Post-Nobel Prize in Literature 2024 Thoughts

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: