Why Did Han Kang Win the Nobel Prize? (translated from my Chinese essay)

 

 

Why Did Han Kang Win the Nobel Prize?

 

Yilin Zhong

 

Ever since Amazon discontinued the Kindle eBook service in China, I’ve been unable to access Chinese books published locally or translated into Chinese. To date, I've only read two short stories by Han Kang: "The Plant Wife" which she wrote at 27 and later expanded into the Booker Prize-winning novel "The Vegetarian", and "Middle Voices" published in 2023 in The New Yorker.

The reason I’m writing this article, despite having read only these two stories, is that since the announcement of her award, I've seen various discussions and literary reviews in major Chinese media that feel rather off-topic. I want to clarify that while the focus of much of the media is on "The Vegetarian", which earned Han Kang international acclaim, it is not the work that won her the Nobel Prize. Instead, it was her 2014 novel "Human Acts" (translated in Chinese as "少年来了"-The Young Guys Come), which recounts the Gwangju Uprising in South Korea in 1980. This translation is even more perplexing: while the title "The Vegetarian" merely misinterprets the deeper theme of the novel, the title "Human Acts" being translated as "少年来了" represents a catastrophic commercial simplification of a literary work. It’s akin to translating "The Nanjing Massacre" into "少年来了".

To get back on track, "The Vegetarian", completed in 2003 when Han Kang was 33, was published in Korea in 2007. After its translation and publication by British translator Deborah Smith in 2015, it stunned the English literary world, allowing Han to triumph over former Nobel laureates Orhan Pamuk and Kenzaburo Oe, as well as the popular "Neapolitan Novels," winning the Booker Prize in 2016 and becoming the first Asian author to receive it. At the time, British media expressed confusion about how the judging panel overlooked so many famous Nobel laureates to award such a significant literary prize to an obscure newcomer. Following the announcement of Han Kang’s Nobel Prize win on October 10, 2024, the Booker Prize judge quickly pointed out that they were being criticized for choosing an unknown author back then, and now look at her status.

Some Chinese media have commented that Han Kang published "The Vegetarian" in 2014, won the Booker Prize in 2016, and then the Nobel Prize in 2024—all within a decade. First, this method of measuring literary achievement by years is absurd. Why not mention that Cao Yu wrote "Thunderstorm" at 23, achieving great success in just one year? Moreover, 53-year-old Han Kang is not the youngest Nobel laureate; American writer Pearl S. Buck won at 46, British author Rudyard Kipling at 42, and French writer Albert Camus at 44. Talent and literary accomplishment cannot be equated with age or experience, as many authors shine early; for instance, German literary giant Goethe wrote "The Sorrows of Young Werther" at 25. Han Kang, born in 1970, published her first poetry collection in 1993 and her first short story in 1994, so she can certainly be considered an early achiever.

Now, let’s discuss the novel that made her famous: "The Vegetarian". Much of Chinese critics’ discourse revolves around the superficial story of the female protagonist becoming a vegetarian and eventually transforming into a plant, leading to her hospitalization. Whether this misunderstanding stems from translation issues (since I’ve only read the synopsis and a few thousand words of the novel), it seems many overlook the true theme of the book: why does the protagonist choose to become a vegetarian, repeatedly asserting, “I do not eat meat”?

Although I have only read "The Plant Wife," the short story that precedes "The Vegetarian," I must say it’s the first novel I've read in years from start to finish without skipping. As someone who writes novels, I often read the first few thousand words to grasp the author's style and feel I can skip the rest. However, Han Kang’s "The Plant Wife" captivated me entirely. The last time I was so engaged was five years ago with Olga Tokarczuk’s "The Most Ugly Woman," and before that, Alice Munro's stories. These exceptional works managed to compel me to continue reading despite knowing the authors’ styles. Among these three outstanding female writers, Tokarczuk’s prose conceals sharp insights, while Han’s language is deceptively simple yet profoundly impactful. But the master remains Munro, a true contemporary master of the short story.

"The Plant Wife" tells a straightforward tale: the protagonist’s body develops unexplained bruises, leading to a gradual transformation—from vegetarianism to eventually only consuming water and becoming a plant on her balcony. This magical story might seem incomprehensible to many, but understanding Han Kang's inspiration clarifies her intent. In a 2007 interview, she recalled being struck by a line in a poem by Yi Sang (a famous Korean poet): “I believe humanity should be like plants.” She wondered why such a genius would wish for a strictly animal creature to become a plant.

