Breaking Boundaries
This Sunday, Bookshelf spotlights Han Kang, who, on October 10, 2024, became the first South Korean and the first Asian woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. At 53, she is the 18th woman to receive the prestigious award. The Swedish Academy praised Kang for her “intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.” The Nobel Prize grants her worldwide recognition, alongside 11 million Swedish krona (US$1.1 million).
Since the Nobel Prize in Literature was first awarded in 1901, 102 men have received the honour and only 18 women. Male laureates include Trinidad-born VS Naipaul, who won in 2001, and Saint Lucian Derek Walcott in 1992. “Surprised and honoured” by the announcement, Kang hoped the win would bring “joy to readers of Korean literature and fellow writers.” True to her contemplative nature, she planned to celebrate by having tea with her son.
For over three decades, Kang has intricately combined personal and historical narratives, her work closely tied to her Korean identity. Kang’s 2014 novel Human Acts revisits the 1980 Gwangju Uprising, a massacre that haunted Kang’s childhood. The novel blends personal and political grief, tracing how trauma embeds itself across generations. In The White Book, an autobiographical meditation on her sister’s death at birth, Kang examines the silences left by loss, the colour white serving as both a symbol of mourning and transcendence.
Kang studied Korean literature at Yonsei University, publishing her first poems in 1993 and her fiction debut a year later. Her Nobel win places her among South Korea’s most celebrated figures, alongside the 2000 Peace Prize winner, former president Kim Dae-Jung. Kang has said that writing reminds her, “Korean literature is my home, and through it, she reflects on the complexities of being human.” Kang’s international breakthrough came with The Vegetarian (2007), translated into English in 2015.
The novel, which won the 2016 International Booker Prize, tells the unsettling story of a woman who, after violent dreams, renounces meat as an act of autonomy. Beneath its calm surface, The Vegetarian explores isolation, societal control, and rebellion. Described by the Booker Prize as “fraught, disturbing, and beautiful,” it delves into shame, desire, and our struggles to understand others.
The following is an extract from The Vegetarian by Han Kang, translated by Deborah Smith from The Booker Prizes Website.
“Before my wife turned vegetarian, I’d always thought of her as completely unremarkable in every way. To be frank, the first time I met her, I wasn’t even attracted to her. Middling height; bobbed hair neither long nor short; jaundiced, sickly looking skin; somewhat prominent cheekbones; her timid, sallow aspect told me all I needed to know. As she came up to the table where I was waiting, I couldn’t help but notice her shoes—the plainest black shoes imaginable. And that walk of hers—neither fast nor slow, striding nor mincing. However, if there wasn’t any special attraction, nor did any particular drawbacks present themselves, and therefore there was no reason for the two of us not to get married. The passive personality of this woman, in whom I could detect neither freshness nor charm or anything especially refined, suited me down to the ground.
There was no need to affect intellectual leanings in order to win her over or to worry that she might be comparing me to the preening men who pose in fashion catalogues, and she didn’t get worked up if I happened to be late for one of our meetings. The paunch that started appearing in my mid-twenties, my skinny legs and forearms that steadfastly refused to bulk up in spite of my best efforts, the inferiority complex I used to have about the size of my penis— I could rest assured that I wouldn’t have to fret about such things on her account.
I’ve always inclined towards the middle course in life. At school, I chose to boss around those who were two or three years my junior and with whom I could act the ringleader rather than take my chances with those my own age, and later I chose which college to apply to based on my chances of obtaining a scholarship large enough for my needs. Ultimately, I settled for a job where I would be provided with a decent monthly salary in return for diligently carrying out my allotted tasks at a company whose small size meant they would value my unremarkable skills. And so it was only natural that I would marry the most run-of-the-mill woman in the world. As for women who were pretty, intelligent, strikingly sensual, the daughters of rich families—they would only ever have served to disrupt my carefully ordered existence. The passive personality of this woman, in whom I could detect neither freshness nor charm or anything especially refined, suited me down to the ground.
In keeping with my expectations, she made for a completely ordinary wife who went about things without any distasteful frivolousness. Every morning she got up at six a.m. to prepare rice and soup, and usually a bit of fish. From adolescence, she’d contributed to her family’s income through the odd bit of part-time work. She ended up with a job as an assistant instructor at the computer graphics college she’d attended for a year and was subcontracted by a manhwa publisher to work on the words for their speech bubbles, which she could do from home.
She was a woman of few words. It was rare for her to demand anything of me, and however late I was in getting home, she never took it upon herself to kick up a fuss. Even when our days off happened to coincide, it wouldn’t occur to her to suggest we go out somewhere together. While I idled the afternoon away, TV remote in hand, she would shut herself up in her room. More than likely, she would spend the time reading, which was practically her only hobby. For some unfathomable reason, reading was something she was able to really immerse herself in— reading books that looked so dull I couldn’t even bring myself to so much as take a look inside the covers. Only at mealtimes would she open the door and silently emerge to prepare the food.
To be sure, that kind of wife and that kind of lifestyle did mean that I was unlikely to find my days particularly stimulating. On the other hand, if I’d had one of those wives whose phones ring on and off all day long with calls from friends or co-workers, or whose nagging periodically leads to screaming rows with their husbands, I would have been grateful when she finally wore herself out. As for women who were pretty, intelligent, strikingly sensual—the daughters of rich families—they would only ever have served to disrupt my carefully ordered existence.
The only respect in which my wife was at all unusual was that she didn’t like wearing a bra. During the brief, sober period when we’d been dating, I happened to put my hand on her back only to find that I couldn’t feel a bra strap under her sweater, and when I realised what this meant, I became quite aroused. In order to judge whether she might possibly have been trying to tell me something, I spent a minute or two looking at her through new eyes, studying her attitude. The outcome of my studies was that she wasn’t, in fact, trying to send any kind of signal. So if not, was it laziness or just a sheer lack of concern? I couldn’t get my head round it. It wasn’t even as though she had shapely breasts, which might suit the ‘no-bra look’. I would have preferred her to go around wearing one that was thickly padded so that I could save face in front of my acquaintances. Even in the summer, when I managed to persuade her to wear one for a while, she’d have it unhooked barely a minute after leaving the house. The undone hook would be clearly visible under her thin, light-coloured tops, but she wasn’t remotely concerned. When I tried reproaching her, she layered up with a vest instead of a bra in that sultry heat. She tried to justify herself by saying that she couldn’t stand wearing a bra because of the way it squeezed her breasts and that I’d never worn one myself, so I couldn’t understand how constricting it felt. Nevertheless, considering I knew for a fact that there were plenty of other women who, unlike her, didn’t have anything, particularly against bras, I began to have doubts about this hypersensitivity of hers.”
–End of Excerpt of the Vegetarian drawn from the website of The Booker Prizes
The Nobel Prize ceremony will take place on December 10, 2024, in Stockholm, Sweden, where Han Kang will be honoured alongside other laureates from fields such as peace, chemistry, and medicine.
Ira Mathur is a Guardian Media journalist and the winner of the 2023 OCM Bocas Prize for Non-Fiction for her memoir, Love The Dark Days. Website: www.irasroom.org Author inquiries: irasroom@gmail.com.