한국국제교류재단

As a colonized prisoner of the Empire on a cramped interstellar voyage, a young woman finds solace in the arms of another prisoner, a handsome young man with red hair and hazel eyes who hails from another colonized planet. When they arrive at a strange, hostile white planet, they are told that they will only gain freedom by defeating a race of monsters who are referred to as “ghosts.” But a milky fog envelops the prisoners moments after they exit their spacecraft, blinding them and rendering the young man’s gun useless. Before they can even decide what to do next, a ray of white light slices through the fog and neatly bisects the young man from shoulder to hip. The woman screams and drops to her knees, but she has no time to mourn, as another ray of light cleaves the air where her head had just been. She has only one weapon to defend herself: a sword in a mirrored red scabbard. By a stroke of luck, the scabbard reflects the fatal light back at her enemy, and she manages to kill the ghostly alien with her sword. But now more aliens armed with the deadly light await her in the choking white fog, while ruthless Imperial soldiers are ready to shoot dead any prisoners who flee from battle. How long can she survive on this hostile planet?

Thus, we are thrust into Bora Chung’s brutal science-fiction tale, Red Sword, brought to the English-speaking world by veteran translator Anton Hur. The story follows our nameless protagonist as she clings to life in a place where death waits dispassionately at every turn. The narrative unflinchingly captures the cold, unfeeling violence that swirls around our protagonist like a maelstrom, putting the reader alongside her in dire circumstances.

Brief interludes woven between the chapters gradually fill in pieces of the puzzle of what exactly is happening on the deadly white planet. The reader will likely understand the truth of the young woman’s situation before she does, and the dramatic irony makes the final revelation even more tragic. All that remains to be seen is how she will react when she becomes aware of her capabilities.

Red Sword is a tense and compelling narrative that, like all good science fiction, raises questions about what it means to be human. The inhumanity of the Empire’s war, in which the prisoners are thrown into battle repeatedly with as little regard for their lives as one might have for the life of an insect, seems absurd at first, but it wouldn’t have the impact it does if we had no analog in our own reality. On the other side of the battle lines, the depiction of the unknown Other as “monsters” and “ghosts” echoes war propaganda that has been heard so many times throughout human history. And then there is the deeper philosophical issue of the role played by memories in the construction of identity. Is that all we really are in the end, just a collection of memories that leads us down a deterministic path to inevitably become the persons we are without any of our own input? Or can our choices define us as well, no matter how futile they may sometimes seem? This novel will have you asking these questions and more, long after the roar of ship engines and the desperate cacophony of battle fade from your ears.

From Being to Being brings to the English-speaking world the poems of Oh Eun, poems that the translator notes “push readers to experience the Korean language beyond its ordinary use.” This creates something of a dilemma for the translator, as there are certain things that do not neatly translate. A reader might wonder why “Too Much” suddenly mentions trees, for example, but the reason becomes clear when you realize the similarity in appearance between neomu (too much) and namu (tree) in Korean. “Medicine Called ‘If’” is a meditation on letting go of “what ifs,” but the title makes a little more sense if you know that manyak means “if” in Korean and also sounds like a type of yak, or medicine.

As is customary with collections of Korean poetry, From Being to Being ends with commentary from a literary critic. Perhaps nowhere has such commentary been more welcome, as it sheds light on how the poet plays with language; it is also supplemented by copious notes from translator Shyun Ahn to render it understandable for English-speaking readers. Wordplay aside, the poems work on several different levels. “Be You” and “A Critique Session,” for example, stand out as declarations of social criticism. “Confirmation Hearing” reads like a manifesto by the poet, and when he writes, “Almost every word has a double-edged sword,” the reader cannot help feeling that the words have never been truer.

Korean Bapsang is run by Hyosun, a Korean-American mother who started the website to teach her children how to cook the Korean food they ate while growing up.

For the newcomer, there is a handy “start here” link that introduces the concept of the bapsang (roughly, “dinner table”); basic elements of Korean meals such as rice, banchan (side dishes), soups, stews, etc.; a list of Korean pantry staples; and a selection of easy recipes to get you started.

The recipes page itself is naturally more detailed. It is divided into categories such as snacks or appetizers; main, slow-cooker, or vegetarian dishes; desserts, and even “special event” dishes, such as the food from the popular K-drama Itaewon Class, or “game day” recipes that feel like the perfect meeting of Korean and American culture. Each recipe opens with a mouth-watering photograph of the dish being presented and is followed by an explanation of the dish, its history, and Hyo-sun’s memories of it. This is a familiar structure among food blogs, as is the “jump to recipe” link, which allows you to skip the background and dive straight into the ingredients list. This reviewer will admit to using this function on most other food blogs, but the brief introductions on Korean Bapsang are worth reading, especially if you want to learn more about Korean food. If this blog doesn’t make you want to sit down at a Korean dinner table right now, I don’t know what will.