Hello
Gentle Reader,
This
years Nobel Prize in Literature has been awarded to the (South) Korean writer
Han Kang, who the Swedish Academy praised:
“For her intense poetic prose that
confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.”
As
has been the case since the announcement of the 2018 and 2019 laureates for the
Nobel Prize in Literature, this year’s announcement continued in the same particular
Swedish adoration for procedure as a virtue. At 1:00pm (CEST) the Permanent Secretary
of the Swedish Academy Mas Malm, comes through the beautiful white doors of the
Swedish Academy, and takes his position behind the little white pen, and greets
those assembled welcoming them to the Swedish Academy and then anxiously
announce this year’s laureate. Following is the usual dry sermon by Anders
Olsson, Chair of the Swedish Academy’s Nobel Committee. Finally, a very
unenlightening interview with Swedish Academy member Anna-Karin Palm. This all
takes place within a span of twenty minutes. The entire procession could easily
be handled by one person, but is now a relay race between three people passing
a baton.
To
be blunt once again, the current itineration of the Nobel Prize announcement
being divided up amongst different members of the Swedish Academy doesn’t work.
The entire affair is stilted and stagnant. The entire proceedings are starched and
stiff. The lack of engagement and liveliness of the entire assembly is rather
mortuary. Kind of makes you quote from Kazuo Ishiguro’s screenplay for the film
“Living,”:
[Rusbridger]: “Don't worry, old chap. This
time of morning it's a kind of rule: Not too much fun and laughter. Rather like
church.”
Though
I will say, glasses really do suit Mats Malm – and no, I’m not taking the piss –
I think he looked rather charming, and even gave a bit of a smile which was
nice to see. In all honesty and fairness, I think if the announcement
obligations and responsibilities were consolidated back to the Permanent
Secretary of the Swedish Academy as they should be, and no longer divvied up to
other members of the academy or its Nobel Committee, I suspect Mats Malm would
have the opportunity to relax and settle into the role, and provide viewers
with an appreciation of his character and personality, rather than coming
across as somewhat awkward.
Its
not lively or engaging, when compared to the pre-2018/2019 announcement. Oh, Sara
Danius and Peter Englund, you are sorely missed. Even those who are assembled for
the announcement are muted in their response. There’s no cheering and no
applause, just absolute silence, which is really reminiscent of church: sit
down, stand up, sit down, stand up, take your cracker and kneel, peace be with
you and then hasty exit. Perhaps its just me, but I am really disappointed that
over the past five years this is how the announcement of the Nobel Prize in
Literature has been conducted. Its bleached and soulless. There’s no palpable
anticipation. Its droning on and boring. Its reminiscent of a corporate
meeting. Everyone attends first thing in the morning coffee in hand. No participation
or interest, but attendance is mandatory. The Nobel Prize in Literature
deserves better and can do better. We know this because it has. As I’ve said
before: while Anders Olsson is an accomplished academic, literary historian and
critic, these qualifications do not endow him with the charm offensive
necessary to be a front facing and engaging public relations representative for
the Swedish Academy. Since the 2018 & 2019 prize announcements, Olsson’s
approach to the announcement is one of somber sermon rather than enlightening
engagement. The event has become more about endurance then enjoying. Its
previous incarnation may have been more unscripted and sporadic, but at least
it was concise and entertaining, leaving you in a state of somewhat exaltation,
giddy and excited – unless of course its 2016, at which point you stomp around
like an agitated goose.
