I’ve been wondering how you are. I’ve been think­ing about you a lot, especially this past winter and spring, whether I was at Gwanghwamun Square or watching the news. I think it’s important to express different perspectives on how we in Korean society have spent the days between December 3, 2024, and now, with former president Yoon Suk Yeol’s declaration of martial law, his impeachment, and the early election this year. How have you been?

I’ve thought of you often, too. It seems we thought about each other a lot these past few months. I won­dered how you were coping with the unrest, and if you were doing okay. I asked myself what we’d talk about if we met, where we’d meet, what we’d see and hear, and what kind of experience it would be for each of us.

I’ve been wanting to take a long trip around Namhae, but I couldn’t leave the Seoul area for the past half a year. My eyes were focused on the Constitutional Court in Gwanghwamun, and the National Assembly in Yeouido. I attended impeachment rallies on week­ends and also went out into the streets when some­thing important came up; at home, I listened to the news all day. I finished writing a short story this winter. And up until recently, I was putting together the manu­script for my second non-fiction collection.

An excerpt from your diary published this spring talks about how the so-called Jeon Bong-jun Protest Group, consisting of farmers from all over the nation, was stopped by the police at Namtaeryeong Pass, the gateway to Seoul, while heading to the presidential residence in their tractors; and how their supporters stayed with them through the night so that they could march on to their destination. You wrote: “I reflected on my getting old. My automatic belief that they wouldn’t succeed; the way I gave up based on what I saw and heard. I was ashamed, but today, I gladly accepted my shame.” I’d like to talk about that shame.

It was Saturday, December 21. Chairman Ha Won-oh of the Korean Peasants League, who’d been stopped in Namtaeryeong on the day of the protest, came to Gwanghwamun afterward and spoke at an emergency protest rally. I was there when he said, “The Jeon Bong-jun Protest Group is at Namtaeryeong, but the police are blocking their path. I’m going to bring them to Gwanghwamun.” But all I did was listen. I marched on to Myeongdong, then went back home to Paju. It didn’t occur to me that I could go meet the farmers. Watching the Namtaeryeong vigil on TV later on, I was amazed and thankful, but I couldn’t stop asking myself questions. Why did I act that way? Why didn’t I go there? 

It occurred to me that maybe I believed automati­cally that, the same as always, they wouldn’t “succeed,” because the police force is a strong public power, while I’m just a little individual, and because the protest group had always been stopped from entering Seoul in the same way; that it wasn’t a belief or a thought of mine, but just a habit.

I often say I want to have, or do have, the faith that things can change for the better, as they should—a faith in new possibilities. But sitting in the square on December 21, I didn’t have that faith in me. I didn’t believe in anything, nothing stirred my heart, and I’d given up on something.

I didn’t know what I’d given up on, but when I saw the people who’d gone there on that cold night and perse­vered until the morning, I realized that I’d taken the liberty of giving up on them. Believing, without even realizing, that just like always, they wouldn’t succeed. That’s what shamed me—that I was fine, when I’d rashly given up on people who could’ve gotten hurt. Reacting out of habit like that, and having a heart that isn’t easily moved, is what I call getting old. That’s the term I use, but I want to express it some other way, because I don’t want to use the phrase “getting old” in a negative way anymore.

I’m sorry I began the interview with such a heavy topic about Korean society. My questions were based on what you said in an interview for Sisa IN, in 2021: “When you say something’s too political, you’re saying you don’t want to know what the issue is about. I think that’s a very political attitude—it means you don’t need to think about it.” You began your career with the short story “Mother” in 2005, so it’s been exactly twenty years. I’m sure many things have changed for you, but what would you say remains unchanged?

It’s hard to think of anything that hasn’t changed. Maybe it’s hard for me to separate it from my life because it’s become a part of my life. But I would say my fear of deadlines hasn’t changed. I still rewrite sentences over and over again, choosing each word carefully. And I still love to read.

Your earlier short stories depict the inner world of suffering characters with a touch of fantasy. Then, starting with One Hundred Shadows, your first full-length novel, you began to incorporate society’s structural problems into your work, with “a desire to see the outside world” as you stated in an interview with Channel Yes magazine in 2012. How has the focus of your fiction changed?

I’m having trouble moving on from the last question, about things that haven’t changed. The more I think about it, the less things seem to have changed. When I write, I’m always somewhere in between want­ing to say something and not wanting to say it. The two desires, for me, hold the same kind of power; the repulsion generated by the two forces is where I do my writing, making endless attempts and giving up time and time again. It’s been that way from the beginning.

 I’ve always lived in isolation, since I was little, so sending a novel out into the world and hearing back from the world was a major event for me. I felt that I’d come face to face with “the outside world” as I looked in the directions the answers came from, and experienced different things—especially when I encountered the faces of people crying. I used to distinguish between inner and outer worlds this way, but I no longer feel like that.

The world is made up of everything, including myself. That’s how I’ve come to feel through reading and writing. If reading is a way to connect the world to me, writing is a way to connect myself to the world. Doing these two things repeatedly over the years, I’ve come to have a certain feeling—that the world and I are connected, and that through my life, I’m involved in the things that are happening in the world. I know now that it’s always been that way, from the beginning.

Your current state, in which you’ve confirmed that you’re connected to the world, seems quite important to your personal life as well. How is your life as an author different from your life before?

A life of reading and writing wasn’t something that came naturally to me. I stopped reading books after a collection of world literature I read as a child, so until I was in my mid-twenties, books weren’t a big part of my life. Then I spent the next half of my life reading and writing, which changed a lot of things for me. I came to see life in a completely different way. The most important change was that I began to wonder whether it’s possible for a person to be cynical. When I was younger, I gave up on things easily, harboring cynicism. I can’t do that anymore. As I met people through read­ing and writing, and as I contemplated life in the same way, I could no longer see the world with cynical eyes.

