LTI Korea Now

Translation is Not a One-way Street, But a Gift

After Han Kang’s 2024 Nobel Prize win, many Korean writers, critics, and thinkers have been asked some variation of the following questions: What does this mean for Korean literature? How do international readers see Korean literature? Where does Korean literature go from here? Landmark feminist poet, essayist, and critic Kim Hyesoon’s answer to these questions during the 2025 LTI Korea Global Literature Forum this past July elicited laughter from her audience: “I don’t even know the direction of my own literature, let alone the future of Korean literature as a whole.” In a panel titled “What is Korean Literature to International Readers,” Kim discussed these issues in dialogue with Jeffrey Yang, a poet and Editor-at-Large at New Directions Publishing. Kim and Yang reflected on their experiences writing and publishing Korean poetry while offering insights into topics such as the role of literary translators, domestic vs. international readers, and the impact of AI on the publishing industry. “The term ‘Korean literature’ is used rather frequently, but I’ve always gotten the impression that outside of Korea, the focus tends to be more on individual works than, say, ‘German literature’ or ‘UK literature’ collectively,” Kim said. In her own work, she strives to transcend the bounds of Korean literature to expand “the territory of this nation we call poetry.” If this has the added effect of boosting global interest in Korean literature, all the better. Yang added that as an editor, he’s seeing an increasing number of Korean works being published in recent years—a trend he partially attributes to (in the US at least) a rise in general interest in translation. As far as the role of literary translators goes, Kim sees poetry translation as a way of expanding the boundaries of the target language. “Translation is not a one-way street or an export,” she said. “It is a sort of revelation that occurs within the reciprocal interaction between the source and target languages.” She encouraged translators to break free from the established expressions of their target language and seek instead to push the limits of language. “I see translation as an extremely demanding endeavor, much like performing transplant surgery, which is why I admire translators very much. What they offer is a gift, a method of exchange.”  As one of her most meaningful memories, Kim pointed to how her longtime English translator Don Mee Choi became a decorated poet in her own right. “Translation calls forth creation. Translation is writing, and it is closely connected to my own act of creating poetry as well,” Kim said. When asked about the impact of AI on the publishing industry, Yang responded, “As an editor and publisher, it’s very dangerous to automatically think you’re going to cut some corners by using AI.” He emphasized how it’s particularly difficult to use AI to translate or write poetry, given the many layers of language and meaning embedded within these works as well as the existence of a “resistance to the commodification of poetry.” New Directions is currently celebrating its ninetieth anniversary and has published Kim’s poetry collections Autobiography of Death and Phantom Pain Wings, both translated by Don Mee Choi. Yang has also contributed two articles to KLN, both on Kim’s poetry. “If you have time, I think those two pieces say a lot that I don’t have time to say here about her work,” he said. Ultimately, Kim’s stance was clear: We must view writers as distinct individuals and avoid grouping them together under the umbrella of Korean literature. “Each poet and each writer is their own nation, their own republic,” she said. “Even if someone were to suggest an overall direction, nobody would follow it anyway.” Regarding the role of organizations like LTI Korea, Kim stressed the importance of recruiting a diverse array of translation professionals to assist with both promotion and outreach. She also highlighted the need for meaningful criticism of translated works, focusing on literary merit rather than translation errors. Yang, meanwhile, pointed to the benefits of funded residencies for translators and the submission of strong sample translations to publishers.

by Sarah K. H. Yoo

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Honmono / No Warm Welcome or Send-off / Light and Thread / Sparkle

 Honmonoby Haena SungChangbi, 2025, 368 pagesNo Warm Welcome or Send-offby Park Joon Changbi, 2025, 112 pagesThis is the second short story collection by Haena Sung, who was voted the “number one young author representing the future of Korean literature in 2024” by customers of an online bookstore. The titular work that enchants readers with just the right amount of madness tells a fast-paced, riveting tale about a shamanic exorcism. As the title suggests (“Honmono” means “real” in Japanese), the story focuses on the unclear boundary between what is real and what is fake, constantly questioning our preconceptions. Each of the seven stories in Sung’s collection brims with charisma and razor-sharp critical consciousness. It won’t take long for readers to understand why Sung holds the rapt attention of Korean readers and critics today.Poet Park Joon has left an impressive mark on the landscape of South Korean poetry. He enjoys such popularity among Korean readers that some even call him “the pop idol of the Korean literary scene.” Like his previous two books, Park’s most recent collection tenders both sorrow and consolation, touching upon what we have lost and forgotten while walking down the path of life.Light and Thread by Han KangMoonji Publishing, 2025, 172 pagesSparkleby Choi Hyeon-jinChangbi, 2025, 204 pagesThis essay collection is Han Kang’s first publication to appear after she stunned the world by winning the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature. The book includes her Nobel lecture (also titled “Light and Thread”), as well as poems, journal entries, and a collection of photos. These intimate and personal pieces provide readers with glimpses into Han Kang’s daily life. Han writes about the joy she felt after she found a much-coveted north-facing room, her reverence for life, and the temperature of writing. “Literature simply pushed me in the direction of life,” she writes. “Because language is that which connects us together against all odds, there is a kind of bodily temperature in literature.”This novel, winner of the 2025 Changbi Young Adult Fiction Award, is Choi Hyeon-jin’s first work in this category. After an unfortunate accident, the main character Yuri undergoes a cornea transplant. The transplant is successful and saves her eyesight. However, she is left deeply scarred by this experience. This novel traces Yuri’s journey toward recovery as she confronts her psychic pain and searches for her donor. Choi lends a comforting hand to young readers who are still searching for themselves in an uncertain world. 