Turning
towards this years Nobel Laureate, Han Kang, it’s a mixed bag of reactions. Han
Kang is by no means a perennial candidate, and can be considered a surprise
choice; despite being an outlier on the radar. At 53 years old, consensus was
held that she was considered overall on the younger side. Of course, there have
been many writers who have received the Nobel Prize in Literature and can be
considered rather young. Rudyard Kipling retains the honour of being youngest
writer to receive the award 41 years old. Albert Camus was 44 years old when he
received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1957 – and it is considered a serendipitous
award as well, as Camus died tragically three years later in an automobile
accident. Joseph Brodsky was 47 years old when he won the Nobel Prize in
Literature in 1987; once again Brodsky died less then ten years later of a
heart attack, so the Nobel reached him in due time. Orhan Pamuk was 53 when he
won the Nobel Prize in Literature. While Herta Müller was 55 years old and Olga
Tokarczuk was 56. Personally, I thought Han Kang would become a more serious candidate
for the award in another six to eight years, which would give her more time to
publish a couple more works, and she would be entering that typical age group
when writers begin to be assessed by the Swedish Academy. As for Han Kang’s literary
oeuvre, it is by no means robust. Steady and consistent, yes; but certainly not
groundbreaking or monumental. In all, awarding Han Kang the Nobel Prize in Literature,
there’s a sense its perhaps: premature. In a fashion similar to Kazuo Ishiguro
in 2017, this years Nobel Prize in Literature is polite and acceptable, but not
explosively interesting. For the past 8 years, Han Kang has been gaining an
increasingly international literary presence. In 2016, she won the Man Booker
International Prize for her novel “The Vegetarian.” Her short autobiographical
piece of work “The White Book,” was once again shortlisted for the same award
in 2018. Again in 2018, Han Kang was selected as a contributor to the Future Library
Project, where she submitted her manuscript: “Dear Son, My Beloved,” in the
spring of 2019. Now after winning the Nobel Prize in Literature, there really
is no further Han Kang can go on the international literary scene, except perhaps
to quote Doris Lessing: “getting a pat on the head from the pope.” Then again
though, the Swedish Academy may have decided to acknowledge Han Kang with the
Nobel as recognition of not only just what she’s written published but also as
encouragement of what she will publish. While the Nobel Prize in Literature is
often criticized as being the kiss of death or a curse, some writers have
continued to produce high quality work without being tainted by the Nobel’s
lofty reputation. Now, whether or not Han Kang can accomplish that feat, only
time will tell.
The
closest Nobel Laureate that Han Kang can be somewhat compared to is perhaps,
Kazuo Ishiguro; specifically, when the Swedish Academy highlighted the “metaphorical
style,” of “Greek lessons.” As, Kazuo Ishiguro’s novels have been described as
metaphorical pastiches, be it the P.G. Woodhouse comedy of manners, in the
dissection of the trademark English figure: the Butler, and the quintessential
emotionally repressed rectitude of the character in “The Remains of the Day,”;
the dystopian worlds of “Never Let Me Go,” and “Klara and the Sun,” where the
notion of ‘human,’ is explored in the notion of manufactured cloning and the
rise of Artificial Intelligence; or the Arthurian fantasy of “The Buried Giant,”
exploring the notion of remembrance and the bitter reality of societal amnesia.
Ishiguro’s prose is founded on an adherence to cinematic principles, whereby
the author builds tension by revealing the bomb beneath the table, and ensuring
the characters remain completely helpless in changing their predestined fates,
at which point, the readers are left helplessly to watch events run their
course. In “Never Let Me Go,” it’s the passive acceptance of Kathy, Tommy, and
Ruth beginning the process of their donations, and accepting the cruelty and
clinical end of their lifecycle. In turn, Ishiguro is a master of crafting compelling
first-person narrators. “Klara and the Sun,” shines on the fact that Klara is a
compelling narrative voice, observational and inquisitive, whose deductions carry
the weight of the novel successfully, and imbue it with a sense of hope. Kazuo
Ishiguro has been a writer who has sought to wrestle with concepts of the human
condition pertaining to history, the act of remembrance, and the revisions of
history by both individuals and society create and accept. Yet, Ishiguro requires
the pastiche or genre façade of his novels in order to evade the inevitably political
question, which is where Han Kang deviates from.
In
the Nobel citation, the Swedish academy highlights:
“[. . .] that confronts historical
traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.”