Your works depict people in a range of specific occupations—bookstore staff, salespeople, logistics workers, merchants, repairmen, and so on. Can you comment on the care and attention you put into depicting scenes of labor?

If my novels depict scenes of labor, that’s probably an inevitable result of my effort to depict life. I have a hard time writing a piece of fiction without first deciding what my characters do for a living, whether or not that’s mentioned. It’s been that way for some time. I think it’s because when I encounter someone’s life, I also encounter the work they do. Now it’s become something I always have to consider. 

I tend to pay close attention to the labor people perform in everyday life. I like to think about people’s relationships with their work, how people around them view their work, how their work comes into contact with my life, how they affect me through their work, how my own attitude toward their work affects their work, things like that. It’s fun to think about, and important.

In the section “Things to Come” from your novel Years and Years, the character Han Sejin attends a book festival in New York. You yourself participated in the 2018 PEN World Voices Festival in New York at the invitation of LTI Korea. It occurred to me that perhaps your novels are being written even when you’re not in the act of writing. Are there any scenes in particular you feel an urge to set down on paper?

“Being written even when you’re not in the act of writing.”That is so true. I think it’s probably the same for all writers. In an author’s mind or heart, everything that happens, every emotion and every moment, is ordinary yet extraordinary. But it’s not until I’m actually writing that I know which of all those things I’ll be writing about. That’s how it is with me, at least. A lot of the time, I have no idea even as I write. Sometimes I write because I keep picturing the same scene over and over, and I want to find out why. But I’d say that what I mostly tend to set down on paper is pain or isolation.

As soon as you said “pain or isolation,” I recalled how you mention in your 2021 Diary that one sentence you regret saying so deeply that you don’t think you’ll be able to forget it for the rest of your life was, “How are you?” “How are you?”

“How are you?”

That was something I’d been asking Korean society, as well as myself, after the Sewol ferry tragedy. That’s all that was on my mind as I wrote those words, but I ended up reading them out loud in front of the victims’ families. It wasn’t that long after the tragedy occurred. The families were listening to my words, at a time when they could neither bear to ask one another how they were, nor be asked. I was deeply embarrassed, and I regretted saying it. It made me reflect on the direction writing takes, and the responsibility of writing. That was the day I resolved not to forget that wherever my writing ends up, there’s always someone there.

I consider myself extremely lucky that we speak the same language, that I can catch the rhythm of your sentences and the subtle nuances of the dialogue. On the other hand, whenever I have this thought, I end up thinking about the possibilities of translation. What are your thoughts on translation?

As an author, I see a translator as a fellow worker who carries the writing to a point I’ll never arrive at. I attended a translators’ workshop once, at the invitation of LTI Korea. I watched the translators in the process of translating one of my short stories. The way they translated, choosing the words for each sentence with care, writing one sentence at a time, was no different from the way I write a novel.

As a reader, I have immense gratitude for translators. I’m not proficient in any foreign language, so I read translated works instead of the originals. Seventy percent of the books I read are translated. For instance, I’ve been able to read a number of books on trees thanks to the translator No Seungyeong, and recently, I was able to read Barry Lopez’s Horizon thanks to the translator Jeong Ji-in. Kim Myeongnam has made it possible for me to read a lot of fascinat­ing books on science, and Kim Eunjeong, the novels of Fleur Jaeggy. Books like these nourish my mind, expand my understanding of the world, and broaden my thinking. I’m extremely grateful, both as an author and as a citizen. If books are a crucial foundation of culture, perhaps the work done by translators lies at its deepest core. So I thought translators must get paid more than authors—I learned only recently that they don’t. I wish translators would receive fair treat­ment and adequate compensation for their work.

While reading your short story “A Day, Without Trouble,” I was especially drawn to how a heavy rainfall in Vietnam impacts Yeongin, who is in Korea, and the feeling that one becomes implicated in violence no matter how one tries not to (“It’s not something I did, but I can’t say it didn’t pass through my hands either.”). Is this sense of nection an anchor to you, or a sail?

It’s both.

There have been a few times when I sat across someone who was trying to speak while their face was distorted with pain. It made me think of solidarity; then I realized that even before solidarity, my life was already connected to theirs, that my life was already involved in theirs. I came to see that some­one’s circumstances, which were so far removed from me that they seemed irrelevant, could in reality be absolutely relevant. 

No matter how I try to buy and use and discard less on this planet, I’m always buying and using and discarding all sorts of things. And those things reap­pear in front of me, stained with blood from traveling around the world. I can’t be the only one to break free from this flow. Whether I buy them or not, products whose prices have been reduced by cutting labor costs eventually come into my life in the form of the climate crisis.

I don’t eat baked goods sold by big businesses. Baked goods are soft and fluffy and sweet, but people die even while making them. Once, my younger sisters and I were talking about a franchise bakery, and I told them I never go there. One of my sisters got upset and told me not to be like that. She’d been buying their sponge cakes since her kids were little, and when the boycott of their products was in full swing, she’d often seen the owner of the bakery sit­ting in a daze. When you learn something like that, your mind gets tangled with all kinds of thoughts. In those moments, choosing to boycott doesn’t seem right. You can’t stand in front of the bakery owner who’s lost their customers and tell them, “This is right.”I’m not the CEO of the company that distributes the baked goods, and I’m not the person who makes or eats them; nevertheless, something sticky and heavy clings to my palms. 

