How to account for the success of The Vegetarian?

In the immediate aftermath of the Man Booker International Prize, a lot of the reporting speculated on what had led the judges to single out The Vegetarian. But though the MBI has created excitement on an unprecedented scale, The Vegetarian’s critical and commercial success has been ongoing since its original publication in 2007. Though never (until now) a bestseller, the book received strong critical acclaim when it first appeared, with its middle section taking home the Yi Sang Literary Award, and was already a cult “steady seller” before any of the MBI announcements started having an effect. In addition, by the time the contract for the English translation was signed the book had already been published in countries as far afield as Argentina and Japan, Poland, and Vietnam. This impressive feat was down to the tireless work and connections of Han Kang’s agents, Joseph Lee and Barbara Zitwer, and the book’s favorable reception in these countries was enabled by the skill and dedication of a range of translators as well as the strength of the original work itself.

Because of course, the most important reason for The Vegetarian’s unprecedented success is that it is an extraordinarily powerful work of literature. First, there is Han Kang’s style, restrained but never indifferent, perfectly calibrated to describe scenes of extreme violence or sexuality without the least hint of sensationalism. Then there is the form she uses, the varying voices and perspectives which combine to create a subtly shaded triptych of tones and atmospheres, while still providing the reader with a suspenseful plot to pull them through the pages. And there is the portrayal of Yeong-hye herself, a character approached through the obliquely intersecting gazes of those around her, onto whom they project their own repressed fears and desires.

And yet, even the most astonishing literary accomplishment is never a guaranteed success. This is all the more so in cases like The Vegetarian’s UK publication—a work of translated fiction, published in a country where translation accounts for no more than four percent of overall publications, written by an author whose work had never been published in English outside South Korea itself. This is not the kind of book that will sell itself; ensuring the best possible chance of success requires intelligent marketing and tireless promotion. In the case of The Vegetarian, this extended from the cover design and marketing copy to a social media campaign and publicity events. One of the most distinctive—and significant—features of these first two was that the author’s nationality, though not effaced, was also not foregrounded. It was simply not an issue.

What might this mean for the future?

Over the past few years, I’ve heard people involved with South Korea’s publishing and translation scene bemoan the lack of a “Korean Murakami.” For me, this has always begged the question of what would constitute successful globalization, as well as what, exactly, is meant by Korean literature. After all, Murakami Haruki is not “Japanese literature” any more than Han Kang is “Korean literature.” Fervent Murakami fans are not, by and large, spurred on by this passion to read more Japanese literature—they want to read more Murakami. When a writer succeeds on the international stage they become, for that audience, an international writer. One of the most beautiful things about literature has always been its ability to reveal the flimsiness of those boxes which we all too often put ourselves or others into—not perhaps to transcend borders, but to show that if there is an unintelligibility between countries, it is no more than that which exists between any two individuals.

In considering whether there is a certain type of book that will be more or less likely to succeed abroad, these ideas of representativeness or cultural essentialism are definitely unhelpful, but what seems to be replacing them in the source markets, and has always been strong in the target markets, is equally problematic. These days, “universality” crops up with alarming frequency in UK-based discussions on translated fiction—when asked what they look for in a foreign book, editors (particularly at the bigger publishing houses) have become so accustomed to providing this stock response that it’s clear they haven’t really thought about what they mean by “universal themes,” or whether their idea of universality has in fact been shaped by their own particular background. From listening to the examples they cite, you could be forgiven for thinking that to qualify as universal, a book must feature a white male protagonist, preferably a university professor or someone of a similarly elite background, having some kind of mid-life crisis.

In addition to the obvious political / representational issues with this view, it also seems to stem from a confusion about the term “universality” itself. Earlier this year, I listened to the Scottish writer A.L. Kennedy give a talk in which she explained that universality is not the opposite of specificity, but in fact proceeds from it, which seemed to me absolutely true. To confuse universality with generality, the absence of the particular—in this context, we might think of the absence of the local—is the kind of thinking that has led the whole notion of “world literature” to be criticized as encouraging homogenization and reinforcing lopsided power structures.

There is no doubt that the outsized success of The Vegetarian has vastly expanded the range of Korean books which publishers might be willing to take a chance on. Though there will always be some kinds of books less likely to cross borders (and every country’s literature needs a balance of books that work best for a domestic audience and those which may in fact be more appreciated abroad), there will be room for a broad spectrum— from those which will introduce aspects of Korea’s rich culture and eventful history to international readers, to those which are not set in Korea and do not feature Korean protagonists. Within a few years, Korean literature (and please, let’s not call it “K-lit”) could become a byword for originality, artistic quality, formal and stylistic diversity.

But none of this is guaranteed, and will not happen automatically. The Vegetarian has opened the door, but so did Murakami, yet his success had absolutely no effect on contemporary Japanese literature as a whole, which is still sorely under-represented in English. Here, the crucial advantage which gives Korean literature the edge is its funding organizations—LTI Korea, the Daesan Foundation, ARKO, and others—long-established, generously endowed, staffed by friendly, dedicated women and men. The role these organizations play is more important now than ever before, if this unprecedented opportunity to introduce Korean literature to the Anglophone world is neither to be missed nor left entirely to market forces, which are concerned neither with the politics of representation nor with presenting the full spectrum of literary talent.

Conclusion

There’s always a danger, in this kind of discussion, of thinking that what is required is some kind of programmatic action plan—ten steps to Korean Literature’s World Domination!, like those books about how to get ahead in business. Publishing is a business, of course, but those of us with a passion for literature don’t publish in order to make money, we only try and keep our heads above water for the sake of being able to publish. A statesanctioned attempt to increase a nation’s “brand value,” or a homogenizing push for inclusion in some global canon, will be entirely at odds with this ethos. Through the books we make available, there are so many other things we can help make happen: readers will fall in love with individual characters, be impressed by the artistic achievement of certain writers, learn about cultural traditions and contemporary lives. Some will be inspired to study a language and become translators themselves.

The continued opening up of Korean literature to the world will be an organic, holistic process, made up largely of people—writers, translators, publishers—doing what they love, aided and supported by funders and other organizations. We’re not selling a product; we’re opening a door. I believe that if we all work together with this common goal in mind, the future of Korean literature will be very bright indeed.