This
has been the nature of Han Kang’s work so far, the exploration of trauma and
its generational impact and inheritance. “Human Acts,” is a polyphonic novel
that wrestles with the brutality and horrors of the Gwangju Uprising (Massacre),
where the military coup and dictatorship of Chun Doo-hwan, violently quelled a
student protest which opposed the coup. The novel blooms from this incident,
narrating how from this event how its traumatic repercussions reverberate years
and decades later. One of the most heartbreaking scenes of the novel is the
soul of a victim of the massacre attempting to return home and only to be swept
away at the dawn of a new day. While “Human Acts,” explicitly tackles a
historical and political event, Han Kang succeeds in avoiding the pitfalls of
polemics, by in turn focusing on the individuals experience, their grief, their
pain, in her signature lyrical and succinct style. “The White Book,” in turn
explored a far more personal and intimate form of grief, as Han Kang’s book reflects
on the birth and death of her older sister, and how her death becomes a white spectre
haunting Kang her family. As Han Kang writes:
“This life needed only one of us to live
it. If you had lived beyond those first few hours, I would not be living now.
My life means yours is impossible.”
Anders
Olsson describes “The White Book,” as less of a novel and more of a “secular
prayer book,” whereby Kang ruminates on the notion of life, death, and the
nature of grief, through prose that is associative with colour of white and
white objects. Personally, I found “The White Book,” a beautiful work; even as
the poeticism was heightened within it, but never detracted from Kang’s
meditation on grief and loss, and living within that knowledge that her life was
made possible by the tragedy of her elder sisters’ death. Both Kang and her sibling
were cherished by their parents because of their elder sister’s death, and they
understood life was not trite matter. “Greek Lessons,” explored the personal
sphere of trauma through the contrasting brittle and budding relationship between
two damaged individuals. The woman has experienced loss through the death of
her mother and then loosing custody of her child, and in turn shrinks away from
the world losing her relationship with language in the process. While the instructor is gradually
losing his eyesight and is recovering from the heartbreak of an unrequited
love. They orbit each other in a class dedicated to Ancient Greek language
lessons. The hallmark of “Greek lessons,” however is Han Kang’s beautifully
rendered style, which is a breath of fresh air from Annie Ernaux clinically
bleached language and Jon Fosse’s rhythmic tidal sentences. Han Kang’s style is
smooth and unobtrusive, with her imagery and metaphors often flowing with
natural ease and only a hint of flourish; with somewhat violent imagery injected
for startling effect such as:
“Now and then, language would thrust its
way into her sleep like a skewer through meat, startling her awake several
times a night.”
Due
to Han Kang’s international reputation, this years Nobel Prize in Literature
announcement was not met with the indignant hooting of “Who?” by the press. Over
the years, however, the only (relatively) obscure Nobel Laureate in Literature
has been Abdulrazak Gurnah in 2021. Olga Tokarczuk, Peter Handke, Louise Glück,
Annie Ernaux, and Jon Fosse, had established reputations or were highly recognizable
by the English language press. In a fashion similar to Olga Tokarczuk, Han Kang
shares wining the Man Booker International Prize, while Annie Ernaux was
previously shortlisted and considered the frontrunner with her collective social
biographical history “The Years.”
There
is some annoyance with this Nobel Prize in Literature continuing to abide by this
routine conventional cycle of woman, man, woman, man award. As previously
mentioned, it is well documented that there is a severe imbalance between how
many men have received the Nobel Prize in Literature and how many women have received
the Nobel Prize in Literature. with Han Kang, only 18 women have won the award,
compared to 120 men. Now the Swedish Academy cannot be considered solely responsible
for this. It is important to remember that the Swedish Academy can only
evaluate writers who have been nominated for the award, and as the nominating
archives open up and more information becomes available, we do know that many
women were not nominated in many years. For example, in 1971, only one woman,
the Estonian poet, Marie Under, was nominated. However, since the 1990’s the
Swedish Academy has made a very conscious effort to evaluate and award more
women writers, starting in 1991 with Nadine Gordimer. Since then, every woman Nobel
Laureate has been excellent. Not one of them is mediocre or considered just
good enough. As previously mentioned, each of the previous woman Nobel Laurates
have been consummate and talented writers, tackling the weighted subjects of
the human condition; no different then their male counterparts, even handling
the subjects with more subtlety and weight, completely abandoning the panache
polemics of their male colleagues. Others have become masters of their forms,
completely expanding the forms potential beyond their preconceived limitations.