The sense of being implicated makes me feel like I can’t do anything, but at the same time, it makes me want to take interest in different things and take another look at them. And everything I think, feel, and take in during the whole process affects my reading and writing.

In “Author’s Note, Rewritten” for the revised Korean edition of One Hundred Shadows, you mention that you were thinking of “the night before” as you wrote the novel, and that for some time afterward, you wanted to title all your novels The Night Before. Can you tell me why?

One Hundred Shadows was inspired by the tragic incident that took place in Yongsan, Seoul, in 2009. I wrote it wanting to witness the moment just before the incident occurred, wanting to return to a time before it happened. Because there’s always a range of possibilities just before something happens. That’s why I wanted to title all my works “The Night Before.”

Do you still think about that title, “The Night Before”?

I don’t think about it often as a title, but I do think about it a lot in everyday life. It’s been hot lately. July has only just begun, but the outdoor temperature today is 39 degrees Celsius. Today, for me, is also the night before.

In “A Day, Without Trouble,” Inbeom says: “Eonni, if the world ever goes to hell and we can’t turn it back, I don’t think it’ll be because people are bad or full of malice. It’ll be because we’re stupid. That numb in­difference. The kind where you see something and feel nothing. That kind of thing.” I thought this was the point your fiction has consistently exposed.

I think a lot of people already sense that the humanled world is nearing its end. That seems to be a shared understanding of the world. We feel it each time summer comes around, for instance. Whenever the topic of the climate crisis comes up, my nephew gets really glum and says, “So I’m just going to die without accomplishing anything in the future?” There’s obvious despair and gloom over the future in this child. I can feel it. And I don’t put the blame on the people who’ve lived on Earth so far, or the people living here now. The same with the wars of aggression and massacres taking place on Earth today.

The human world can’t be completely destroyed through things done by a few people with malice or hostility. Rather, it’s destroyed through the choices of a lot of people who are indifferent to those things, people who can just let those things pass by. I see the former as nature, and the latter as evil.

There was a time for me, too, when I couldn’t speak out against evil, and for the most part I’ll probably be the same way in the future, but there comes a point when you have to speak up and say clearly, “That’s evil.” When blood is everywhere—in the environment, in work, in nature; when people die of starvation or from explosions in a military-occupied territory; when the majority of people don’t pay attention to such things or dismiss them because they’re too painful and complicated; when there are a lot of such people, and their numbers grow, and people easily ignore things out of weakness. As I wrote that part of the story I thought, “I hope I can say clearly that it’s bad.”

“dd’s Umbrella,” one of the stories in the collection Into the World of Passi, later evolved into “d,” which is connected to the section “There Is Nothing That Needs to Be Said” from the novel dd’s Umbrella, which led to the novel Years and Years. The desire to rewrite the stories of your characters and create additional space for them in new works seems to stem from the desire to allow them to go on living. What is it that leads you to do such work? Will you continue doing it in the future?

“Allow them to go on living.” Thank you for putting it that way. 

I’m not sure if I’ll continue doing that kind of work. I probably will, if I want to or feel I should. Some stories, you can’t close the door on and leave behind just because the manuscript is finished. I guess I’ll go on doing it if I meet another one of those stories.

I think my works sometimes lead to other works because I often have a hard time accepting that fiction is fabricated, made-up. There’s something that makes it difficult for me to just think that the characters don’t exist in reality.

Of all the sentences you’ve written, the one I treasure the most is “Shall we sing?” in One Hundred Shadows. Whenever I think of this sen­tence, it gives me strength. I’d like to hear your thoughts on holding onto a fragile hope despite everything. 

I’d rather say “possibility” than “hope.” There’s a desire in me to believe that possibilities exist. The desire doesn’t persevere on its own; it’s something I have to nurture. If I’m careless, it vanishes into thin air. Like what I talked about earlier—what happened just before the Namtaeryeong incident. 

Believing in possibilities despite everything be­comes possible because other people exist; because there are other people who are affected by reality, whether I’m hoping for or despairing over something, or whether I believe in possibilities or not.

You mentioned that what you give the most thought to becomes a story. What preoccupies you the most at the moment?

Pain.

And the mind of someone in pain, and the weakness of that mind. For example, I’m thinking thoughts like, “Why do we attack others and ourselves the most severely when we’re at our most vulnerable?”

I’m hoping that readers of KLN will read A Little Diary, recently published in Korea, when it’s eventually translated into English. I believe that through the book, they’ll be able to see where your gaze is directed. Is there anything you’d like to say about it, and to the people who fight, write, and read despite everything?

A Little Diary is a collection of five months of my diary entries starting December 3, 2024. I wrote down the things I saw and heard each day, instead of observing and analyzing situations from a distance. 

I keep a diary. I write down several entries a day, and from December 2024 to June this year, the political climate was the strongest theme and object of interest for me. A Little Diary is an edited compilation of those entries. Though they expose prejudices and hatred I’m ashamed to reveal to others, as well as the anxiety and anger stirring inside me, I didn’t make any big changes. I wanted to show how I spent those days as a person, and in what kind of confusion. It’s both because of a certain person who said they’d been enlightened through the martial law, and because of my hope that this book might serve as a small resource in the future. 

And to my fellow writers and readers. To those of you who are going back and forth between writing and reading, even today, I’d like to say, “I’m lucky to be living in the same era as you. Please keep on writing and reading.”

