• Curation

  The 'Attitude' Embodied and Performed by Literature

  문학이 체현하고 수행하는 ‘태도’

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  Written by Jeon Ki-hwa

  Jeon Ki-hwa is an assistant professor in the Department of Korean Language and Literature at Kyonggi University. She specializes in Korean classical literature and critiques contemporary Korean literature. She finds joy in reading texts written in Korean and engaging in conversations about them. Her recent critical essays include How to Embrace Unfinished Time and Rolling the Ball, Adding Light: On Lee Seo-soo. 

  
  

  Translated by Snigdha Gupta  / snigdhagupta9@gmail.com

  Snigdha is a literary/academic translator residing in Korea. An ex-fellow of KLTI and a Korean Government scholar, Snigdha bridges gaps not only through her Korean to English translations, but also as a full-time communication specialist in the government sector.

  

• Curation

  New books published in September and October in time for the season of deep thoughts

  사색의 계절에 읽기 좋은 9~10월 신간 도서

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  Written by LimGeun-ho

  Lim is areporter at The Korea Economic Daily. He writes articles about books.

  
  

  Translated by Joheun Lee

  Joheun Lee (Jo) is a literary translator from Korea. She was selected in the 2023 and 2024 Translation Academy Night Courses from LTI Korea, the American Literary Translators Association's inaugural Building Our Future workshop for emerging BIPOC translators, and the 2023-24 National Centre for Writing's Emerging Translator Mentorship for Korean-English translation.

  A long-time fan of K-pop and many other subcultures, she finds herself drawn to works on related topics and speculative fiction, especially by women and queer writers. A UX Designer by day, Jo now lives with her partner and three cats in Shanghai, China.

  

• Curation

  Rising Above the Scars of History

  역사의 상흔을 넘어

  Written by Im Intack

  Im Intack covers literature at the Hankyoreh. A seasoned journalist, he joined the media company in 2003 and his tenure includes leadership roles in investigative planning and special content. A recipient of the Korea Journalist Award four times and the Kwanhun Club Journalism Award, Im’s contributions extend beyond journalism—he is a co-author of works like A Life Worth 4,000 Won and A Belated Record of Child Abuse. He wrote captions for the photo book MAGNUM KOREA.

  
  

  Translated by Kim Soyoung

  Soyoung is a translator specializing in literature and film. After a decade of corporate life in public relations, she now immerses in translating works that resonate with her.

  Her recent translations include stage plays Sunlight Shower and This is Home by Jang Woojae, and she is currently translating a novel for young adults.

  Soyoung majored in English interpretation and translation at Hankuk University of Foreign Studies and studied business administration at the Graduate School of International Studies at Yonsei University. She completed a two-year government-funded literary translation course at the Literature Translation Institute of Korea (LTI Korea).

  Soyoung won Grand Prize in the film category of the Media Translation Contest organized by LTI Korea in 2021.

  

• Curation

  Timeless Values and Power of Prose Shine Through in Q3 2024 Bestsellers

  시대불문의 가치, 문장의 힘을 보여준 2024년 3분기 베스트셀러

  “What comes after YouTube? Could it be paper books again?” This question, posed by author Han Kang during her lecture at the 2019 Seoul International Book Fair, feels more relevant than ever today. Among teens and twentysomethings worldwide, i.e., Gen Z, a new phenomenon termed “text hip” is increasingly taking hold—they share images of themselves reading on YouTube and other social media, and quote favorite books and passages. For this generation of digital natives, print has interestingly become a trendy medium. Indeed, the latter half of this year has truly been about the “power of prose.” When Han Kang was named the 2024 Nobel Literature Prize winner in October, the world buzzed with excitement. People lined up at bookstores to purchase her books and flocked to libraries to read. Sales of literary works by other Korean authors have also risen, signaling a welcome and heartening movement.

  
  

  Among Q3 bestsellers in Korean literature, several backlist titles that emerged as popular reads last year have maintained their top positions. While such older titles typically see declining sales over time, Contradiction and Gu’s Proof have secured 1st and 6th place respectively, suggesting their staying power on the bestseller list. These “trusted reads,” with their elegant yet delicate prose and timeless, relatable passages, continue to draw new readers regardless of their publication date.

  
  

  Demand for young adult (YA) literature has also been notably high. Lee Kkotnim, widely recognized as a “leading author in young adult fiction,” has firmly established her unique literary universe through works such as Taking a Bite out of Summer and I Will Cross Time for You. Her latest release, Girl You Want to Kill 2, has reached 4th place on the bestseller list, while several of her earlier works have also ranked among bestsellers. Another YA title, If We Ever Look at the Same Star by Cha In-pyo, has claimed 2nd spot and garnered much attention after being selected as a recommended reading title at the University of Oxford this year. The rapid growth of YA literature can be attributed to its shift from traditional themes like family, friendship, and school life, to more diverse topics that address social issues and evoke empathy across generations. The rise in teen reading rates during the first half of this year has further fueled this trend, with young readers increasingly making independent book purchases based on their interests—whether for academic purposes, self-improvement, or pure enjoyment.

  
  

  Additionally, the latter half of the year saw the return of major authors. Kim Hoon, “the voice of our times,” Kim Ae-ran, “the young virtuoso of Korean literature,” and Jeong You-jeong, “the queen of thrillers,” all published new books. Kim Hoon’s essay collection, Wasted Years, which is his first release in five years, ranked 3rd on the bestseller list. Kim Ae-ran’s One of These Two is a Lie, published after a 13-year hiatus from full-length novels, reached 12th place, while Jeong You-jeong’s Eternal Heaven, the second installment in her “desire trilogy,” landed at 13th.

  
  

  Meanwhile, the enduring popularity of Korean-style healing novels, also known as “feel-good” novels, remains strong. My Don Quixote and Uncanny Convenience Store 1, 2, with their fairy-tale-like stories set in everyday life, consistently appear on bestseller lists, reflecting readers’ ongoing interest in comforting stories.

  
  

  Written by Lee Seung-yeon

  Lee Seung-yeon is a reporter for City Life, a weekly magazine published by Maeil Business Newspaper. She explores cultural and lifestyle trends, encapsulating the world within the pages of the magazine each week.

  
  

  Translated by Soyoung Kim

  Soyoung is a translator specializing in literature and film. After a decade of corporate life in public relations, she now immerses in translating works that resonate with her. Her recent translations include stage plays Sunlight Shower and This is Home by Jang Woojae, and she is currently translating a novel for young adults. Soyoung majored in English interpretation and translation at Hankuk University of Foreign Studies and studied business administration at the Graduate School of International Studies at Yonsei University. She completed a two-year government-funded literary translation course at the Literature Translation Institute of Korea (LTI Korea). Soyoung won Grand Prize in the film category of the Media Translation Contest organized by LTI Korea in 2021.

  

• Curation

  Encounter with Beings from Beyond: Korean Horror Fiction

  세계의 경계를 넘어온 존재와의 조우

  Horror fiction is fundamentally a literary genre that explores boundaries. Fear arises from the overlapping spaces between light and shadow, life and death, and reason and irrationality. As the midday sun retreats, darkness descends, concealing whatever may lurk within; when the vitality of living things fades, the heavyweight of death takes its place. And just when we grow complacent, believing that everything in our daily lives operates within the realm of scientific logic, supernatural phenomena occur, causing the carefully constructed order of human existence to fall into disarray. To cope with the fear born from these unsettling experiences, people have long gathered around midnight campfires to craft stories.

