LTI Korea 
DLKL 
SIWF 
So Far Yet So Close: Korea and Back Again scrap
by Nils C. Ahl
November 21, 2014
Distance is deception—truth is hidden and revealed in its illusion. Before I visited Korea for the first time in June 2013, all I knew about the country was a bit of politics, a couple of pop songs, and some films by Park Chan-wook. I also remember my former roommate explaining that manhwa is different from manga. That was it. Almost nothing.
The problem is that in France I am considered something of a Korean literature expert. Like the innocent imposter that I am, allow me to carefully denounce and excuse myself. All I did was admire Hwang Sok-yong’s novels and then express that admiration. I wrote several articles in the literary column of Le Monde. I devoured other Korean novels including those of Kim Young Ha and Shin Kyung-sook, to whom I gave an award in 2009. But nothing more. In the end, I am a usurper—but to what extent? Were my critiques unjust because I didn’t understand everything? Or was it because of the distance that I was able to write something that the French audience deems worth reading? Was I an ignoramus, a charlatan, or the Persian of Montesquieu? The nature of my naïve deception became apparent to me at the airport in France after returning from my 10-day trip in Korea. The distance came into view like Henry James’s “figure in the Persian carpet.”
I met many writers in Korea. I spent most of the ten days talking with them, their translators, interpreters, and publishers, not to mention many other Koreans with whom I didn’t have any connection whatsoever. I also met foreigners living in Seoul. For several days I was immersed in the language and history and anecdotes of Korea. But I couldn’t become Korean. I was still an old European. A Dane living in Paris, smitten with love for the cities of central Europe. A patron of Berlin nights and southern Italy. Nonetheless, I found something in common with Korean literature—or perhaps with the Korean people: an ability to reconcile opposites, a taste for mixture and curiosity. Koreans have an attachment to history, and a strong, complex identity. For a European, the history of Korean literature, which is Asian in nature, is irreducibly distant, and yet it is irresistibly close to the same gluttonous modernity found in Western societies. For many Korean writers I met, Kafka, Flaubert, Dickens, or Faulkner are as crucial as they are for the readers and writers in Europe.
Despite the reputation of Hwang Sok-yong and Kim Young Ha, Korean literature is unjustly neglected in France and Europe. This is not due to the translators, although in some languages there are not enough of them. Nor is it the fault of the publishers. Public interest in Korea does exist, as evident in the success of some Korean musicians and filmmakers. On the way back to Paris, I realized that perhaps the reason is at least partially somewhere else. It’s because I myself didn’t find Henry James’s figure in the carpet. A guide across borders, a secret agent of literature, a traveler and an ignoramus—a mediator of foreign literature. China and Japan have long enjoyed the enthusiasm of these mediators in Europe. There certainly are publishers, students, and journalists who are enthusiastic about Korea in Europe, especially in France. However, the number is quite small. Literature requires more time than music or film. Today, few of these mediators of words visit Korea. They don’t have time. Nonetheless, they are the ones who must remove the deception of distance and cover over any bee stings they acquired during their beautiful journey. Still, there aren’t many strangers and devotees who face this from a distance. As Henry James said, the figure in the carpet is “describable only for…lovers.” 
Writer 필자 소개
Nils C. Ahl
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