Modern Fiction in Translation I: The Vegetarian by Han Kang

Dreaming of Yeong-hye

Illustration by: Anna Webb

Focusing on the theme of literature in translation, in this column I will review novels from a range of cultures across the world, especially looking at those novels that might be otherwise overlooked. Weird and unnerving, beautiful and provoking, the books reviewed are disturbing in the best way, and my hope is that the readers of this column go on to enjoy them as much as I have.

A woman in Seoul makes the decision to stop eating meat. This one simple choice is the starting point for Han Kang’s novel The Vegetarian, a deeply disturbing and beautiful work about agency, mental health, and belief. Originally meant as three separate novellas, the book is broken into three sections, each with a different voice – none of whom, incidentally, are the protagonist’s, Yeong-hye. In fact, throughout, her motivations are relayed to us through a series of unreliable narrators, each with their own very different agendas.

Firstly, Yeong-hye’s husband, Mr Cheong, introduces us to her in a way that makes his own boredom and disgust at his wife blindingly obvious, while endearing her to the reader. By the end of the novel, looking back to his first description of Yeong-hye as “unremarkable in every way” is downright hilarious in its inaccuracy, if in a very depressing way.  According to him, Yeong-hye is a woman in whom her husband “can detect neither freshness or charm”, “not strikingly sensual”, “a completely ordinary wife” – we know from the first page that this man does not understand or care about anything to do with her, and is content in that, although he’s only content exactly up to the point where it inconveniences him and no further, the point at which Yeong-hye rebels in the quietest way possible: she refuses to eat meat. In fact, the one aspect of his wife that Mr Cheong does seem to fully grasp is that she is a woman of few words. Her justification for this seemingly incongruous choice is simple: she had a dream.

To the reader, her husband’s inattention to her can be infuriating at times. He is uninterested in her decision and the motivations behind it, and as he chooses not to mentally engage with it directly, we are only given tantalising fragments of description of this dream, fragments which are in no way enough to explain the quiet vehemence with which Yeong-hye clings to her abstinence from meat. Her rebellion takes the form of a refusal to explain herself. In an incident where she attends an important work dinner with her husband, she speaks a total of four times (one of those being the word “no”), while the discussion prompted by her vegetarianism goes on for several pages, mostly directed at Yeong-hye. She completely refuses to follow the unspoken but accepted protocol, to look slightly embarrassed and explain herself. “The demure, apologetic smile which was the only reasonable response never came… that stare appalled everyone present”. From Mr Cheong’s perspective, the true horror surrounding his wife is her lack of ability or desire to play by the rules, even while his wife clearly undergoes some pretty horrifying events herself in this first section of the novel. If Yeong-hye ever took over the narration fully, this would be a novel with a very different focus.

In the next section, a different voice takes over; Yeong-hye’s sister’s husband. From her brother-in-law’s perspective, this story’s main horror comes from an entirely different angle: the overpowering attraction she inspires in him, especially triggered by his wife, In-hye’s casual mention that her sister has a blue, flower-like birthmark. This image so lodges in his head that fantasies of a flower-covered couple moving together start taking over his waking hours and spilling into his work as a film artist. Gradually admitting to himself that the woman in his fantasy is clearly Yeong-hye, and the man himself, he takes action to realise his artist vision. Written in a very different style to the first section, this middle chapter is more dreamlike and visual, but at the same time equally disturbing, if not more.

The final section, narrated by Yeong-hye’s sister In-hye, is the most painful of the three, and most brutally explicit. If the second section can be best represented by a paintbrush adding flowers to a woman’s neck and back, the third section can best be represented by a scalpel. We are given more insight into In-hye’s worldview and more details that support or counter the descriptions given by the other two narrating voices, In-hye’s husband and Yeong-hye’s. In-hye seems to be the narrator that most sees Yeong-hye as a fellow person, rather than ignoring her like Mr Cheong or romanticising her like In-hye’s own husband.

If you’re looking for a novel to cheer up the potentially dreary Michaelmas term, The Vegetarian is possibly not the best choice. If you want an engaging, unnerving, and sensitive read that is more beautifully written than you might think given the subject matter, I recommend it. Ian McEwan has described it as a “novel of great sexuality and madness that deserves its great success”, and at times it very much reads like some of his more unsettling works. A quick note without wishing to spoil the plot: there are a few distressing scenes in The Vegetarian, including sexual violence, body horror and animal cruelty. Comparatively light on plot, the novel is written in a brisk, precise and matter-of-fact style that contrasts with the bizarre events it describes.

Han Kang is a prolific author whose books have received wide attention and who has been awarded several notable awards. These include the Yi Sang Prize, named after a poet whose work is a part of the inspiration for The Vegetarian. She is the fifth author whose work can been included in the Future Library project; this means that, unfortunately for fans of The Vegetarian, it will not be published until 2114. Luckily, more of Kang’s works are available in English, including Human Acts and The White Book. Both of these, like The Vegetarian, have been translated into English by Deborah Smith, a graduate of Cambridge, who after doing a BA in English Literature learnt Korean after feeling restricted by only reading literature in one language. She has been very highly praised for her work in translation and is heavily involved in the world of translation and literature.

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