  
  

  Koreans who grew up watching 20^th century TV programs such as Korean Ghost Stories, which combined horror narratives with folklore and moral lessons,tend to define horror genre as stories about visitors from the afterlife or another world. While contemporary Korean novelists inherit this tradition, they focus more on horror that stems from the malevolence hidden within ordinary life and spreads into supernatural terror. In the 21st century, a time when science reigns and the world never sleeps, the fear of familiar, nearby threats feels more vivid than the distant fear of the unknown.

  
  

  For this reason, horror literature is also a genre for the marginalized. Minorities who have lived in the shadows of fear—immigrants, people with disabilities, and women—gain the power to fight back beyond the bounds of rational logic in the world of horror. Just as traditional ghost stories featured unjustly murdered women returning as vengeful spirits, today’s horror narratives depict oppressors who turn reality into a living hell while also showcasing courageous underdogs who stand against them. Are ghosts terrifying? No, there are humans far more terrifying. The upheaval of the world is frightening, but there may be souls who find more peace in a world turned upside down.

  
  

  The Heavens Don’t Listen to Women (by Kim Isak)

  
  

  This novel,bearing a title that holds a feminist provocation, presents five stories infused with elements of traditional folktales and urban legends. In the first story, “Seongjudanji,” a woman flees to a small provincial city to escape her ex-boyfriend’s stalking. There, in an old traditional house, she encounters a mysterious figure. Caught between real-life danger and supernatural terror, it is the ghost that ultimately provides her with a sense of security. In Korean folk beliefs, deities have traditionally served as upholders of patriarchal systems, but in this novel, the author rejects such traditions and instead portrays various forms of supernatural guardians who stand with oppressed women, children, and the weak.

  
  

  Designated Driver (by Lee Narae)

  
  

  As Doyun prepares for his civil service exam, his friend approaches him with a request:to work as a designated driver while pretending to be hearing-impaired. One day, he hears strange noises emanating from the trunk of the car he’s driving. While Doyun is torn between his sense of obligation to save someone and the guilt of working illegally as a designated driver, the tension inside the car continues to escalate. Befitting the work of a writer with a background in writing screenplays, Designated Driver is characterized by the breakneck pace of a thriller and the vivid sensation of being seated in a taxi. The story evokes extreme fear through its chilling depiction of pure evil, without relying on a single supernatural element.

  
  

  Dark Waters (by Jeon Geonwu)

  
  

  Korean local legends and ghost stories inherently possess the characteristics of mystery novels because they involve the vengeful spirits of those who died unjustly. In this tale, a broadcast writer with psychometric abilities and a young shaman visit a rural village to film a show about water spirits, only to find themselves embroiled in a murder case. The narrative skillfully merges supernatural fantasy with the eerie atmosphere of Korean folklore and the intrigue of a murder within a closed-off community. What lurks beneath the dark waters? Is it a malevolent spirit waiting for its prey, or a vengeful soul sacrificed to the collective selfishness of the village? Whatever the answer may be, readers need be beware of being dragged into its depths.

  
  

  Midnight Schedule (by Chung Bora)

  
  

  Chung Bora,author of Cursed Bunny, showcases her skill in blending the conventions of horror and fantasy with an unexpected imagination. Her creativity often mirrors reality like a reflection in a mirror. Midnight Schedule is a collection of interconnected short stories set in a research institute that stores objects that shouldn’t exist in this world. The novel has the characteristics of a manual ghost story, a sub-category of the horror genre where there are rules or guidelines. For instance, when encountering an ordinary but strange night watchman in front of the underground parking lot, one should not react, or when passing by Room 502 with a strange handkerchief, do not look back, and so on. The research institute, where many implicit rules exist, is a gray space inhabited by animals and objects that don’t belong to this world.The stories in the novel are spooky, but at the same time evoke a sense of warm compassion.

  
  

  The Ghost of Jeoksangaok (by ChoYeeun)

  
  

  This novel tells the story of a woman who inherits a jeoksangaok (a house of the enemy)from her great-grandmother. In her dream, she travels back to 1945 and becomes her great-grandmother, witnessing a bleeding boy who shows her a destructive future or a history that has already taken place. The jeoksangaok, which refers to a house left built and left behind by the enemy, serves as the perfect setting for Korean Gothic horror. All Gothic horror stories revolve around a large, oppressive mansion, and in the context of Korean history—interrupted by the Japanese occupation—these Japanese style mansions are naturally jeoksangaok. Cho Yeeun transforms the colonial history of invasion and exploitation into ominous dreams, breaking down the boundary between fantasy and reality while faithfully reviving the Gothic horror tradition. Her novel is rich with a classic Gothic atmosphere, yet it also engages with contemporary social concerns.

   

  Written by Park Hyunjoo
  

  
  

  Park is a novelist, essayist, critic, and literary translator. She has written novels such as My Occult Days 1 & 2, At 2 a.m. Laundromat, and Searching for Honey man (Romancing on Jeju), as well as essays like The Romance Pharmacy and The Safe Distance Between You and Me. She has also translated a wide range of works, including those by authors such as Raymond Chandler, Truman Capote, and Charles Bukowski. Park regularly contributes fiction and critical essays to various media outlets. She currently writes the series Park Hyun-joo’s “Genre Fiction Reading” for Hankyoreh newspaper and appears on a TV critic program on MBC.

  
  

  Translated by Soyoung Kim

  
  

  Soyoung is a translator specializing in literature and film. After a decade of corporate life in public relations, she now immerses in translating works that resonate with her. Her recent translations include stage plays Sunlight Shower and This is Home by Jang Woojae, and she is currently translating a novel for young adults. Soyoung majored in English interpretation and translation at Hankuk University of Foreign Studies and studied business administration at the Graduate School of International Studies at Yonsei University. She completed a two-year government-funded literary translation course at the Literature Translation Institute of Korea (LTI Korea). Soyoung won Grand Prize in the film category of the Media Translation Contest organized by LTI Korea in 2021.

  

• Curation

  Celebrating the Unsung Heroes of Literature: An Interview with Korean Literary Translators

  한국 문학의 숨은 영웅들을 위해: 한국 문학 번역가와의 인터뷰

  International Translation Day (September 30) is a global day to commemorate and reflect on the significance of translation and the role of translators. It’s thanks to translators that stories written in one language can be read on the opposite side of the world, allowing people across cultures to communicate and understand each other.

  
  

  To mark this special day, KLWAVE is making a modest effort to highlight the often-overlooked work of translators. Korean literature has been able to reach a wider global audience thanks to translators who break down language and cultural barriers, carrying stories to all corners of the world.

  
  

  To gain a deeper understanding of the complexities and challenges of literary translation, we’ve interviewed seven renowned translators: Anton Hur (English), Joo Hasun (Spanish), Han Yumi (French), Jan Henrik Dirks (German), Jeong Insoon (Russian), Kang Banghwa (Japanese), and Tian Hezi (Chinese). Through their insights, we hope to raise awareness of translators’ significant contribution to the literary world and encourage greater recognition and appreciation for their work.

