The publication of Kim Hyesoon’s Dødens selvbiografi (Autobiography of Death) in 2021 marked the first ever direct translation from Korean into Danish of a contemporary Korean poet. Translated in a collaboration among three individuals, this publication ventures along new paths within the art of translation while beautifully reflecting the polyphonic nature of the source text.

         Autobiography of Death is a wildly experimental and linguistically dense work that moves beyond conventional literary boundaries, in both South Korean and Danish contexts. Because literary convention is created by men, Kim calls herself a poet without a mother tongue, and instead of working within the predefined structures that lead to colonization, violence, mutilation, and death—as well as the culture of silence that surrounds this very violence— Kim creates a different space in which the grotesque, banal, material, cruel, and humorous aspects of death all coexist. In this work, death is a process, not a state.

         Autobiography of Death is a suite of forty-nine poems, representing the days before a spirit’s reincarnation according to Buddhist tradition. Originally published in 2016, Autobiography of Death was written in response to the 2014 Sewol ferry disaster in which 304 people lost their lives. In the introduction, we learn that the tragedy was largely the consequence of a deregulated industry in a society characterized by patriarchal violence and a pervasive culture of silence. This information provides a useful entryway, given that the average Danish reader will be familiar with neither the history or literature of South Korea in general, nor the specific circumstances inspiring the work.

          However, the historical framework fades into the background when reading these excellently translated poems, not least because of their ferocity and sensory immediacy. The poems give voice to the dead and address the reader in the second person, a relatively rare literary device in Danish, and its usage creates an intimate space where the deceased is spoken to by an inconspicuous, lyrical “I.” “You” are known to someone who acknowledges that “you” are there, were there, and the poet sees “you,” even in death.

         It is particularly striking that the deceased is not a singular unit, but a multitude of fragments that can exist in several places at once, dissolving and dispersing in the transition from life to death, as suggested by the Buddhist framework of the forty-nine days. Almost theatrical in nature, the poems possess an intricate materiality that is both repulsive and compelling, and a non-hierarchical relationship is established between “you” and the world. “You” can be found in multiple places at once, physically slipping into the material world in unexpected ways. An example is found in “Day 4,” where water “leans on you even more” when “you” try to lean on it. Death has a strong material presence (“you” are wearing a “gravel skirt,” eyes are “two sips of sea jelly, it’s very salty” in “Day 13” and “Day 14”), but the gruesome images do not constitute a relishing in zombie-like horror for its own sake. Instead, they demonstrate a willingness to look death in the eye and make room for the dark, the horrifying, and the sorrowful, and in so doing, grant the dead the space that the culture of silence denies them.

         The poem’s speaker takes on the role of shaman; one who dwells in the intermediate space between worlds and allows the dead to speak. Grave, tragic experiences are conveyed with humor and intensity, leaving the reader with a wry smile but ill at ease.

         In her afterword, translator Maja Lee Langvad notes that she found herself in a similar role when translating the poems. Professor Karin Jakobsen first provided a rough translation into Danish, and Langvad then conferred with artist Jeuno JE Kim, who speaks fluent Korean, to assemble and rewrite the poems in Danish. The translation process involved listening to her readings of the source text to reproduce its strong sense of orality. This approach aligns well with the work’s recitative quality that emphasizes rhythm and tone, repeating sentences with minimal alteration. The reader is whirled into a kind of trance, losing grip on linear progression, with only rhythm and alliteration to hold onto.

         Some of the challenges the translator describes—the compactness of the Korean and the necessity to insert personal pronouns where Korean has none—are valuable additions, offering an expanded perspective on the difficulties of translation. However, the work stands firmly on its own in all its unruliness, its peculiarity, and its desire to give voice to the dead.

 

Translated by Jennifer Russell

 

 

Juliane Wammen

Literary Translator, Editor