Reviews

[FRENCH] From the History of Origins to the Origins of Korean History

Here at last is a complete French-language edition of one of the foundational works of Korean historiography and literature, Samguk Yusa, translated by Choi Mikyung and Jean-Noël Juttet. This unique account of Korea’s ancient Three Kingdoms, written by the monk-scholar Il-yeon (also written Iryeon, 1206-1289), presents a version distinct from that of contemporary official histories, as is clearly suggested by the translation of the title, History and Legends of the Three Kingdoms. Its mixture of history and legends remains the principal source of knowledge on the history, cultures, and customs of ancient Korea, and strongly influenced Korean narratives from the medieval and premodern eras. It continues to inspire fantastic literature, graphic novels, TV series, and films. Reading it allows us to better understand crucial aspects of Korean culture, traditions, and thought. Although History and Legends of the Three Kingdoms is not based directly on the original classical Chinese text, but rather on the modern Korean translation by historian Lee Jaeho, it faithfully preserves the structure and sequence of Il-yeon’s work. The original text is divided into nine parts in five volumes, a format that allows readers to discover both the historiographical tradition Samguk Yusa operates within and the singular qualities that make it a major work of Korean history and literature. To give its readers additional context, Choi and Juttet’s translation is prefaced by a chronology of the kingdoms of Silla, Goguryeo, Baekje, and Gaya, dated according to Chinese imperial eras, before the opening chapter “Records of Great Wonders,” which recounts Korea’s ancient origins through the myth of Dangun. Another of the book’s pleasures lies in its presentation of the fourteen surviving hyangga (literally, “songs of the land”) from the Silla period, which were transmitted primarily through Samguk Yusa. Often presented in isolation, they have particular resonance here, as Il-yeon places them in historical context. Next come historical, mythical, and legendary tales of the great men and women who shaped the nation’s past, as well as stories of Korean kingdoms’ rivalry and cooperation with China and Japan. Samguk Yusa devotes special attention to narratives of beliefs and customs, and above all to the introduction and spread of Buddhism on the Korean peninsula. This religious history is told through historical records, registers of places of worship, anecdotes of great Buddhist monks, and popular stories and moral tales compiled by the author. While it does not claim to be academic, this sparingly annotated translation is carefully done and successfully reflects the work’s shifting tone, alternately historical, narrative, and lyrical. History and Legends of the Three Kingdoms is therefore recommended to all readers—scholars, students, or the simply curious—who wish to discover an “alternative history” of ancient Korea, along with its foundational myths, legends, and customs. Now, to complement this fine translation, we need only await the publication of its counterpart: Samguk Sagi, or Historical Records of the Three Kingdoms.  translated by Katie Shireen Assef

by Kevin Jasmin Hamard

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[JAPANESE] Dismantling Patriarchy and Restructuring Family