  
  

  Please note that these were written interviews and have been edited to include a variety of voices.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

  
  

  
  

  There are many analogies for translators. They’re sometimes compared to ninjas—invisible and unnoticed unless they make a mistake. What’s your take?
  

  
  

  Kang Banghwa (Japanese):  If translators are ninjas, they need to be ones that possess shape-shifting ninjutsu. When I’m translating, I try my best to become as close to the author as possible, mentally and emotionally. I’ll read the author’s interviews from back when the book was published and explore their other works. It’s almost like wanting to become the author’s spiritual twin

  
  

  I believe creativity is essential when translating fiction. For example, if there’s a pun in the original text, a direct translation will often fall flat. So, I try to find a similar joke or wordplay in the target language. I first make sure I fully understand the original text, then brainstorm ideas for equivalent expressions, write it out, and finally check if the translated version achieves a similar level of humor and if it’s consistent throughout the work.

  
  

  I sense that translators' agency is gradually gaining more recognition, with readers starting to say things like, "If it's translated by this particular translator, I know I can trust it."
  

  
  

  Joo Hasun (Spanish): ): I believe translation can be considered a form of creation. As many different translations can be created for a single original text as there are translators translating that text. In that way, a translator’s work is original and unique. It is writing that fully reflects the translator’s own vocabulary, style, interpretation, and thoughts. If we compare it to a road, translation is the work of constructing a new road that connects to an existing road.

  
  

  
  

  So how would you describe the relationship between the author and the translator?
  

  
  

  Joo Hasun (Spanish):  Continuing the road analogy, the materials and construction method are the choice of the builder, in this case, the translator. However, there is something that must be strictly adhered to: the new road that the translator creates should not disregard the existing road or take shortcuts, nor should it veer off in a completely different direction. In this sense, the author and the translator are travelling companions. The author goes one step ahead, and the translator follows. But they’re on different paths. The decisions they must make at each moment cannot be the same, and they have different literary, lexical, and stylistic resources at their disposal. But what is important is that they are in it together as companions walking in the same direction.

  
  

  Han Yumi (French):  A translator must indeed know how to stay in the background. In that sense, they are like the author’s ghost or shadow. But at the same time, they need to be constantly present, even down to the smallest comma. In this sense, they’re more like the author’s guardian angel, accompanying them everywhere, perched on their shoulder, invisible to the reader’s eyes.

  
  

  But is the translator really always invisible? They can be noticed in two ways. Through the creativity of their word choices, their phrasing, their sense of style, and their mastery of language registers (making people say, “It feels like it was always written in French!”). Or, they might stand out for the wrong reasons: awkward wording, clinging too closely to Korean expressions, weak logical connections or flat dialogue (and people will just say, “This is poorly translated.”).

  
  

  Translating a literary text is like interpreting a musical score; you first need to decipher it note by note, analyze its structure, rhythm, and harmony . . . Then it’s up to us, translators, to perform it, using our instrument, as a piece intended for another language and culture. We need to play it, and play it well. But to extend the metaphor, how can we transcribe a “haegeum sanjo” without turning it into a “violin sonata”? And yet, we still have to “translate” it.

  
  

  To me, a musician adapting a piece as faithfully as possible to their instrument mirrors what our fellow translators do with Korean literature across the world. And we must remember that every performer is unique—translation is like a concert, an act of “reinventing” the score.

  
  

  
  

  Translators face countless decisions throughout the translation process, and their choices can significantly shape the way a story is told. 
  

  
  

  Anton Hur (English):  A translator can make or break a book, and that doesn’t depend on being “invisible,” whatever that means. A translator can alter the narrative distance between the reader and the characters of a book, changing the intimacy level of a work completely. Good translators are deep readers who frequently discover things about the text that lay readers or critics often do not. Quite often I’ve come up with readings the author themselves were not aware of which they would then incorporate into subsequent editions of the source material. The work of a translator is extremely visible, it is literally every single word of the target language edition, and to pretend this isn’t the work of the translator is disingenuous and vile. Also, ninjas are evil and I am good.

  
  

  Jan Dirks (German):  In my opinion, the basis of all sincere translation work is empathy, i.e., the ability to understand thoughts and feelings of other people, the spirit of other cultures and forms of expression in other languages. (This, by the way, is something AI will never be able to do.) In my view, the so-called “creativity of the translator” is only ever the translator’s tool for expressing the spirit of the original work. Creativity per se is not necessarily a desirable quality in translations. The undisputed fact that every perception is necessarily subjective and that every translation inevitably creates something new should not be used as an excuse to stop struggling with the original text. Insofar as translation is a matter of recreating something given, I do not regard it as an art, but as a craft, whereby linguistic artistry is, of course, an indispensable part of the translator’s tools of the trade.

  
  

  
  

  What motivates you to translate? Do you have a mission as a translator? 
  

  
  

  Jan Dirks (German): My ultimate mission as a literary translator is—Lo and behold!—the translation of literature. No more, no less. Of course, there may be some pleasant side effects: “mediation between cultures,” “international dissemination of good literature” or an occasional “moment of happiness or enlightenment” for the foreign reader. Who knows? But these are not the things I am dealing with when I do my work.

  
  

  What motivates me in my work is the technical challenge and the intellectual pleasure of translating sentence after sentence from the beautiful Korean language into my beloved mother tongue.

  
  

  Kang Banghwa (Japanese):  I believe all humans share common ground, regardless of their country, history, or social background. I want to be a translator who can evoke emotions in readers that they may not have been aware of due to their different upbringing. 

  
  

  There are countless works in the world, each containing its own unique universe. I’m grateful to have been born into a world with literature, and I find joy in introducing people to the diverse worlds within these works.

  
  

  Joo Hasun:  I translate because it’s fun. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this, but I don’t have any grand motivation or aspirations. The job is incredibly challenging at times, but when I finish one project and get commissioned to translate another, I find myself excited all over again. There’s a part of me that gets thrilled imagining how to translate while reading a book. I think I continue to translate because of that excitement and thrill.

  
  

  Jeong Insoon (Russian):  Thirty years ago, while studying abroad at Moscow University I lived in a dorm for four years, where someone often played loud music. It was annoying, but I could understand them to some extent. They just wanted to share the music they liked with others, nothing to be overly critical about. The reason I translate now is similar to the feelings of that student who played loud music: I want to share the emotions I feel while reading Korean literature with others.

  
  

  Recently, I’ve gained another motivation. In Russia, most Korean literature enters through Western countries, translated first into English and then into Russian. This often leads to a loss of the original charm and meaning. I dream of introducing Korean authors directly to Russian readers before they are filtered through Western translations.

  
  

  Anton Hur (English):  What mission? I don’t have a mission. I despise evangelical missionaries and I’m not an astronaut. Nothing motivates me. I am very lazy and unmotivated and I hate sitting down to work every day. Nothing I do has anything to do with motivation or being motivated. 

  
  

  
  

  How do you define success as a translator? 
  

  
  

  Joo Hasun (Spanish):  The number of works translated, sales, good reviews, awards—they are all important. But do they mean you’ve succeeded as a translator? I’m not so sure about that. What does success as a translator mean? I think that each and every book I translate is one of my small successes as a translator. The word “success” is too heavy, too macro, and I don’t really know what it means, but the small successes of each day certainly mean a lot to me. When the translation of a page I set out to finish today turned out relatively nice and clean. When I find the perfect expression in the target language for a sentence I’ve been struggling with for a long time. When I read a nice review of my translation on social media. And when the author DMs me to thank me for my translation. It’s these daily, unexpected, micro-successes that collectively enrich my life as a translator, and I wonder if that enrichment is what makes me successful as a translator.