KOREAN WORKS MENTIONED:

· Hwang Jungeun, “dd’s Umbrella,” Into the World of Passi (Changbi, 2012) 

  황정은, 「디디의 우산」, 『파씨의 입문』 (창비, 2012) 

· Hwang Jungeun, “d” and “There Is Nothing That Needs to Be Said,” dd’s Umbrella (tr. e. yaewon, Tilted Axis, 2024) 

  황정은, 「d」, 「아무것도 말할 필요가 없다」, 『디디의 우산』 (창비, 2019) 

· Hwang Jungeun, “Things to Come,” Years and Years (tr. Janet Hong, Open Letter, 2024) 

  황정은, 「다가오는 것들」, 『연년세세』 (창비, 2020) 

· Hwang Jungeun, Diary (Changbi, 2021) 

  황정은, 『일기』 (창비, 2021) 

· Hwang Jungeun, One Hundred Shadows (tr. Yewon Jung, Erewhon Books, 2024) 

  황정은, 『百의 그림자』 (창비, 2023) 

· Hwang Jungeun, “Diary,” Literature & Society Hyphen vol. 149 (Moonji Publishing, 2025) 

  황정은, 「日記」, 『문학과사회&하이픈 149호』 (문학과지성사, 2025) 

· Hwang Jungeun, “A Day, Without Trouble,” The Quarterly Changbi vol. 207 (Changbi, 2025) 

  황정은, 「문제없는, 하루」, 『창작과 비평 207호』 (창비, 2025) 

· Hwang Jungeun, A Little Diary (Changbi, 2025) 

  황정은, 『작은 일기』 (창비, 2025) 

‘그럼에도’ 가능성을 믿는 마음

늘 작가님의 안부가 궁금합니다. 특히 지난 겨울과 봄에는 광장에 있을 때도, 뉴스를 볼 때도 종종 작가님을 떠올렸어요. 윤석열 전 대통령의 12월 3일 비상계엄 선포부터 탄핵과 조기대선 등을 지난 지금까지, 한국 사회에서 우리들이 보낸 시간을 여러 방식으로 이야기하는 것이 중요할 것 같습니다. 작가님, 어떻게 지내셨는지요. 

저도 신연선 작가님을 종종 생각했어요. 아마도 지난 겨울과 봄에 우리가 서로를 자주 생각했던 것 같습니다. 시국이 불안해 안부가 궁금하고, 어떻게 지내는지 걱정도 되었고요. 우리가 만난다면 무슨 이야기를 할까, 어디에서 만나 무엇을 보고 들을까, 우리 각자에게 그 일은 어떤 경험일까, 그런 상상을 해보기도 했어요. 

   저는 남해를 도는 긴 여행을 다녀오고 싶었는데 지난 반년 동안 서울 근처를 떠나지 못했어요. 헌법재판소가 있는 광화문과 국회가 있는 여의도 방향만 바라보며 지냈습니다. 주말엔 탄핵 집회에 참석하고 중요한 일이 있을 땐 또 거리로 나가고, 집에서는 종일 뉴스를 들었습니다. 겨울에 단편을 마감했고요. 얼마 전까지는 두 번째 산문 책으로 묶을 일기 원고들을 정리했습니다. 

『문학과사회 하이픈(2025년 봄, 149호)』에 수록된 작가님의 「日記」에 2024년 12월, 이른바 ‘전봉준 투쟁단’이라고 하는 전국의 농민들이 트랙터를 몰고 서울 대통령 관저로 향하는 시위를 하다 서울의 초입인 남태령 고개에서 경찰에 막혔던 일과 그곳에 밤새 함께 해 목적지까지 행진할 수 있도록 한 연대자들이 기록되어 있습니다. 작가님은 “... 내 늙음을 돌아보았다. 그게 되지 않을 거라고 먼저 믿는 마음, 보고 들은 바대로 학습된 포기. 부끄러우면서도 오늘은 그 부끄러움이 기꺼웠다.”(194쪽)고 쓰셨어요. 이 ‘부끄러움’의 이야기를 나눠보고 싶습니다. 

12월 21일 토요일이었죠. 그날 남태령에서 발이 묶인 전농(전국농민회총연맹)의 하원오 의장이 광화문에서 열린 비상행동 집회에 와서 발언을 했어요. “전봉준 투쟁단이 남태령에 와 있다, 거기서 막혀 있다, 광화문으로 데리고 오겠다”는 말을 그 자리에서 저도 들었습니다. 하지만 그냥 듣기만 했어요. 명동까지 행진을 마치고 파주로 돌아갔죠. 내가 농민들을 마중갈 수 있다는 생각을 하지 못했어요. 나중에 남태령의 밤샘 집회를 보면서 놀랍고 고마우면서도, 스스로를 향한 질문을 멈출 수가 없었어요. ‘나는 왜 그렇게 했을까, 왜 거기 가지 않았을까.’ 

   경찰력은 강한 공권력이고 나는 작은 사인(개인)이니까, 그리고 전봉준 투쟁단의 상경은 늘 그렇게 막혀 왔으니까, 이번에도 ‘되지 않을’ 거라고 먼저 믿는 마음이 내게 있지 않았나. 그건 ‘믿음’도 ‘생각’도 아니고, 그저 습관 아니었나. 그런 생각을 했어요. 

   ‘어떤 일이 마땅하고 좋은 방향으로 되어갈 수 있다는 믿음을, 가능성을 향한 믿음을 가지고 싶다, 가지고 있다’고 자주 말하곤 하면서도, 12월 21일 광장에 앉아 있던 제 마음에 그것이 없었어요. 아무것도 믿지 않고, 마음도 흔들리지 않고, 무언가를 단념해 버린 거죠. 

