By Kelly Rosalyn Moore and Daisy Young
The Vegetarian by Han Kang
Han Kang was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in October 2024; news that was well-deserved yet unexpected. My first introduction to Kang was The Vegetarian. In pursuit of diversifying my reading list, this bizarre novella is the perfect example of outstanding Korean literature that both bewilders and delights readers all over the world.
Please note, this novella is not for the faint of heart. Be aware of trigger warnings for discussion of eating disorders, hospitalisation and sexism.
Boasting a unique three-part narrative structure, the titular first section carefully introduces the main character, Yeong-hye, through the eyes of her traditional husband, Mr. Cheong. We witness a brief moment of equilibrium before the once-conventional couple’s world descends into chaos. Where Yeong-hye originally embodied the ideal stereotypical housewife, her only non-conformist behaviour was her refusal to wear a bra. This seemingly mundane act of dissent foreshadows the narrative progression and character deterioration that follows in a series of unsettling events.
The novella’s title comes from Yeong-hye’s conversion to vegetarianism, an unconventional diet in Korea, triggered by disturbing nightmares about meat consumption. These haunting episodes punctuate the novel and gradually incite various levels of abnormal behaviour. Yeong-hye’s initial act of discarding all the meat in their apartment is just the beginning of her intriguing transformation.
The second section, ‘Mongolian Mark’, is fuelled by obsession. Narrated by Yeong-hye’s unnamed brother-in-law, it follows the progression of Yeong-hye’s condition and the aftermath of her divorce from Mr. Cheong. In general conversation with In-hye, his wife and the protagonist’s sister, the topic of Mongolian birthmarks reveals that Yeong-hye still has one. This glimmer of innocence becomes a focal point of the narrator’s fixation and sexual desire. Kang depicts the oppressive male gaze that persists, underpinned by Yeong-hye’s continued erratic behaviour.
The third and final section, ‘Flaming Trees’, is disturbing in its portrayal of eating disorders and hospitalisation. Yeong-hye’s vegetarianism has spiralled into anorexia nervosa, and she is refusing treatment at an institution. Using her sister, In-hye as the narrator, Kang focuses on the aftermath of trauma on the family as a collective unit rather than on individual experiences. It is a conscious decision to deprive Yeong-hye of her voice; like society, we are onlookers to those who dissent, and rarely get the chance to understand their struggles.
Despite the maintained voyeuristic approach to storytelling, In-hye’s narration offers a refreshing female perspective as she shares memories of her childhood with her sister. Her narrative voice provides a much-needed respite from the omnipresent sexualised male gaze.
There are many references to nature in this segment as Yeong-hye feels like she is completing the process of turning into a tree. In-hye’s internal conflict is with Yeong-hye’s transformation. Whilst she wants to help her sister recover from anorexia (and arguably schizophrenia), she also recognises and even envies her liberatory rejection of societal norms.
The Vegetarian feels like compulsory reading for anybody interested in symbolism or extended metaphor in fiction. The essence of fixation mutates throughout the chapters, and I can fervently attest that this novella changed the way I perceive autonomy and self-expression, and where the boundaries lie.
Days at the Morisaki Bookshop by Satoshi Yagisawa
Like many English-speaking readers, I have found a deep love and fascination with Japanese translated fiction. I am always surprised to see how long these titles have been published for before making it to UK bookshelves, especially when many touch on comforting themes like human relationships, family and love. There is a deep connection to literature in many of the translated books I have read, and Days at the Morisaki Bookshop is one that advertises that connection loudly and proudly. The story is told in two parts, but always from the perspective of protagonist, Takako.
The first section follows her recovery after her break-up with her boyfriend. Devastated after learning about his impending marriage, Takako runs away to the shelter of her estranged Uncle Satoru’s bookshop. Though their personalities clash initially, they eventually find common ground and Takako discovers a love for books and self-confidence that Satoru helps nurture and grow. In return, Takako helps soothe Satoru’s ever-present loneliness in the absence of his runaway wife, Momoko, whom he still loves. The latter part of the book sees Momoko’s return, shortly after Takako leaves the safety of the bookshop for new horizons. Takako helps Satoru navigate the long-held secrets of his wife and aids Momoko in confronting the ghosts of her past, as well as overcoming the grief that shrouds her aunt and uncle.
For such a compact book, it holds a lot of emotion and heart, none more so than in the form of Satoru. He is the glue that holds the story together and the ‘safe harbour’ for those around him to seek shelter and advice. What I enjoy most about him is that his love is obviously unconditional. He doesn’t care that his initial relationship with Takako is stilted and one-sided, instead he consoles her over her break-up and pushes her to recover. With Momoko, he is more unsure, but you can easily see that his love for her is still there. All he wants is closure as to why she left and why she came back and, when he learns the truth, he never judges or reprimands her. They instead reforge their relationship and make it stronger and fuller.
I love books that are about love and not romance – though romance does feature within this story – because they are genuine and look at relationships and interactions in ways that are both marvellous and ordinary. There is a comfort in seeing and reading about familial love, especially how it is portrayed by other cultures and countries, because it reminds us that we can find connections no matter where we are in the world. I would highly recommend this short heartfelt book, especially if you are a fan of authors like Toshikazu Kawaguchi and Durian Sukegawa.