  
  

  Anton Hur (English): People are constantly telling me that I’m “successful,” which I find hilarious. If I wanted “success,” I would not be working in the book industry, certainly not with a law degree and my extremely commercial level of bilingualism. I don’t think about success. I’m busy. And lazy.
  

  
  

  Kang Banghwa (Japanese):  I think I could say I’ve succeeded as a translator if my translation conveys the work well and elicits empathy from readers. Another thing is if I find myself still reflecting on past translations in the future. The success I envision is on the opposite end of completion. Just as authors grow and change repeatedly, I think translators, as expressive individuals, should grow and always try new things. My goal is to never stop growing.

  
  

  
  

  So it’s not about the number of works you’ve published or how many copies you’ve sold —there’s something more special. 
  

  
  

  Han Yumi (French):  That’s right. In the long run, my main goal is to carve out a place in the literary world, so that French readers can discover reliable critical editions of essential Korean literature. Sometimes, we dream that we are working for posterity. Let’s just say we are trying to find our place.

  
  

  Tian Hezi (Chinese):  Being also a reader who loves Korean literature, I would like nothing more as a translator than to be able to convey to Chinese readers the same emotions I feel when I read Korean literature, the wonderful expressions, thought-provoking issues, and the diversity and boundlessness of its themes.

  
  

  
  

  What is the most rewarding aspect of being a translator?
  

  
  

  Han Yumi (French):  One of my most moving experiences, thanks to the unique privilege translators have of connecting with the audience, was when a spectator, deeply moved by a pansori performance I had subtitled, approached me afterward and simply said, “Thank you for existing.” Isn’t that the ultimate joy for a translator? It makes you want to say, “Mission accomplished.”

  
  

  
  

  “So, we try, with humility but also with great tenacity, to always, no matter what, find a solution.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

  How do you typically choose the works you translate?
  

  
  

  Jan Dirks (German):  Literature that I consider worth translating must fulfil two criteria above all: It must deal seriously and sincerely with the human soul, that is, with what people feel and think. And it must be convincing in its linguistic and aesthetic form. Everything else (exciting plot, social message, etc.) is rather secondary for me personally.

  
  

  Han Yumi (French):  There’s always a bit of chance, encounters, and surprises involved. But the key factor is always our own “joy of reading,” which turns into the desire to “share that joy” with others, inviting readers into works they wouldn’t otherwise be able to experience.

  
  

  Jeong Insoon (Russian):  The works I translate are sometimes determined by myself, and sometimes requested by publishers. When I decide on the book, the criteria are that 1) it should be either really fun or deeply resonate with me, 2) it should have universal themes and subjects that people around the world can relate to, and 3) it should have clean and concise writing with minimal superfluous elements.

  
  

  Tian Hezi (Chinese):  I strive for clear and fluent language, so no matter how much I love a work, if it deviates significantly from my preferred style, I think I’ll have a hard time translating it. For instance, texts that are heavy on metaphors, modifiers, and long, convoluted sentences are still difficult for me.

  
  

  Translating Han Kang’s works was honestly very challenging. Especially Greek Lessons, which is a novel that delves deeply into the protagonist’s inner world and contains many delicate sensory descriptions and abstract symbolism. When translating it, my primary concern was accurately conveying the overall atmosphere and ensuring that my understanding of the work was correct.

  
  

  Kang Banghwa (Japanese):  I focus on introducing works that are compelling and persuasive. As a translator, it’s important to convince editors of a work’s merits, but it’s also crucial to be able to articulate clearly what makes the piece interesting.

  
  

  
  

  Were there times when you faced a passage that felt almost untranslatable, leaving you feeling discouraged or defeated? Conversely, is there a translation that is particularly memorable for how successfully you dealt with the challenges?
  

  
  

  Anton Hur (English):  No, I have never felt “defeated” by an “untranslatable” phrase or passage. I am, it should be obvious at this point in my career, very good at translating, it’s very easy for me. I feel defeated by things outside of translation. I feel defeated by bureaucracy. I feel defeated by falling levels of funding for translators. I feel defeated by Korean rightsholders who are hostile to translators for no good reason. I have had some awful, soul-crushing experiences as a translator that have nothing to do with translation itself and wanted many times to leave literary translation and go back to translating contracts and exhibition pamphlets and simultaneous interpreting. It’s only last year when things began to improve when my agent, Safae El-Ouahabi, agreed to take on my translation paperwork. If she ever fires me as a client, I will quit publishing. Becoming a literary translator is hard, but being a literary translator is even harder.

  
  

  Jan Dirks (German):  First of all, it is never the case that something is completely translatable or completely untranslatable. With every sentence, you always choose aspects that you consider important. Sometimes it is about the purely factual content, sometimes it is about the tone, sometimes it is about a single word.

  
  

  Often, the problems of translation are extremely specific. One particularly tricky passage I still remember was in the book Welcome to the Hyunam-dong Bookshop by Hwang Bo-reum. In that passage, two characters spend quite a while talking about certain nuances of Korean grammar. It was particularly about the word gidarida, which means ‘to wait.’The protagonist used the expression gidaryeojida (a passive construction) instead, which, in the given context, was incorrect. So I had to find an equivalent in German that had to do with ‘waiting’ and might also be used incorrectly in everyday German. 

  
  

  Unfortunately—no, wait, fortunately! Ninjas have to remain invisible—almost nobody who reads the passage in German will realize how much the translator has racked his brains at this point and what an ingenious solution he has found . . .

  
  

  Jeong Insoon (Russian):  I was translating writer Kim Do-yeon’s Riding Home with a Bull in which the protagonist happens to come across a temple called Mabsosa. Conveying the author’s intended name of the temple in Russian was quite challenging. Mabso-sa is a name humorously created by combining a pure Korean exclamation (which means “Oh my God!”) with the common Chinese character suffix “-sa,” which is typically used for temple names. It took almost a month of collaboration with my Russian co-translator to come up with a satisfying translation. In the end, we translated it as “бог мой храм.” The first word means “god,” the second means “my,” and the third means “temple,” or it could also mean “church.” So, “My God!” in Russian corresponds to the Korean exclamation “Mabsosa!”and the final word means “temple,” making it a very appropriate translation.

  
  

  
  

  Each language has its unique way of expression. Were there any difficulties stemming from language structure or vocabulary?
  

  
  

  Tian Hezi (Chinese):  When I had to translate the writings of the character Shim Sisun from the novel From Sisun by Chung Serang, I worked hard to capture the tone of a woman in her forties to fifties. Sisun is an artist and an intellectual, and is outgoing. Although I haven’t experienced being in my forties yet, I translated her writings in a formal literary style, limiting the use of colloquial filler words and particles like ‘了’ (le), ‘的’ (de), and ‘啊’ (a). 

  
  

  On the other hand, Han Kang’s Greek Lessons contains many philosophical speculations and reflections on God that are Western in nature. I had to read philosophical books to imitate the vocabulary and grammar.