   뭘 단념했는지도 모르고 있다가, 그 추운 날에 거기로 가서 밤을 버틴 사람들을 보면서 내가 멋대로 그들을 단념했다는 걸 알았어요. 이번에도 그게 되지 않을 거라고, 나도 모르게 믿으면서요. 그게 부끄러웠어요. 다칠 수 있는 사람들을 두고 함부로 단념했으면서도 아무렇지도 않았다는 게. 

이렇게 습관적으로 반응하는 것, 좀처럼 ‘움직이지 않는’ 마음과 몸을 저는 ‘늙음’이라고 불러요. 그런 말버릇이 제게 있지만, 다른 말로 표현하고 싶어요. ‘늙음’을 더는 부정적 의미로 사용하고 싶지 않으니까. 

한국 사회의 문제로 인터뷰를 시작해 송구한 마음입니다. 하지만 “너무 정치적이라고 말하는 건 알고 싶지 않다는 말이고 그런 태도가 대단히 정치적이라고 생각한다. 본인은 그걸 생각할 필요가 없는 거다.” (2021년, <시사인> 인터뷰)라고 하셨던 말씀에 기대 질문 드렸습니다. 

작가님이 「마더」로 등단하신 것이 2005년이니 올해가 꼭 20년이 되는 해예요. 많은것이 달라졌겠지만, 그 가운데 변치 않은 것이 있다면 무엇인가요? 

변하지 않은 것을 떠올리기가 쉽지 않네요. 제 삶으로 이미 흡수되어 버렸기 때문에 따로 떼어내 생각하기가 쉽지 않은 것인지도 모르겠습니다. 그래도 짚어 보자면, 마감을 두려워하는 마음은 변하지 않았어요. 문장을 쓸 때 말을 한 마디씩 고르며 여러 번 쓰는 습관도 여전해요. 읽기도 여전히 좋아합니다.

작가님의 초기 단편은 고통 받는 인물의 내면을 환상성과 함께 그려요. 한편 2010년 발표하신 첫 장편소설 『百의 그림자』 이후 “바깥을 보고 싶다는 의지”(2012년, <채널예스> 인터뷰)로 사회 구조적 문제를 소설 안으로 들여오는 변화가 있었습니다. 작가님의 소설이 바라보는 곳이 어떻게 변화해 온 걸까요? 

앞선 질문으로 ‘변하지 않은 것’을 생각하다 보니, 그 질문에서 벗어나기가 어렵네요. 생각할수록, 변한 게 별로 없는 것 같아요. 늘 ‘말하고 싶다’와 ‘말하고 싶지 않다’ 사이에서 글을 쓰고 있어요. 두 욕망이 제게는 같은 성질의 힘이고, 이 두 힘 사이에서 발생하는 척력, 그 사이에서 글을 써요. 수없이 시도하고, 포기하면서. 처음부터 지금까지 그랬어요. 

   어릴 때부터 워낙 고립된 채로 살아왔기 때문에 소설을 써서 세상에 내보내고, 세상의 대답을 들은 일이 제게는 큰 사건이었어요. 그 대답이 들려온 방향을 바라보다가 여러 사건을 겪으면서, 무엇보다도 타인의 우는 얼굴 앞에 서면서 내가 ‘바깥’을 만났다고 생각했어요. 그렇게 내면과 외면으로 나누곤 했는데 이제 더는 그렇게 느껴지지 않아요. 

   나 까지를 다 포함해서, 세계. 읽기와 쓰기를 통해 이렇게 느끼고 있어요. 읽기가 ‘내게 세계를’ 연결하는 일이라면, 쓰기는 ‘세계에 나를’ 연결하는 일이잖아요. 그간 이 두 가지 일을 거듭하다 보니 어떤 감각을 가지게 되었어요. 내가 세계와 연결되어 있고, 내 삶으로 사건들과 연루되어 있다는 감각. 처음부터 그랬다는 걸 이제는 알 것 같아요. 

세계와 연결되어 있음을 확인하게 된 지금의 상태가, 작가님 개인의 삶에도 무척 중요한 일 같아요. 쓰는 삶은 이전의 삶과 어떻게 달라졌나요? 

읽고 쓰는 삶이 이전의 내게는 당연하지 않았어요. 어릴 때 세계문학전집을 읽은 뒤로는 독서를 잇지 않아서, 이십대 중반까지 책과는 거리가 먼 삶을 살았습니다. 그런 다음 반생을 읽거나 쓰며 살았는데요, 많은 것이 달라졌지요. 삶을 생각하는 방식이 완전히 달라졌습니다. 가장 중요한 변화로는 ‘냉소가 가능한가’라는 반문을 가지게 되었다는 거예요. 어리고 젊은 날에 저는 아무 것이나 단념하고 냉소를 품고 살았어요. 지금은 그럴 수 없어요. 읽고 쓰기를 통해 사람을 만나고, 그 둘을 통해 삶을 생각하면서, 세상을 보는 시선에 냉소를 담을 수 없게 되었어요. 

작가님의 작품에는 서점원, 판매원, 물류노동자, 상인, 기계 수리공 등 아주구체적인 노동의 장면이 많습니다. 노동의 풍경을 공들여 담는 마음을 들려주세요. 

제 소설에 노동이 담겼다면, 삶을 담는 과정에서 필연적으로 발생한 일일 거예요. 소설에 언급이 되건 되지 않건, 그가 어떤 ‘일’을 직업 삼고 있는가를 생각해두지 않으면 소설을 시작하기가 어려워요. 언제부턴가 그렇게 되었어요. 타인의 삶이 내게 다가올 때 그가 하는 노동이 함께 오기 때문인 것 같아요. 이제는 필수로 생각해야 할 부분이에요. 