South Korea is often seen as a country with strong patriarchal traditions. In fact, according to the 2025 Gender Gap Index, it ranks 101st globally in gender parity—hardly a sign of significant progress in women’s social advancement. (Although Japan ranks even lower, at 118th.) So YSRA’s The Age of Filiarchy sparks intense curiosity. The protagonist is a young woman also named Sra, who is both the head of a household and the CEO of a company. This semi-autobiographical novel is based on the real-life experiences of the author, Sulla Lee (pen name YSRA). Lee, born in 1992, launched a subscription-based email service in 2018 which sent one short essay daily to readers she recruited via social media. She then founded her own publishing company and released these essays in a collection titled Daily Ysra, which garnered widespread attention. Today, she is one of South Korea’s most prominent writers. Her strong influence on younger generations is shown by her 100,000+ Instagram followers. As a child, Sra was cherished by her grandfather, whom she loved deeply. When he passes away, she feels that it’s now her turn to provide for the family. She becomes a successful writer and founds a publishing company, employing her mother Bokee and father Woong-i. Sra’s writing career effectively makes her the head of the household and the family’s breadwinner. However, Sra is entirely different from the patriarchs of her grandfather’s generation. While she is undoubtedly at the center of the family, her relationship with her parents is egalitarian. As her employees, they work devotedly to create an environment that allows her to focus on her writing. Woong-i is in charge of cleaning and home maintenance, while Bokee takes care of the cooking. What is especially notable here is that the parents are the ones engaged in domestic tasks—traditionally unpaid labor that patriarchal systems assign to women. Sra, however, compensates both her parents appropriately for their labor and implements short working hours, allowing them to enjoy their free time as they choose. As a female head of a household, she is far from authoritarian; instead, she embodies a democratic and progressive form of leadership. This is also reflected in how the novel is written. Through Sra as the central figure, the author turns the spotlight on the characters around her. We discover that her mother Bokee is a skilled cook who had to abandon her education due to poverty, and that her university-educated father Woong-i has drifted from job to job seeking the best way to support his family. These two characters represent typical Korean parents. Though they once held fairly traditional views on gender, family, and the division of labor, their worldview has evolved through observing her professional activities. Still, Sra herself often grapples with uncertainty. When the family goes out to eat at a restaurant, her father refers to a female staff member as an “ajumma” (literally “auntie”, but also used for middle-aged women in general) in a slightly condescending tone. Sra corrects him: “Isn’t that disrespectful?” But in Korea (and Japan as well), restaurant staff are rarely called by name. The term reflects a patriarchal culture that fails to respect women’s individuality—a mindset embedded in the language itself. So then, what should they call the waitress? Sra considers using the title “seonsaengnim,” which means “teacher” but also, more literally, “someone who has lived a life I haven’t yet experienced.” However, that feels slightly too formal, and no other option seems to entirely satisfy her. Sra says, “Language is the order of the world.” If that’s true, then by changing language—and our relationship with it—we may be able to reshape the order of our world into one that is more equal, just, and respectful of others. That is precisely what Ysra is attempting to do in this book. Perhaps that’s why Sra’s way of life influences her parents so deeply—and why she herself remains open and receptive to the words of the children she teaches in her writing classes.

by Masatsugu Ono

Reviews

[GERMAN] Yeonnam-Dong’s Smiley Laundromat

Kim Jiyun’s Yeonnam-Dong’s Smiley Laundromat, set in a quiet neighborhood of Seoul, has already captivated English-speaking audiences. Thanks to Tamina Hauser’s sensitive and evocative translation, it’s now poised to touch the hearts of German readers. At its core, Yeonnam-Dong’s Smiley Laundromat is a tender and compelling portrait of ordinary lives and quiet resilience. It is a novel that feels both deeply familiar and refreshingly original. With its warm, sincere tone and layered characters, it draws in readers with such ease that once opened, it’s nearly impossible to put down. This book offers solace and renewed hope to those who feel adrift or disheartened. The story begins with Old Jang, a lonely man who lives with his dog. One day, he visits the neighborhood laundromat to wash a dirty blanket, a task that seems mundane but sparks an unexpected journey. While waiting for his laundry, he notices a worn green diary that was left behind on a table: its dog-eared pages draw his interest and he opens it despite himself. The diary contains heartfelt messages that read like cries for help. Empathy compels Old Jang to respond with kind, comforting notes of his own. His words ripple outward, becoming a quiet bond that links the laundromat’s visitors. The diary works as a silent mediator that transforms the laundromat into not merely a place to wash clothes but an emotional refuge. The novel introduces a range of characters who feel vividly real: a greedy plastic surgeon who cannot empathize with his aging father, a financially struggling family which is being forced to leave Seoul, and two young adults chasing long-held aspirations that seem forever out of reach. There’s also a woman whose boyfriend is gaslighting her and a young man haunted by the suicide of his brother. His brother was the original owner of the green diary. These characters are not exaggerated or fictional; they mirror people we know such as colleagues, neighbors, and family members. They might even be us. Their joys and struggles are universal, grounded in the reality of contemporary urban life. What binds them is a shared sense of loneliness and longing, and the diary turns the laundromat into an oasis and refuge. One of the novel’s most moving developments is the communal effort to help the grieving brother discover the identity of the man who drove his sibling to despair. Initial suspicions fuel a sense of shared purpose. They aim not only to uncover the truth, but also to rediscover faith in others. In an era of increasing isolation and disconnection from our communities, Yeonnam-Dong’s Smiley Laundromat offers a reminder that even the smallest gestures of empathy can mend broken spirits. This novel is especially recommended for those who feel disconnected from others, or even themselves. It is a comforting invitation to reconnect with neighbors, loved ones, and one’s own dreams. The frequent appearance of pets is also not incidental; it underscores an unconditional, healing love that is often overlooked. Kim’s prose is gentle yet vivid, painting scenes so realistic that readers feel more like participants than spectators, as though they were seated in the laundromat holding the diary themselves. The writing style also guides readers through heavy, painful themes without burdening them emotionally: instead, it provides catharsis and concludes with a sense of emotional closure. The author shared the inspiration behind her writing in an interview: “We often cannot see what is truly precious, so I decided to write about it in precious words.” Tamina Hauser honors this sentiment with remarkable fidelity in her German translation, capturing the linguistic nuances and emotional resonance of the original to allow German readers to experience the novel as intimately as Korean readers have. Kim Jiyun’s Yeonnam-Dong’s Smiley Laundromat is a rare gem—a book that finds beauty in the ordinary and offers grace in the quiet moments we too often overlook.