  
  

  When I reflect on the age, personality, profession, and experiences of the characters in the book, I often feel like I’m “channeling” or “becoming possessed by” the character each time I translate.

  
  

  Han Yumi (French):  There’s translation theory (with its grand universal principles), but there’s also the practical side (each text has its own unique challenges!). Every major work requires specific solutions, and some texts are particularly daunting. 

  
  

  With pansori, you have to find French rhythms that capture the musicality of the text, cultural references that need to be accessible without notes (though you may include comments at the end of the performance), proverbs that don’t sound too cliché while not being literal translations (which would make them incomprehensible), onomatopoeias, dialect expressions (saturi), and then jokes and wordplay, which demand a lot of care and creativity. Success means making people cry where they’re supposed to cry and laugh where they’re supposed to laugh! In a way, the footnote that says “untranslatable wordplay” is like the translator’s badge of shame, the sign that says, “I failed.”

  
  

  So, we try, with humility but also with great tenacity, to always, no matter what, find a solution. Sometimes the challenge starts right with the title, especially when it contains a double meaning: this was the case with Kim Hoon’s Hwajang, which we published with Picquier. Depending on how the word is written in Chinese characters, it can mean “cremation” or “makeup.” This double meaning is central to the story, so we chose the title En beauté, which ties together the French expressions “finir en beauté” (“to end on a high note,” for the cremation aspect) and “être en beauté” (“to look beautiful,” for cosmetics). 

  
  

  
  

  Are there any Korean books not yet translated that you’d like to recommend to readers in your working language? 
  

  
  

  Jeong Insoon (Russian):  I’d like to recommend The Gray Man by Kim Dong-sik. Kim’s works don’t attempt to deeply understand or analyze the inner workings of the characters. He simply narrates events in an easy and concise style and describes people’s reactions to these events. Through his works, I've had the opportunity to reflect on myself and human nature. 

  
  

  Tian Hezi (Chinese):  I really like Goodbye, Drunkard by Kwon Yeo-sun. I think Kwon is one of the best novelists in Korea. Behind her slightly crazy and pathological characters, there is always a story that touches the reader’s heart. Personally, I think Kwon Yeo-sun is the novelist who best writes about the Korean concept of ‘jeong’ (deep affection or attachment).

  
  

  Joo Hasun (Spanish):  The Last of Seven Years by Kim Yeonsu is a novel I love and wish more people would read. This book is particularly moving, with many moments that stir the heart. It tells the story of Baek Seok, a poet who is an essential figure in Korean poetry, and his life—both known and speculated—after he went to North Korea. It’s also a narrative about how an era impacts an individual, an artist—the freedom it grants or the pressure it exerts, and the scars it leaves behind. If twentieth-century Soviet composer Shostakovich lived in fear every night of being purged under Stalin’s regime, taking an ambiguous position between collaborator and dissident, Baek Seok existed in a similar way on the Korean Peninsula during the same century.

  
  

  Kang Banghwa (Japanese):  I recommend Altar of the Moon by Sim Yunkyung. It’s an excellent work that revives the concept of ‘han’ in modern Korean literature by unraveling the tragedy that occurs when human desires reach their peak while depicting the love and hatred of a family. I’m confident it will help those interested in Korean content gain a fundamental understanding.

  
  

  Jan Dirks (German): There are, of course, some authors whose works are close to my heart as a translator. Jung Young Moon, a master of absurd humor who, with his unmistakable style, uses deliberate linguistic hyper-precision to reveal the very openness and vagueness of language, Bae Suah, who, in an intuitive way, creates fascinating, dream-like atmospheres in her works.
  

  
  

  Han Yumi (French): In France, there are some translations of key works from the 1920s–30s, but it’s rare to find those written by Korean women during this period of Japanese occupation. I’m particularly drawn to Kang Kyeong-ae (1906–1943), who died far too young but tackled themes of poverty under Japanese rule and the harsh realities faced by women with great intensity. (See Jihachon (Underground Village) and Sogeum (Salt), for example).

  
  

  The key, though, is to stay committed over time—to keep cultivating the cultural landscape, planting seeds, and eventually reaping the fruits. This requires a consistent editorial strategy, and we’re deeply grateful to everyone who has supported and encouraged us over the years. 

  After all, translation is never a solitary endeavor!

  
  

  
  

  Any final words as we wrap up?
  

  
  

  Anton Hur (English):  I’m astonished by emerging translators coming up to me and asking me what they should work on. If you have to ask someone that, you should not be a literary translator. You should be reading widely and constantly, you should be overflowing with books you want to work on and agonizing over which to choose. I am mystified by translators who say they want to be literary translators but do not read literature and need to be told what to be interested in. And whether a work is “worthy of wider international recognition” depends wholly on the alchemical interaction between an author and the translator who discovers them. No one is entitled to that, no writer is born deserving that.

  
  

  
  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

  
  

  
  

  Through our conversations with these seven accomplished translators, we’ve gained valuable insights into their craft and calling. We hope this interview provides readers around the globe with a deeper appreciation for the art of translation and the pivotal role translators play in bringing Korean literature to international audiences. As these translators continue to break down barriers, they pave the way for greater cultural understanding and literary exchange. Thank you, dear translators. 

  
  

  Happy International Translation Day!
  

  
  

  
  

  *The interviews were conducted in Korean, English, and French. 

  Korean–English translation by Joheun Lee, Si-Hyun Kim, and Snigdha Gupta

  English–Korean translation by Bo Kyong Kwak

  French-English translation by Benoît Di Pascale

  

• Curation

  Summer's Last Hurrah: New Book Releases for July and August

  뜨거웠던 여름을 보내주며! 7~8월 신간 도서입니다

  KLWAVE introduces international readers to various works of Korean literature. “New Releases” showcases works that have been published between July and August 2024, selected by Kyobo Book Centre as “Book of the Month” and by Aladin as “Magician’s Choice.”

  
  

  The endless cicada cries of mid-summer have faded into the soft hum of insects, and the air, once thick with heat, now carries a cooling breeze. The blazing sun of summer has passed, and with it, autumn gently arrives. Though we may feel a tinge of regret as summer slips away, we know that after autumn and winter, another summer will come again. Like the changing of seasons, our lives move in cycles. 

  
  

  The new books of July and August beautifully reflect this rhythm. In these pages, both well-established authors from Korea and abroad, as well as emerging voices in Korean literature, capture the intricacies of life from their unique perspectives. They offer words that continue to draw us in, tenderly soothing the hearts of readers.

  
  

  Shin Yong-mok's poetry collection, Because We Exist in an Accidental Future, speaks of a future that can only be reached by living fully in the present moment. Bae Su-ah’s novel, Whisper Sunken Garden, chases after the elusive fragments of memory, bringing forgotten emotions to the surface, as it probes deeply into the inner world of humans.

  
  

  Then there are also those novels that critique Korean society with a knife’s edge. Author Cheong YE, who has garnered attention by winning several major literary awards in Korea, explores the idea of freeing oneself from self-censorship in the sci-fi mystery Orange and the Bread Knife. Meanwhile, Ha Seung-min’s Melanin, which unanimously won the Hankyoreh Literature Award, tackles the invisible yet pervasive gaze of discrimination through the story of a mixed-race boy of Korean and Vietnamese descent.