   저는 일상에서 사람들이 하는 노동을 유심히 보는 편이에요. 그가 자신의 노동과 관계를 맺는 방식, 그의 주변인들이 그의 노동을 대하는 방식, 그의 노동이 내 삶과 만나는 방식, 그가 노동으로 내게 영향을 미치는 방식, 그의 노동을 대하는 나의 태도가 그의 노동에 영향을 미치는 방식, 요즘은 이런 것들을 생각하는 게 좋아요. 재미있고, 중요한 일이니까. 

『연년세세』의 「다가오는 것들」에는 ‘한세진’이 뉴욕의 북페스티벌에 참가하는 일화가 나오는데요. 작가님 역시 2018년 한국문학번역원의 초대로 뉴욕 펜 월드 보이스 축제에 참가하셨잖아요. 어쩌면 작가님의 소설은 쓰고 있지 않을 때도 쓰이고 있는 게 아닐까, 생각했어요. 특별히 쓰게 되는 장면은 어떤 것들인가요? 

‘쓰고 있지 않을 때에도 쓰이고 있다.’ 이건 정말 그래요. 작가들은 다 그렇지 않을까요? 작가의 마음이나 머리 속에서는 모든 일, 모든 감정, 모든 순간이 예사롭고도 예사롭지 않잖아요. 그 모든 것 중에 무엇을 원고로 쓰게 되는지는, 막상 쓸 때가 아니면 잘 몰라요. 제게는 그래요. 쓰면서도 모를 때가 많고요. 내가 이 장면을 반복해 생각하는데, 그 이유를 알려고 쓰는 경우도 있어요. 

   그래도 그중에 제가 원고로 자주 붙들곤 하는 것들은 고통이나 고립인 것 같아요. 

고통과 고립, 이라는 단어를 듣자마자 “후회가 깊어 앞으로도 평생 잊을 수 없을 것 같은 문장”(『日記』, 111쪽) 중 하나로 “어떻게 지내십니까”를 꼽으셨던 것이 떠오릅니다.

어떻게 지내십니까. 

   그 말은 참사가 일어난 사회에, 그리고 저 자신에게 묻는 말이었어요. 그것만 생각하면서 썼는데, 참사 유가족 앞에서 그 말을 제 목소리로 읽는 순간을 겪었습니다. 참사가 일어난 지 얼마 되지 않은 때였어요. 어떻게 지내느냐는 질문을 받을 수도, 건넬 수도 없는 때. 유가족이 제 말을 듣고 있었어요. 무척 당황했고 후회했어요. ‘쓰기’의 방향과 책임을 깊이 생각했습니다. 내 글이 당도하는 자리에 늘 누군가의 얼굴이 있다, 그것을 잊지 말자고 다짐한 날이 되었죠. 

작가님과 같은 모국어를 사용하는 덕분에 문장의 리듬, 미묘한 대화의 뉘앙스를 감각으로 읽어낼 수 있는 것이 얼마나 행운인지요. 한편 이런 생각 끝에는 번역의 가능성을 질문하게 됩니다. 작가님은 번역에 어떤 생각을 갖고 계신가요? 

작가로서는 번역가에게, 내가 다다르지 못할 글쓰기를 이어가는 동료, 라는 느낌을 품고 있습니다. 번역원의 초대로 번역 워크숍에 참석한 적이 있어요. 거기 모인 번역가들이 제 단편을 번역하는 과정을 지켜보았는데 말을 고심하며 한 문장씩 만들어가는 과정이 제가 소설을 쓰는 과정과 다르지 않았어요. 

   독자로서는 열렬한 감사를 품고 있고요. 저는 외국어 실력이 좋지 못해서 원서가 아닌 역서로 책을 읽어요. 제 독서의 칠할 이상을 번역가들에게 빚지고 있어요. 예컨대 노승영 번역가 덕분에 수많은 나무 책들을 읽고 있고 최근에는 정지인 번역가 덕분에 배리 로페즈의 『호라이즌』 (북하우스, 2024)이라는 근사한 책을 만났어요. 김명남 번역가 덕분에 재미있는 과학서를 많이 만났고요. 김은정 번역가의 작업으로 플뢰르 이애기(Fleur Jaeggy)의 소설을 읽을 수 있었어요. 저는 이런 책들을 양식 삼아 마음을 가다듬고, 세상을 향한 감을 확장시키고, 생각을 키워요. 작가로서도 시민으로서도, 너무 감사하죠. 책을 ‘문화’라는 뿌리의 중요한 근원으로 본다면 번역가들의 작업이 가장 심원에 있는지도 모르겠어요. 저는 그래서 번역가가 작가보다 많은 원고료를 받을 거라고 믿었어요. 그렇지 않다는 걸 최근에 알았어요. 번역가들이 자신들의 작업에 합당한 대우를, 마땅한 원고료를 받았으면 해요. 

단편 「문제없는, 하루」를 읽으면서 특히 베트남에서 발생한 호우가 한국의 ‘영인’에게 영향을 끼치는 양상이나 아무리 애써도 폭력에 연루되어버리고 만다는 감각(“내가 저지른 일이 아닌데 내 손을 거치지 않은 일은 아니야.”)에 눈길이 갔어요. 이러한 연결감이 작가님께 닻일까요, 돛일까요? 

둘 다예요. 

   고통으로 일그러진 채 말하려고 애쓰는 타인의 얼굴 앞에 마주 앉은 적이 몇 번 있어요. 그런 일을 겪으며 연대를 생각하다가, 연대 이전에 내 삶이 그 삶과 이미 연결되어 있다는 것을 알게 되었고, 이윽고 ‘연루’ 되어 있다는 것을 알게 되었어요. 나와 무관할 정도로 멀어 보이는 타인의 사정이 실은 무관할 수 없다는 것, 그것을요. 