While "The Plant Wife" was inspired by Yi Sang, it didn’t fully explore this concept, so Han Kang spent three years expanding the theme into the over 100,000-word "The Vegetarian," writing by hand due to pain that made typing difficult. Although I can only access the first few chapters online, it’s evident she meticulously structured and developed this theme from a short to a long format. Undoubtedly, she is not only a literary genius but also a master of narrative technique.

Beyond the novel's three-part structure (notably, the protagonist does not serve as the narrator) and narrative techniques, its themes are profound. Han Kang does not merely challenge the question of eating meat versus being vegetarian; rather, she critiques the patriarchal society of South Korea and the foundations of human civilization. In the novel, the protagonist's father violently forces her to eat meat, threatening that if she doesn't, she will be consumed by others. Such chilling language transcends mere vegetarianism, addressing fundamental issues of human existence. Thus, I contend her thematic ambition is both lofty and piercing. The Chinese title "素食主义者" trivializes her literary intent.

To write this article, I checked which publisher produced such translations. I found that the novel was published twice: first in 2013 by Chongqing Press as "素食主义者" (which means "Vegetarianism"), and again in 2021 by Motie and Sichuan Literature and Art Publishing House as "素食者" (which is slightly better but still inaccurate). It seems Motie acquired the rights after the Chongqing edition's license expired. The difference in editorial quality is glaring.

Regarding the description on the Chongqing edition's cover, I was at a loss for words. The publisher likely assumed the protagonist’s refusal to eat meat indicated a mental disorder (as in the novel, she was indeed sent to a psychiatric hospital), hence the theme of “mental illness.” In contrast, the Motie version’s cover merely quotes the novel's core line: “If you don’t eat meat, others in this world will eat you.” (A statement from the protagonist’s father).

At this point, I must emphasize that the notions of “eating meat” or “eating human” in this novel are entirely different from the "eating human" in Lu Xun’s A Madman's Diary, which critiques Chinese history and social systems. Han Kang's critique extends beyond any specific system or South Korean history; her focus is on fundamental issues concerning human society and civilization. She develops Yi Sang's inquiry: Why does he believe that "humanity should be like plants"?

I initially intended to highlight the novels Han Kang wrote after "The Vegetarian," which won her the Nobel Prize. As I mentioned, "The Vegetarian" is an early work, while her truly impressive works come from her more recent years: "Human Acts" (2014), "White" (2016), and "We Do Not Apart" (2021). However, I’ve yet to fully discuss the theme of "The Vegetarian". I have to leave it for now.

Lastly, a brief introduction to her 2014 novel "Human Acts." This book recounts the military suppression and massacre in Gwangju, Han Kang's former hometown, in 1980. The massacre occurred in May of that year, but Han Kang, then only nine years old, had already moved away with her family in January. Thus, the author did not directly experience the events. Many years later, in her thirties, Han returned to Gwangju to research and reflect on the massacre while writing the novel. Unable to find a Chinese version, I only viewed summaries and excerpts online, and I felt it bore similarities to Svetlana Alexievich’s non-fiction Voices from Chernobyl, although Han’s novel is more narrative-driven (which goes without saying).

When I read Voices from Chernobyl, I was struck by how I could never rewrite that non-fiction story in a fictional form. Yet Han Kang accomplished this in "Human Acts," demonstrating her remarkable skill. Additionally, her narrative techniques rival Alexievich’s. Writers understand that transforming real-life stories into fiction is incredibly challenging. It’s not merely a matter of rendering easy images, but rather of crafting well-known events or news stories into a novel that resonates emotionally. For example, Fang Fang wrote a diary about Wuhan, yet to this day, no Chinese writer has turned that story into an engaging fictional work. Writing a compelling and thought-provoking literary novel from real events is an extraordinary challenge.

Setting aside Han Kang’s deep thought and literary mastery, her prose—regardless of translation quality—is astonishing. This is why I could read every word of her short story written when she was 27. Some aspects of her writing, like the poetic quality of her prose, seem to stem from inherent talent, while others, like her poignant reflections on human behavior and collective fate, reflect her cultivated skill. Her works are described by European and American readers as having “no wasted words.” The global literary community praises her, from ordinary Amazon readers to Swedish Nobel Prize judges. I can only say that Han Kang is incredibly talented, and her Nobel Prize is well-deserved.

My only concern for her is that she has mentioned suffering from severe headaches (physical ailments) that prevent her from living normally while writing. As a writer, I understand this painful backlash intimately. It’s hard to express. I don’t possess her courage to confront such profound suffering. Yet Han does, and she continues to move forward. She is truly a warrior, using her fragile female form and warm humanity to unearth the world’s most cruel truth, confronting us, and propelling us forward.

 

October 12, 2024, London