  
  

  These are stories that linger, offering insights into the cycles of our lives, much like the seasons that come and go.

  
  

  Renowned internationally for Dollargut Dream Department Store, author Lee Miye delineates a society shaped by everyday selfishness in her latest work Pantry. In Don’t Call Me Kind, Kim Kang offers profound insight into the duality of our existence. Jeong You-jeong, who has enchanted readers worldwide with her unique universe, continues her exploration of human desire in Eternal Heaven, the second book in her trilogy following Perfect Happiness, racing towards the ultimate extremes of human yearning.

  
  

  This summer has seen an outpouring of essay collections. Boldly stepping away from the monotony of daily life, Kim Min-cheol chronicles her post-resignation journey through Paris in her travel essay A Shapeless Form of Life. In The Merry Elder, Lee Ok-sun’s debut collection of essays, we are graced with the wisdom of a grandmother who offers life lessons we’ve long awaited. Lee's daughter, Kim Ha-na, and her partner Hwang Sun-woo, together released Two Women Living Together, a work that challenges and redefines the conventional structure of family in Korea.

  
  

  Brimming with Kim Youngmin's characteristic wit, Light Confessions teaches us how to maintain peace of mind amidst the imperfections of life. Lee Seung-U, who captivated global readers with Quentin, shares his method for understanding both the self and the world through intense, immersive reading in his literary essay collection, A Quiet Reading, distilled from 43 years as a novelist. Finally, Han Jeongwon’s My Fourth-Favorite Season is a poignant reflection, helping us swallow the bittersweet pill of the end of summer. This summer, as we look back at the three seasons passed, how have we changed?

  
  

  
  

  Translated by Snigdha Gupta snigdhagupta9@gmail.com

  
  

  Snigdha is a literary/academic translator residing in Korea. An ex-fellow of KLTI and a Korean Government scholar, Snigdha bridges gaps not only through her Korean to English translations, but also as a full-time communication specialist in the government sector.

  

• Curation

  No More Damsels in Distress: Women Protagonists Redefining Thriller and Horror

  비련의 여주인공은 가라! 스릴러와 호러 이끄는 여성들

  Korean society has always been violent and cruel to women. While male chauvinism prevails worldwide, the Korean patriarchy rooted in Confucianism is particularly harsh, as evidenced by the fact that most of the unjustly murdered ghosts in Korean folk tales are women. However, even the women who become ghosts that scare the life out of us are, in fact, “sad girls in need of a Prince Charming.” It is always a man of high status who resolves the problem that has caused the ghosts’ anger and sorrow, and male chauvinism dominated Korean women’s desire even until recently.

  
  

  In the West, on the other hand, a woman from mythology abandoned all her filial duty and maternal love for her children and brandished her rage as brutally as any male villain. Medea, a princess of Colchis, fell in love with the Greek hero Jason at first sight and betrayed her father. After she married Jason, she had her two daughters tear her uncle into pieces to throne her husband. But when the king of Corinth, where they were in exile, offers Jason his throne on the condition that he marry his daughter, Jason accepts and abandons Medea, which unleashes her fury. She poisons Jason’s new wife, sets fire to the Corinthian palace, and kills her and Jason’s two sons with her own hands.

  
  

  The novels we introduce here are not as brutal as Medea, who evolves from a lover into the “revenge incarnate,” but they feature strong women who are disenchanted with love and refuse to give in to or compromise with men. There emerged a new genre of “feminist family thriller” that depicts the fears and anxieties of women in a patriarchal society, featuring women who are honest about their desires, uninhibited, unharmed, and unafraid to commit bad things. With such bold ideas as “a teddy bear with a hatchet” and “a town that makes a living from serial killings,” it’s refreshing to see empowered women that are no longer just damsels in distress leading thriller and horror novels.

  
  

  Abduction Day by Jeong Hai-yeon, Sigongsa (2019)

  
  

  Myeongjun is a divorced man in his 30s struggling to make ends meet. A little slow-witted but with a big heart, he cherishes his young daughter, his only hope. But his daughter is sick with leukemia and requires a fortune for hospitalization and surgery. Myeongjun uses up even his rent deposit to pay for her treatment, and in the end, his ex-wife persuades him to kidnap Rohee, a girl from a wealthy family. On his way to kidnap her, he accidentally causes a car accident, and the child he runs over is the very girl he was trying to kidnap. Rohee loses her memory of the accident and thinks of Myeongjun as her father, and while Myeongjun tries to return her to her parents, the phone call doesn’t go through. When Myeongjun goes to spy on Rohee’s house, he runs into Rohee’s parents being carried out as corpses. Depicting the strange companionship between Rohee, a genius girl who eventually realizes who Myeongjun really is, and Myeongjun, a naive adult, for solving the mystery, Abduction Day was also made into a TV series.

  
  

  White Horse by Kang Hwa Gil, Munhakdongne (2020)

  
  

  This short story collection contains seven works, including Blessings, Gawon, and White Horse. Blessings depicts the suspenseful patriarchal power relationship experienced by a daughter-in-law attending her father-in-law’s first chesa ceremony after her marriage. Gawon tells the story of a granddaughter who discovers the secrets hidden between her cruel grandmother and her affectionate grandfather, while the title piece of the collection White Horse portrays the experiences of a writer in a slump staying in a mysterious cabin deep in the mountains. The critics of these thrillers and horror stories named them “feminist family thrillers.” Thrillers bring horror to the readers through the cognitive gap between what they know and what they don’t, but in a feminist family thriller, it is the gender-based power difference that drives the gap in perception. The fact that women prepare food for the dead and share food left over from the ghosts with the whole family for blessings is a thriller or horror in and of itself; isn’t the daily life of women living under the violence of patriarchy a thriller, the author asks.

  
  

  Burning Heart by Lee Doo-on, ehbook (2020)

  
  

  What if there is a town that made a living off of serial killings? A small rural village across a barren, arid plain realizes that serial killings are quite lucrative and holds a festival to showcase murder cases. The town used to be a rest stop for truck drivers, but after a highway had been constructed, drivers simply passed through, depriving the town of its main source of income. But when six bodies are found on the plains, the small town becomes famous as the site of serial murders, attracting countless visitors. The town’s annual festival turns into a psychotic tourist attraction showcasing the murders. Just as the frenzy of murder tourism is beginning to wane, a new murder occurs, and a young girl risks her life to find the killer. The novel unfurls a dark and dreamy story of a town corrupted by the need to make a living.

  
  

  Teddy Bears Never Die by Cho Yeeun, Safehouse (2023)

  
  

  The time is 2025, and a massive redevelopment project completely transformed the city of Yamu. Three years ago, nine people were killed after consuming poisoned rice cakes in a terrorist attack on a high-end apartment complex. Hwayeong, a young girl who lost her mother in the incident, sets a goal of earning 20 million won to avenge the death. Living in a dingy apartment building with a nickname “Yamu’s drain hole” for cheap rent, Hwayeong is blackmailed into taking part in “fishing” for money using youth like herself as baits, but it is not until she ends up in an inn that she realizes she isn’t a bait for a robbery but a victim of human trafficking. It is none other than a teddy bear that saves Hwayeong from a near-death crisis—it swings a hatchet at a man and brings him down! The bear, which her mother used to put together as her side job, is now possessed by Doha, a boy Hwayeong’s age who has lost his body. Hwayeong and Doha help each other as they embark on an adventure in search of hope and a happy ending.