   아무리 줄이려고 노력해도 나는 이 행성에서 온갖 것을 구매하고 사용하고 버리며 살고 있어요. 그 온갖 것은 지구 곳곳에서 피가 묻은 채 내게 당도해요. 이 흐름에서 혼자 벗어날 수가 없어요. 내가 그것을 구매하건 하지 않건 재료비, 인건비 등등을 깎아 원가를 낮춘 상품들은 결국 기후 비상이라는 형태로 내 삶에 도착하고요. 

   저는 대기업에서 파는 빵은 먹지 않아요. 폭신폭신하고 부드럽고 달콤한 빵, 그걸 만들다가도 사람이 죽잖아요. 동생들과 대화하다가 프랜차이즈 빵집 이야기가 나왔을 때 ‘거긴 가지 않아, 하고 말한 적이 있어요. 제 동생은 그러지 말라고 속상해 했어요. 아이들이 어릴 때부터 카스텔라를 사 먹이곤 했던 빵집이 그 프랜차이즈 업장인데, 불매가 한창일 때 가게 사장이 멍하니 앉아 있는 모습을 여러 번 보았대요. 그런 이야기를 알고 나면 마음과 생각이 다 복잡해지죠. 그 순간엔 불매라는 내 선택이 마땅하지 않게 느껴져요. 손님을 잃고 망연자실하게 앉은 그 자영업자 앞에 서서 ‘이게 옳다’고 말할 수가 없잖아요. 내가 그 빵을 유통하는 회사 사장도 아니고, 그 빵을 만든 사람도, 먹은 사람도 아닌데, 끈적하고 무거운 것이 내 손바닥에 들러붙곤 해요. 

   연루감, 그것 때문에 꼼짝할 수 없다고 느끼면서도, 그것 때문에라도 이런저런 일에 관심을 품고 한 번 더 살펴보려고 해요. 그리고 이 모든 과정에서 내가 하는 생각들과 느끼고 받아들인 것들이 제 읽기와 쓰기에 영향을 미칩니다. 

『百의 그림자』를 쓰면서 ‘전야(前夜)’를 생각했고, 이후 당분간 모든 소설의 제목을 전야로 쓰고 싶다고도 생각했다고 개정판 ‘다시 쓰는 후기’에서 밝히셨습니다. 왜 전야였나요?

백의 그림자는 2009년에서 서울 용산에서 일어난 참사[1]의 영향을 받아 쓴 소설입니다. 어떤 사건이 일어나기 직전을 보고 싶고, 아직 그 일이 일어나기 전으로 돌아가보고 싶은 마음으로 그 소설을 썼어요. 직전엔, 늘 다양한 가능성이 있으니까요. 모든 소설의 제목을 전야(前夜)로 쓰고 싶다는 생각도 그래서 했습니다. 

[1] 편집자 주: 용산 4구역 재개발 보상 문제와 관련하여 농성 중이던 철거민들을 경찰이 진압하는 과정에서 화재가 발생해 6명이 사망하고 23명이 부상당한 사건

지금도 ‘전야’라는 제목을 떠올리세요? 

소설 제목으로는 자주 생각하지 않지만, 살면서는 그 말을 자주 생각합니다. 요즘 덥잖아요. 이제 막 7월이 되었는데 실외 온도가 39도에 달하는 오늘 역시, 제게는 전야예요. 

「문제없는, 하루」의 ‘인범’은 “세상이 언제고 돌이킬 수 없이 망가진다면 사람의 악의나 적의 때문은 아닐 거야. 그보다는 멍청함 때문일 거야. 보고도 아무렇지도 않음, 그런 거 때문에.”라고 말하죠. 바로 이 부분이 작가님의 소설이 꾸준히 들춰온 면이라고 생각했어요. 

인간이 주도하는 세계가 거의 끝나간다는 것은 많은 이들이 이미 느끼고 있는 것 같아요. 그게 세계 공통감感인 것 같기도 하고요. 예컨대 여름이 돌아올 때마다 우리가 그걸 느끼잖아요? 제 조카는 기후 비상 이야기가 나올 때마다 매우 울적해하면서 이렇게 말해요. ‘그럼 나는 미래에 아무것도 이루지 못하고 하찮게 죽는 거야?’ 이 어린이 안에 미래에 관한 분명한 절망과 우울이 있어요. 저는 그걸 느껴요. 그리고 이 우울의 원인을 여태 지구에 살았던, 살고 있는 몇 사람에게 두고 있지 않아요. 지금 지구에서 벌어지고 있는 침략 전쟁, 학살도 마찬가지고요. 

   인간 세상은 악의나 적의를 가진 몇 사람이 하는 일로 완전히 망하지는 않아요. 그보다는 그게 아무렇지도 않고, 그냥 지나갈 수 있는 다수 사람들의 선택으로 망가져요. 저는 앞선 것을 자연[1] [2] , 그리고 후자를 악이라고 생각해요. 

   ‘악’을 분명하게 말할 수 없는 시기가 제게도 있었고 앞으로도 대개는 그럴 테지만, ‘저것은 악’이라고 분명하게 말하지 않으면 안 되는 시점이 있어요. 환경, 노동, 자연에 피가 흥건할 때, 군사 점령지에서 사람들이 굶주림으로 아사하고 폭사할 때, 그리고 고통스럽고 복잡하다는 이유로 다수가 그것에 관심을 두지 않거나 가볍게 여길 때, 그런 사람이 많고, 많아질 때, 사람이 약해서 쉽게 그렇게 ‘할’ 때. ‘그건 나쁜 거라고, 내가 분명하게 말할 수 있다면 좋겠다.’ 소설에서 그 부분을 쓸 때, 그런 생각을 했어요. 

