimatum. At the end of the book, Haedong looks on at the mansion in resignation and says to himself, It’s beautiful. Now that he’s said these painful words that he denied for so long because he thought them blasphemous, he feels an odd sense of relief and liberation. Only then is he able to turn in his letter of resignation.

       In regard to Haedong’s decision, it can be said that he was only able to accept the mansion’s beauty once he decided to leave it. Conversely, it could also be said that he was only able to leave the mansion once he accepted its beauty. All of us, if we wish to accept our inheritance and create a new history from it, must confront the beauty and deception that are inseparable from that inheritance. Indeed, Haedong sees the true nature of the mansion: an old house that doesn’t even have enough water in its well to put out a small fire. At the same time, he also acknowledges that the mansion possesses undeniable beauty despite everything. In this way, Haedong becomes the heir of the great inheritance that is history. He is unable to decide whether the mansion is a painful remnant of the colonial period that must be destroyed, or a beautiful piece of cultural heritage that must be preserved. The only thing that is certain is that Haedong’s era begins now.

Now that we’ve dealt with books about colonialism and military dictatorship, let’s shift our focus to the current era. Whereas the previous two books depicted the maturation process of individuals dealing with historical and societal issues, Help Me, Sister (Eunhaeng Namu, 2022) by Lee Seo Su unfolds like a piece of origami, focusing on one large family and the individual struggles of each member as they navigate the contradictions of our time. In contrast to the relatively short time span it covers, the book introduces a wide cast of characters with narratives that run parallel with each other. Sukyeong leaves her company because of the sexual harassment she experiences there and begins working as a delivery woman. Yeosuk, Sukyeong’s mother, has worked her entire life at restaurants or as a cleaning lady. And Sukyeong’s father, Yang Cheon-sik, lost the family apartment in a scam and now works as a delivery man for a local online platform. Then there is Sukyeong’s husband, Woojae, who quit his job to become a full-time investor who trades in foreign futures, but in the end, he settles for work as a daeri unjeon driver [designated drivers who come to clients who have been drinking and need someone to drive them home]. In this way, no one in Sukyeong’s family has a secure job. But the dangers extend to the children of the family. For example, Jun-hu, Sukyeong’s nephew, makes money by acquiring customers and brokering loans for a gambling website, while Jun-hu’s girlfriend, Eunji, makes money selling pictures of herself on a platform called TeenChat.

       The keyword that runs through each of their struggles is “online platform labor.” Through a family which must rely on platform labor for work, this book exposes the various societal issues that intersect with gender and generation. In addition, the book also accurately points out that each of these issues is, on a fundamental level, both an issue of labor and of societal structure. Because of this, the book holds no delusions about the app for women that Sukyeong and her mother start working for in the second half of the novel. The titular app, Help Me, Sister, a platform for local female laborers looking for work, calls its workers “sisters.” Only women can use the app, both clients and workers alike; despite this, the app can’t transform platform capitalism into a peaceful and harmonious utopia. More and more, the platform limits the workers’ right to refuse service and workers are harshly evaluated by clients in real time. Moreover, because of her age, Sukyeong’s mother is at a disadvantage as the competition between workers becomes fiercer. The book doesn’t try to sugarcoat the fact that the structure of platform capitalism won’t change just by limiting the pool of laborers to the same neighborhood and gender. But at the same time, Sukyeong’s mom, Yeosuk, who has worked her entire life in the service industry as either a restaurant worker or a cleaning lady, finds satisfaction in this new form of work which she discovers through a mobile app. In this way, we must remember that change isn’t completely meaningless.

       It would be easy to look at this family and call them cyber proletariats or even modern slaves. But our world always includes contradictions, and there will always be people who live where those contradictions overlap and are acutely concentrated. So, when books attempt to go beyond criticism and pessimism in search of hope, the place of greatest interest is this place of overlap. All books are stories about getting through life, and every attempt of ours to make it through life contains both elements of resignation and determination. The family in this book shares stories of work over a mixture of laughter and tired sighs. At this time, there may be only one hope that the book can show us. It shows us that where we give up is where we achieve; that where we are oppressed is where we make our stand; that where there is pessimism, there is hope. People straddle the line between these two extremes all the time. Sometimes they give up, and sometimes they resist. And just like in the book, if we can stand on the line and share stories with laughter and sighs, then the hope of solidarity will never be completely lost.

The way literature gives us hope is not so different from the way it exists in our daily lives. We find hope in our gloomy reality not because hope is a rigid, tangible thing, but rather because we choose hope despite our attachment to certain amounts of angst and worry. But just choosing to portray a paradise does not necessarily mean that hope will bloom on its own. Authentic hope is neither the cause nor the result of a solution—it is completely and solely related to one’s understanding of the problem itself. All the authors whom I remember as hopeful never offered solutions per se. No, their uniqueness was entirely dependent on the profound nature of the problems they pointed out. And their hopefulness was determined completely by how deeply they were able to explore those problems, and how close they came to success or failure.

Translated by Sean Lin Halbert

•   Help Me, Sister (Eunhaeng Namu, 2022)

『헬프 미 시스터』 (은행나무, 2022)