Preface
It is always difficult to write the opening lines of a text, even when the text is as little a matter as this preface; after all, most readers of our journal will probably barely glance at it, more interested to read the translated poetry and fiction that follow. The choice of the works to be included in each issue is the result of a complex and, no doubt, imperfect process, since it is a human process. It would be wonderful if we had a perfect knowledge of modern Korean literature, a perfect sense of the value of each work, and a large number of people able to provide perfect translations in the twinkling of an eye. Unfortunately we do not.
Of course, we might simply omit the Preface. In that case, each reader could supply their own. What might be said? Each work must supply a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph. First the extremely simple, rather sentimental Imagism of Kim Kwang-kyun reminds us how far Korean literature has come in a few decades. He has a place in the history of the development of modern Korean lyric poetry, but it might be felt that little of his work remains appealing. The strange, difficult poetry of Kim Su-yo��ng likewise; his tragic death leaves us wondering, as always, what he would have gone on to write. Perhaps the problematic fusion of social awareness and high intellectualism might have found a solution? By contrast, Cho��ng Jin-gyu's work suffers from no such tension, being marked by extreme concern for style in the expression of inner meditations. The outside world is remote and it is not sure that the essential appeal of his poetry, for which he has received a number of awards, will be apparent to those reading them in translation.
On the other hand, Ho�� Yo��ng-ja has solved the problem posed by external reality by ignoring it totally. Her poetry is so utterly separated from daily human life that one may wonder what meaning it can have; yet such 'pure' poetry surely has its place within the diversity of poetic responses to 'reality' and she has ardent admirers. It might be hard to think of a more startling juxtaposition than that setting Hwang Ji-u beside Ho�� Yo��ng-ja. Yet in both there is no clear answer to the question about the essential nature of poetry. The highly experimental, virtually untranslatable games of his youth have given way more recently to work showing a search for meditative responses, and the poems translated here are among the easier ones, negotiating with the pain arising from life in such a pain-filled society.
It may prove interesting to move from the world of recent poetry to the fiction of Kim Cho��ng-han. We are publishing a translation of his first recognized work, Sahach'o��n, which dates from 1936. The pain expressed here is that of Korea's rural masses under the Japanese occupation. This early work deserves respect for its concern to write of the suffering of the poor, although its hostile attitude to Buddhism may shock. It is strange that its author soon stopped writing fiction, and did not really return to it until he was 60.
We are glad to publish another of the late Han Mu-suk's works, and since it too is set in the time of the Japanese occupation, a comparison may prove interesting. By contrast, the short story by Cho��ng Yo��n-hu��i will surely puzzle some readers, ill at ease with the 'message-filled' moralistic and allegorical turn it takes toward the conclusion. The author's religious intention seems to overwhelm the literary enterprise but there is a long tradition of such story-telling and the near-surrealism of the story's earlier sections is powerful enough to merit inclusion.
Equally message-filled, Cho��ng Ch'an's "The Symphony of Sorrowful Songs" may also leave some readers feeling that they have been metaphysically aggressed. It is characteristic of a certain kind of Korean realism, in that the reader is left in doubt as to where fiction begins. The Polish settings in Warsaw, Katowice, Auschwitz and Krakow exist in reality; the composer whose symphony stands at the symbolic heart of the story (and gives it its title) exists; the events of Kwangju in 1980 certainly happened. The conversations on pain, meaning, and hope express deep thoughts and complex feelings at considerable length, and nothing actually happens.
The story by Yun Dae-ryo��ng is of a very different kind although here too almost nothing happens. As in many of his works, society retreats and the central figures move into an almost uninhabited setting where unspoken fears and memories drive them to experience a few moments of deeply meaningful but deeply ambiguous life. Readers who are not familiar with Korean society and its lack of communication may be puzzled by the narrator's reticences and intuitive way of behaving. We end this issue with a further installment of Hwang Sun-wo��n's Trees on a Slope, which we hope our readers are enjoying.
With that hope, our preface may end. It is indeed the hope of all involved in this enterprise that through Korean Literature Today, people across the world may have access to significant works of Korean literature and find among them works they can indeed deeply enjoy.
Tae-dong Lee
Brother Anthony