『파씨의 입문』에 수록된 단편 「디디의 우산」이 이후 「d」가 되고, 그것이 연작소설 『디디의 우산』에 수록된 「아무것도 말할 필요가 없다」와 연결되고, 이어 『연년세세』라는 연작소설로 이어지는 과정이 있었습니다. 내 소설 속 인물들의 이야기를 다시 쓰고, 어떤 공간을 더 만들어주는 마음은 이들이 더 ‘살아가도록’ 하고자 하는 소설가의 마음 같다는 생각을 하는데요. 이러한 작업은 어떤 마음에서 비롯되나요? 혹시, 앞으로도 계속 될까요? 

더 살도록 하는 마음. 그렇게 말해주셔서 고맙습니다. 

   앞으로도 그런 작업을 할지는 모르겠어요. 하고 싶거나 해야 한다고 느끼면 다시 그렇게 쓸 것 같아요. 원고로 완성했다고 문을 닫고 떠날 수 없는 이야기들이 간혹 있어요. 또 그런 이야기를 만나면 이어 쓰겠죠. 

   제 소설이 이따금 다른 소설로 이어지는 것은, 소설이란 꾸며내고 만들어낸 이야기임을, 결국 픽션임을 종종 받아들이지 못하기 때문인지도 모르겠어요. 현실에 존재하지 않는 사람들이라고, 간단하게 생각하기 어려운 면이 있어요. 

작가님의 문장 중 제가 가슴 속에 보석처럼 품고 있는 구절은 “노래할까요.”(『百의 그림자』, 185쪽)입니다. 이 문장을 떠올리는 것이 늘 힘이 돼요. ‘그럼에도 아주 조심스레 희망하는 일’에 대한 작가님의 생각이 듣고 싶습니다. 

희망보다는 저는 가능성이라고 말하고 싶어요. 그게 존재하고 그걸 믿고 싶은 마음이 제게 있어요. 저절로 유지되지는 않고, 애써야 가질 수 있는 마음이죠. 방심하면 사라져요. 앞에서 이야기한 ‘남태령’ 직전처럼요. 

   신연선 작가님이 말씀하신 ‘그럼에도 가능성을 믿는 일’이 가능한 것은, 타인이 있기 때문이에요. 내가 희망하든 절망하든, 가능성을 믿든 말든, 현실에 영향을 받는 타인이 있기 때문에. 

가장 많이 생각하는 것이 소설이 된다고 하셨어요. 지금, 가장 골몰하고 있는 장면은 무엇인가요? 

고통입니다. 

   그리고 고통 속에 있는 사람의 마음과 그 마음의 약함을 생각하고 있어요. 예컨대 ‘왜 우리는 가장 취약할 때, 가장 날카롭게 타인과 자신을 공격하는가.’ 이런 생각을 지금은 하고 있어요. 

KLN 독자 분들이 한국에서 막 출간된 『작은 일기』가 나중에 영어권에 출간이 되면 꼭 읽어주셨으면, 하고 바라고 있습니다. 작가님이 바라보는 곳이 어디인지 가늠할 수 있으리라는 믿음에서인데요. 책 소개와 함께 싸우기와 쓰기, 그리고 읽기를 ‘그럼에도’ 해 나가는 사람들에게 인사 부탁드립니다. 

『작은 일기』는 12월 3일부터 다섯 달 동안의 일기를 모은 책입니다. 거리를 두고 관찰하고 상황을 분석하는 글은 아니고 그날그날 제가 보고 듣고 느낀 것을 적은 산문이에요. 

   저는 일기를 써요. 하루에도 몇 번씩 일기를 쓰는데, 2024년 12월부터 올해 6월까지, 시국이 제 일기의 아주 강력한 주제이자 관심사였어요. 『작은 일기』는 그 기간에 쓴 일기들을 조금 정돈해서 낸 책입니다. 남에게 보이기 부끄러운 편견이나 혐오, 불안과 분노로 요동치는 마음들을 드러내는 글이기도 하지만, 크게 고치지 않았어요. 이 시국을 한 사람으로서, 어떤 혼란 속에서 보냈는지를 보여주고 싶어서요. 계엄으로 자기가 ‘계몽되었다’라고 말한 어떤 사람 때문이기도 하고, 훗날 작은 자료가 되기를 바라는 마음 때문이기도 해요. 

   그리고 동료들. 

   오늘도 쓰기와 읽기를 오가고 있는 내 동료들에겐, “당신들과 동시대를 살아 다행입니다”라는 말을 하고 싶어요. “계속 쓰고, 읽어주세요.” 

Korean Books Mentioned:

황정은, 「디디의 우산」,『파씨의 입문』(창비, 2012)

황정은, 「d」, 「아무것도 말할 필요가 없다」, 『디디의 우산』(창비, 2019)

황정은, 「다가오는 것들」『연년세세』(창비, 2020)

황정은,『일기』(창비, 2021)

황정은,『百의 그림자』(창비, 2023)

황정은,「日記」,『문학과사회&하이픈 149호』(문학과지성사, 2025)

황정은, 「문제없는, 하루」『창작과 비평 207호』(창비, 2025)

황정은, 『작은 일기』(창비, 2025)

신연선 작가 

프리랜서 작가. 장편소설 『구름이 겹치면』, 에세이 『하필 책이 좋아서』(공저)를 썼다.