  
  

  To Paradise with Pale Hands by Park Young, ehbook (2023)

  
  

  Yeon-woo is a police officer who gets urgently dispatched to a murder case in the port city of Sunyang, Gangwon-do, on the first day of the new year. He is accompanied by his former partner and his junior, Sang-hyuk. The case victim is Dr. Cha Yo-han, the director of Eden General Hospital, whom the locals trusted and respected. Strangely, Dr. Cha was scheduled to terminate his life-sustaining treatment that day; he had been brutally murdered just hours before his planned death. Meanwhile, Do-jin, a lawyer and the son of Dr. Cha, is requested to defend Yoo Min-hee, a nurse who has become a suspect in the murder. He travels back against his will to his hometown of Sunyang where he pledged never to return, as he is threatened with revealing the truth of a case 15 years ago if he refuses to defend her. Only when Do-jin arrives in Sunyang does he realize his father is the victim. What happened in the city 15 years ago on “that day?”

  
  

  Written by Choi Jaebong

  
  

  Choi worked as a literary journalist at the Hankyoreh newspaper from 1992 to 2022. He has written books such as Inquiry: How Writers Work, Stories Live Long, Writers of the Mirror World, and translated works such as Elegy for Earth, Pushcart’s Complete Rotten Reviews, and Journey to the beginning (Egar Snow’s memoir). After retiring in 2022, he has been working as a freelance senior journalist, writing articles on literature and publishing.

  
  

  Translated by Joheun Lee joheunlee@gmail.com

  
  

  Joheun Lee (Jo) is a literary translator from Korea. She was selected in the 2023 and 2024 Translation Academy Night Courses from LTI Korea, the American Literary Translators Association's inaugural Building Our Future workshop for emerging BIPOC translators, and the 2023-24 National Centre for Writing's Emerging Translator Mentorship for Korean-English translation.

  A long-time fan of K-pop and many other subcultures, she finds herself drawn to works on related topics and speculative fiction, especially by women and queer writers. A UX Designer by day, Jo now lives with her partner and three cats in Shanghai, China.

  

• Curation

  Friendship Put to the Test of Time

  시간의 시험대 위에 놓인 우정

  In his main book, Essais, Michel de Montaigne discusses the traits and values of friendship. The way he emphasizes the advantages of friendship over love, in particular, is interesting. According to Montaigne, unlike the frantic desire of love, friendship is “temperate and equal, a constant established heat, all gentle and smooth.” It is regrettable that Montaigne, a man from the 16th-century, excluded women from those who enjoy friendship, but his explanation of the attributes and virtues inherent in friendship is quite persuasive.

  
  

  Friendships are often developed during one’s childhood or at a young age. This is because human relationships at that time are likely to be relatively pure and unaffected by self-interest. This explains why, as time goes by, those who are weary of the harsh reality of our society long for the pure and warm embrace of friendship.

  
  

  The novels we introduce here mostly deal with the themes of enduring and changing friendships over the course of time, as well as loss and recovery. In this regard, it can be said that time serves as a measure of the sincerity of friendship. It is also noteworthy that the motif of travel is used in multiple works as a means to reaffirm or regain friendship. Travel involves stepping out of your comfort zone and into an unfamiliar time and space. In this experience of unfamiliarity, we may rediscover the pure value of friendship that we may have forgotten for a while. Finally, I would like to tell Mr. Montaigne that the novels by five women writers all celebrate the friendship of their female characters.

  
  

  Kim Keum Hee, Dear Bokja, Munhakdongne Publishing Corp., 2020

  
  

  Set in Gogori, an annexed island of Jeju, the novel follows the friendship and the ups and downs of two female protagonists over a period of 20 years. The 13-year-old girl Yeong Chorong, who was sent to her aunt’s after her parents' business failed, is welcomed with friendliness by her peer Bokja. Their fresh and pure friendship, however, breaks due to a small misunderstanding, and time flies without them resolving their issue and healing their wounds. Fast forward twenty years, and Yeong Chorong, now a judge that moved to Jeju, is assigned to a case in which Bokja is the victim. Yeong Chorong tries to use her position to help Bokja, but when things go awry and Bokja asks to avoid the trial, now Yeong Chorong feels hurt. The novel concludes with a letter from Yeong Chorong that begins, "Dear my wise friend Bokja," moving beyond the wall of mutual wounds and guilt toward the possibility of repairing their broken friendship, with a brightly open ending.

  
  

  Cho Nam-joo, Tangerine Green, Munhakdongne Publishing Corp., 2020

  
  

  Four sixteen-year-old girls go on a friendship trip to Jeju Island. Dayun, Soran, Haein, and Eunji, who met at a film club and became best friends. On the last day of their trip, they make a vow to apply to the same high school, write their promise on a piece of paper, and bury it in a time capsule. They agree that only those who keep the promise can return to dig it up a year and a half later. Will these four friends come back to reopen the capsule containing their vow? A YA novel by Cho Nam-joo, the author of Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982. It tells the story of four protagonists in their own voices. It depicts each child growing up firmly amid their own circumstances and pains, likening their stories to the nature of a mandarin. The author’s encouragements for those going through a period of growth, feels reassuring. “We can take time to find the answer, since we’re still growing up.”

  
  

  Lee Jooran, Happy End, Changbi Publishers, 2023

  
  

  Two and a half years after their breakup following a squabble, Wongyeong reaches out to Giju, who used to be her best friend. Wongyeong used to be like Giju because she didn’t have to explain or justify everything to her, nor worry about revealing her vulnerabilities. Giju’s decision to meet with Wongyeong is described as “the first step toward confronting a relationship that is either already screwed up or is about to be completely screwed up.” Somehow, Mr. Jang, her co-worker, ends up accompanying her on this journey. On her way to find Wongyeong, Giju deviates from her planned route and stops at an unexpected place, where she encounters the wrong people. When she finally reaches Wongyeong, she receives unexpected news. However, the message—that the kindness, comfort, and support she encounters during detours and delays come together to create a true “happy end”—is heartwarming.

  
  

  Kim Yi-seol, While We Are Relieved, Jamobook, 2024

  
  

  Three women nearing the age of 50 embark on a trip to Gangneung, a city on the eastern coast of Korea. These longtime friends, who haven’t seen each other for various personal reasons have reunited for this special occasion. Their youthful days, once so bright yet felt burdensome, have passed, and now they’ve reached an age when they have to face concerns such as urinary incontinence, high blood pressure, hair loss, and depression.” Migyeong, who’s single and cares for her aging mother; Jeongeun, who juggles two jobs due to financial difficulties; and Nanju, a relatively wealthy housewife, clash and squabble due to their differing circumstances and experiences. But knowing that “there may never be another day for the three to get together like this,” they make the most of their time together, drinking and enjoying themselves while easing each other’s pain and disappointment.