Many in turn were also great innovators both in language but also in creating
new forms and literary modes of expression in which to mull over the weighted
complexities of the human experience, specifically of the 20th century. While I
appreciate the Swedish Academy is taking a concentrated effort to remediate the
Nobel Prize’s glaring imbalance of laureateship between the two sexes, I think
to single a writer out simply because she’s a woman, really devalues her work
and authorship. If anyone were to allege, for example that Wisława Szymborska
only won the Nobel Prize in Literature because she’s a woman, I’d be disgusted
and repulsed. As this (hypothetical) individual completely disavows and
dismisses the beauty and approachability of Szymborska’s work, where some of
the heftiest subjects and complexities of the human condition are turned into
the most playful and approachable topics. A poem by Szymborska celebrates all
the wonders and needs to be curious. The perennial response of: I don’t know,
all the while indulging in humour, compassion, wisdom, and hope. I worry by continuing
this convention and cycle, the Swedish Academy inadvertently and inevitably will
open up the award and any future woman writer and laureate to be dismissed and
disregarded on the nature of their sex, completely discrediting their work unjustly.
Already this year alone, it appears there is criticism of Han Kang being
awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature because of her ethnicity and because of her
sex. The current environment of hypersensitive identity politics only curates
this problem further. There’s no disagreeing with the fact that the Nobel Prize
in Literature has a huge imbalance between the number of men awarded in comparison
to women, but I think the Swedish Academy should (and will) remediate this imbalance
in time and organically. It is only a matter of time until two female writers receive
the Nobel Prize in Literature in succession. Perhaps maybe next year it will
finally happen, then we can collectively agree: there its done, they did it we can
move on, at which point we can debate the merits of literature, not the metrics
of sex. Furthermore, this continued alternating between the two makes the prize
so predictable, and that’s boring.
It
comes as no surprise that for years now, the (South) Korean government has taken
considerable steps and investment in exporting their culture across the globe. As
The Guardian (hopefully) cheekily wondered: “Could K-lit be the new
K-pop?!” Regardless, for over a decade now, the (South) Korean government has worked
significantly hard to promote and get their writers translated into foreign
languages, and much like China has coveted the Nobel Prize in Literature,
viewing the award as recognition of their culture and linguistic history, in
addition to affirming their position as a rising global power, who in spite of
lacking an abundance in natural resources, understands the power of human
capital and investment and have become a major player on the world stage. Han
Kang’s Nobel maybe an award granted to her for her current body of work, but in
the context of geopolitics, for the (South) Korean government it becomes an
acknowledgement of their literary contributions, cementing their reputation as
a cultural powerhouse on the world stage rivaling the United States and Japan
for example. The New Yorker ran an interesting piece on this back in
2016 called: “Can a Big Government push bring the Nobel Prize in Literature to (South)
Korea?”, which provides some understanding regarding the push for (South) Korea
to have a Nobel Prize in Literature and the cultural and financial investment the
state has taken to really advocate for a Nobel Prize in Literature.