by KyeongHwa Lee

Reviews

[POLISH] I Love You and I Love Your Death, Too

When someone raised within Western culture encounters Buddhist traditions of living and dying, they may experience a (positive) culture shock because the focus is so entirely different. In Buddhism, God does not make an appearance at the moment of death. Instead, a dialogue takes place with the dead, and the boundary between life and death is revealed to be both fainter than one might imagine and traversable in both directions. Kim Hyesoon draws on this tradition in her absorbing collection of poems, Autobiography of Death. In Autobiography of Death, there are clear echoes of Buddhist beliefs, according to which the boundary between life and death is so blurred and porous that one is daily “breast-feeding the whimpering young deaths” (as it is phrased in Don Mee Choi’s English translation, also referenced below). After death there is a transition period of forty-nine days—bardo—between the end of life and a new reincarnation. This provides the frame and theme of Kim’s work. In Autobiography, death takes different forms: solipsism, despair, out-of-body experiences, a Miłosz-esque “loneliness of the dying”* (and even of the dead), liminality and a coming together of the worlds of the living and the dead, universality and primordiality, and the coming into being (or out of being) of funeral rituals, the origins of which reach back to the first attempts to “capture” and take control, visually, of another human being. Take for example this excerpt from “A Lullaby / Day Thirty-Seven”:* Czesław Miłosz, “Campo di Fiori,” The Collected Poems 1931-1987.     The mother of the child dug a hole and buried her child in the middle of her room.    She also buried her child in the ceiling. Buried her in the wall. Buried her in her pupils.  This is the “motherly way of approaching death,” which Louis Vincent-Thomas writes about in his essay on the foundations and establishment of thanatology. Kim sometimes presents death as aggression as well (in the first poem, a dying woman is attacked on the subway), paralleling the discussion in Vincent-Thomas’s essay. Death in Autobiography is a polyphonic and collective phenomenon. This is still the case when it occurs as a matter of fact and the speaker of a poem is faced with the trauma of a shared tragedy. The volume also speaks of the perverse nature of memory, the function of which proves to be “extinguishing” untrammeled manifestations of vitality:      Citizens laughed inside princess’ head    It was useless giving orders to arrest those who laughed    for the laughter belonged to the dead    It was recorded long ago    like a laugh track      An order was given to make princess laugh    but no one showed up(Kim Hyesoon, “Face of Rhythm”)  Autobiography places death in dialogue with European thanatology and philosophy in various ways. Although Vincent-Thomas defines death as the inability to make plans for the future, in “Commute / Day One,” the speaker of the poem addresses the dying woman thus: “You head towards the life you won’t be living”. In Autobiography, the dying or deceased person is still spoken to and given instructions about how to behave in bardo, which presupposes their ability to understand. Furthermore, in the poem “Photograph / Day Three,” which portrays the human body as a mistreated doll, the line “It may come back to life when you die” points to a paradox of the soul, which can, in Foucault’s words, become a “prison of the body.” Reading Autobiography of Death is somewhat overwhelming, but it leaves you breathless with delight at the sheer beauty of the tradition of imagination and creativity it inhabits. For the European reader, it offers a valuable lesson in the “art of dying” within a community that is not restricted to the “accumulation of scientific and technology goods, which makes a human being into a producer-consumer-commodity,” in the words of Vincent-Thomas. The individual is rather—thanks to the rich tradition of Buddhism—primarily an “accumulation of beings,” recognized as the most valuable human capital. Immersed in relationships and collaboration, “death is accepted there, it becomes an affair of the entire community and subject to ritual.”As the late Krystyna Miłobędzka, a poet and precursor of the neolinguist movement in Polish poetry, wrote in an untitled poem from Po krzyku (2005), “I love you and I love your death, too."  translated by Jonathan Baines

by Weronika Stępkowska