  
  

  Han Soo-yeong, In the Basil Garden, Gang, 2023

  
  

  There are nine short stories in Han Soo-yeong's collection of novels, In the Basil Garden. Among them, short story “Pi(π)” and the title story “In the Basil Garden” tell the story of wounds, relationships, change, and maturity, contrasting their past college years with their present middle age, much like a series. The title story “In the Basil Garden” features three women, Gijeong, Ihyeon, and Hyeyeong, who met about 30 years ago in college and became lifelong friends. They gather at the house of Gijeong, who is in her early fifties, still unmarried, and lives alone, to reminisce about their distant and recent memories while sharing food and drinks. Probably under the influence of alcohol, disputes arise over trivial matters, leading to "suspicion and confusion," as well as a sudden, destructive impulse to destroy everything. However, in the novel’s final scene, “the sound of wrong bells” from a Buddhist temple in Gijeong’s neighborhood “surrounds the three friends,” making them suddenly realize how they have been “influenced by one another,” and teaching us how comfortable a mature friendship can be.

  
  

  Written by Choi Jaebong

  
  

  Choi worked as a literary journalist at the Hankyoreh newspaper from 1992 to 2022. He has written books such as Inquiry: How Writers Work, Stories Live Long, Writers of the Mirror World, and translated works such as Elegy for Earth, Pushcart’s Complete Rotten Reviews, and Journey to the beginning (Egar Snow’s memoir). After retiring in 2022, he has been working as a freelance senior journalist, writing articles on literature and publishing.

  
  

  Translated by Jasmine Jeemin Lee jeeminjlee@naver.com

  
  

  Jasmine Jeemin Lee is a professional translator based in Korea. Born in Texas, she grew up moving back and forth between Korea and the U.S. She earned her BA in International Studies from Ewha Womans University and graduated from its Graduate School of Translation and Interpretation. She won the 2019 Korea Times Modern Literature Translation Award and has since translated a diverse genre of Korean works into English. Her book-length translations include Lee Hyugjin’s Terms of Love (Sarang-ŭi ihae) and Lee Suyeon’s Two Friends on My Shoulders.
  

  

• Curation

  The wind that moves minds of readers around the world: Korean literature bestsellers for the second quarter of 2024

  전 세계 독자의 마음을 움직이는 바람, 2024년 2분기 한국문학 베스트셀러를 만나보세요.

  「KLWAVE features content to introduce a diverse range of Korean literature to overseas readers. This year, we will introduce the best-selling Korean literature every quarter. KLWAVE’s second-quarter best sellers were selected based on the comprehensive consideration of the list of best-selling books provided by three Korean bookstore chains and the list of most borrowed books provided by the Korean Library Association from April to June 2024. 」
  

  
  

  The trend of Korean literature in the first half of 2024 can be defined as “the power of steadiness.” Since the beginning of this year, the bestseller shelves in bookstores and libraries have been stocked with books published more than a decade ago, a rare sight and a pleasant surprise. As books that share the wisdom of timeless and insightful philosophers have been popular in the Korean book market since last year, this year, readers have chosen timeless classics in Korean literature. Although the number of newly published novels and sales thereof slowed down compared to 2022 and 2023, there were new releases by bestselling authors who have been recognized in overseas markets and have begun to attract the attention of Korean readers, garnering their own “fandom.”
  

  
  

  Yang Gui-ja’s Contradiction, a bestseller when it was published in 1998, has been ranked No. 1 on the bestseller list for the first half of 2024, nearly 30 years after its first release. Its readers agree that it makes them realize different meanings and feel new emotions as they read it over and over as time goes by. In other words, it is a steady-seller that readers in their twenties revisit in their thirties, and those in their thirties re-read in their forties. Choi Jin-young’s Proof of Gu, published in 2015, has also recently gained attention from readers in their twenties and thirties and has been ranked No. 8 on the bestseller list, climbing back up the sales chart. Both books have been steadily recommended on online channels and platforms such as influencers and book YouTubers and went viral.

  
  

  It is also noteworthy that Gu Byeong-mo’s book Bruised Fruit , which was published in 2018, also made the list. The book deals with the conflicts and inner thoughts of a female killer in her sixties, and its immersive storyline garnered attention not only in the Korean market but also overseas, selling rights to 11 countries in 2022. Recently, there has been news of domestic musical and movie productions based on the novel, renewing the attention to the original novel. This is deemed a positive sign for the expansion of IP (Intellectual Property) in Korean literature; solid themes of proven works are being adapted into TV series, movies, plays, webtoons, and other cultural means, creating a virtuous cycle of piquing the interest to their original works. As an example, the recently released and bestselling Children of the Rune - Blooded Vol. 7 is the new book in the fantasy series Children of the Rune by Jeon Min-hee, which has also been recently released as a webtoon of the same title.

  
  

  Along with the global interest in K-culture, including TV dramas, movies, and music, Korean literature is also experiencing a rise in new trends. Authors and works with guaranteed literary quality have been nominated for major overseas literary awards and highlighted by overseas media, signaling the rise of Korean literature. Hwang Sok-yong’s Mater 2-10, which reached the 14th place on the bestseller list, was shortlisted for the International Booker Prize this year, raising Korean readers’ interest once again. Through the story of three generations of railroad workers, the book traces the history of South Korea from the Japanese colonial period to the post-liberation and the present day. Starting with Han Kang’s The Vegetarian , a winner of the International Booker Prize in 2015, Korean publications such as Bora Chung’s Cursed Bunny and Cheon Myeong-kwan’s Whale have been gaining international recognition, broadening Korean literature’s international market and attracting Korean readers once again.

  
  

  “Fandom” and “digging” (a phenomenon of deeply immersing oneself in a field) are also prominent in the field of reading books, and increasingly more readers seek out the works of their favorite authors or their next release. Kim Ho-yeon, delivered warm consolation with Uncanny Convenience Store Vol. 1 and 2 in 2022 and 2023, respectively, and he continued with his signature “Kim Ho-yeon genre” and the “emotional healing novel” trend, which is still going strong this year; with his new novel My Don Quixote , Kim ranked third on the bestseller list in the first half of this year.

  
  

  Here are the top 10 bestsellers!

  
  

  1. Yang Gui-ja, Contradiction

  2. Kim Ho-yeon, Uncanny Convenience Store

  3. Kim Ho-yeon, My Don Quixote

  4. Choi Eunyoung, Even in the dimmest light(Tentative name)

  5. Kim Mela et al., The 15th Anthology of Award-winning Young Authors 2024

  6. Jeong Hai-yeon, Flamingo's Places

  7. Kimbbang, The Best of Tomorrows

  8. Choi Jin-young’s Proof of Gu

  9. Lee Byungryul, Once in Love So Profound

  10. Kkoch-nim Lee, Taking a Bite Out of Summer

  
  

  
  

  Written by Lee Seung-yeon

  Lee Seung-yeon is a reporter for the Maeil Business Newspaper’s weekly magazine, City Life. Lee explores cultural and lifestyle trends and captures the world in a single issue every week.

  
  

  
  

  Translated by Joheun Lee

  Joheun Lee (Jo) is a literary translator from Korea. She was selected in the 2023 and 2024 Translation Academy Night Courses from LTI Korea, the American Literary Translators Association's inaugural Building Our Future workshop for emerging BIPOC translators, and the 2023-24 National Centre for Writing's Emerging Translator Mentorship for Korean-English translation.
  

  A long-time fan of K-pop and many other subcultures, she finds herself drawn to works on related topics and speculative fiction, especially by women and queer writers. A UX Designer by day, Jo now lives with her partner and three cats in Shanghai, China.
  

  

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