For
years the only speculated Korean language writer who was expected to receive the
award was Ko Un, as the poet had the monopoly on the public’s imagination of Korean
language literature, yet in due course, this position was usurped, as more and
more Korean language writers began to be translated and start contending for
international literary awards. Kim Hyesoon for example, is one of the most
staunched feminist poets of (South) Korea, her poetry is visceral as it is
violent, all the while retaining a sense of playfulness. Hyesoon often reminded
me of Elfriede Jelinek for her poetry having a linguistic zeal and intensity to
it, but also for its unapologetic feminist preoccupation. Hyesoon won the
Griffin Poetry Prize in 2019, the Cikada Prize in 2021, and the National Book Critics
Circle Award in 2023. As Ko Un’s chances certainly became less probable over
the past few years as allegations of sexual misconduct were leveraged against
him; Kim Hyesoon appeared to be a more then worthy candidate and in essence the
antithesis to Ko Un, in addition to shaking the cage against (South) Korean
society’s very limited view of women. On a sidenote, she has an amazing sense
of style. When Han Kang won the Man Booker International Prize in 2016 for her
novel “The Vegetarian,” as testament to my character as a reader, I eyed it up
suspiciously and as more and more people recommended it with glowing appraisal,
I staunchly refused to read it. The novel at the time didn’t seem interesting
to me, and the few passages that I did read did not compel me to read it any
further. Instead, I turned my attention towards Bae Suah, who appeared more
daring and more compelling, often described as the Korean Kafka, and criticized
in her native country for “Committing violence to the Korean language,” and I
immediately thought to myself: now this is someone worth reading; and Bae Suah
is. If Han Kang is the empathic explorer of emotional intensity and responses, Bae
Suah was the cerebral counterweight, exacting and experimental in form,
continually testing and twisting literary conventions and forms to suit her
whims. To describe Bae Suah as the dark horse of Korean literature would be an
understatement. What I appreciate the most about Bae Suah, is she’s an autodidactic
writer. She’s famously said her first story came from practising her typing.
Bae Suah is not a writer who has been manufactured or indoctrinated into what
literature she’s expected to produce. She retains a very deconstructionist perspective
to literary forms, and while her experiments are perhaps not always successful,
they are engaging and invigorating. Still, there are so many more Korean
writers in translation in large part, thanks to the governments explicit effort
to see their writers translated into other languages.
Regardless
though, Han Kang has won this years Nobel Prize in Literature, and I don’t
think the Swedish Academy made a poor decision. If anything, it was a premature
decision, but I do think Han Kang will be a very decent Nobel Laureate. I’m
looking forward to seeing more of her work translated too, especially getting
her short stories: “Convalescence,” and “Europa,” wrangled into more definitive
publications alongside still untranslated works. I think the marvellously infectiously
joyous Peter Englund has described Han Kang best:
“This year's Nobel Prize in Literature
goes, as is now widely known, to Han Kang. There is an impressive fear in her,
in approach, in style, in object. She can often be bewildering. Her central
theme is loss and pain. But there is not, as is often the case with Western
writers, a search for reconciliation or healing. Rather, for her, loss and pain
are a basic condition of existence, to be dealt with.”
I
particularly enjoyed Englund’s analysis of Han Kang’s work being concerned with
loss and pain, but rather than turning its attention to reconciliation and
healing, Kang presents pain not as a transformative experience as if often the
case in the western perspective, but is part of the foundation of existence,
which are managed and endured, but true ‘healing,’ or absence of that pain is
never truly remediated or remedied.
Congratulations
to Han Kang, I do look forward to reading more of your work as its translated
and see what your future output will be.
Thank you for Reading Gentle
Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
M. Mary
— Edit —
Due to a powerful geomagnetic storm, the Aurora Borealis was in dazzling for this morning/last night, and I was fortunate enough to capture a few beautiful shots of it (after taking a trip into the country). The following are three of the photos that I captured. While not specifically described as in Sjon's novel “The Blue Fox,”:
“The rim of daylight was fading.
In the halls of heaven it was now dark enough for the Aurora Borealis sisters to begin their lively dance of the veils. With an enchanting play of colours they flitted light and quick about the great stage of the heavens, in fluttering golden dresses, their tumbling pearl necklaces scattering here and there in their wild capering. This spectacle is at its brightest shortly after sunset.”
Here's to the Nobel Prize in Literature:
