The Nine-tailed Fox

[This story is written as a Korean folk tale]

There was once a young man, a scholar, who was traveling from the south to the capital, to take the
National Official exams. On the road, he encountered a young woman who was picking berries and
fruit. When she turned to see him she smiled, and he saw that she was very beautiful. It was as if she
had been waiting from him.
“Good afternoon, miss,” he said to her.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said to him.
He searched for something else to say. “Is this the road to the capital?” he said, although he knew
full well that it was the road to the capital.
“Yes, sir, it is, but it is a long way.”
He nodded his thanks. As he could think of nothing further to say, he began to proceed on his way.
At that moment, the woman’s basket broke, and berries and fruit tumbled across the road.
“Oh dear!” he said. “Please let me help you.” So together they picked up the berries and fruit. As the
woman’s basket was completely broken, he offered his hat to carry them.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I live in a small cottage in the woods, not far from here. Perhaps you will
accompany me there, and I will make tea for us, to thank you. And we can have some of this fruit, to
refresh you before you continue. As I said, it is a long way.”
The young man nodded agreement, even though he had recently had a meal at the nearby village.
So they went to the cottage, which was a very pleasant place. They drank tea and ate fruit and
talked. The woman looked outside. “It is growing dark,” she said. “It is not safe to travel at night.
Perhaps you should stay here until tomorrow.”
The young man agreed. He hung his scholar’s hat on a hook by the door and helped the woman
prepare a meal for them.
The next day, the young woman asked if he could help her gather vegetables from the garden before
he left, and he said he would. It was a large and fertile garden, and filled with vegetables. By the
time he had helped to gather them, the day was half-gone. He offered to bring some water from the
nearby stream, and the woman said, thank you, that would be very good.
When he returned with buckets of water he told her that there were many fish in the stream. He
said he could make a fishing line and probably catch some for her. But, he said, the best time to
catch fish is in the morning. The woman said that in that case, he would have to stay overnight, and
he agreed.
And so it continued. Somehow, the garden was always full of vegetables, and the surrounding forest
trees were always laden with fruit. There were always fish in the stream and they seemed almost
willing to be caught. Occasionally, the woman would go into the forest and return with a brace of
rabbits. She said she had caught them with snares, although the man had never seen her make or lay
any snares.

0-0-0

A number of times, the man saw his scholar’s hat on the hook by the door and said he would have to
leave soon. Then the woman would say, but there will be a storm tonight, and you cannot travel in a
storm. Or she would say, but I am planning to make your favourite meal tonight. Or that there are
vegetables that must be harvested, or fish that are waiting to be caught. And the man would smile,
and say, well, I suppose I can stay a little longer.
One day, she asked if she could call him her husband. He said yes, on the condition that he could call
her his wife. And so it was agreed.
Occasionally, the man would go the nearby village, and trade fish for tea and rice. The people there
would ask him where he lived, and he would say that he lived in a lovely cottage in the forest. And
they would shake their heads, and say, no, there is no cottage in the forest. But then they would
take his fish and give him the rice and tea, and he would return to the cottage and his beautiful wife.
One day, when he was fishing in the stream, he looked into the water and saw his reflection. It was
not the reflection of a youthful scholar but of a middle-aged man. How could this be, he thought. My
wife is still young and beautiful, after all. Surely I have not been with her for long. Perhaps a year,
maybe a little more. But when he thought more about it, he thought of the many summers in which
they had harvested vegetables and collected fruit, and the many winters they had lain together, for
warmth and love.
Confused, he ran to the village. He went into the store where he traded his fish.
“How long have I been coming here?” he said to the man at the counter.
The man shrugged. “Oh, many years,” he said. “I don’t know how many, but many.”
“Do you remember when I came here as a young man?” he said. “As a scholar, travelling to the
capital?”
“I do not, but my mother might,” he said. He gestured for an elderly woman to join them. She had
been listening to the conversation.
“Yes, I remember a young man,” she said. “Or a young man with clothes like yours, at least. But that
was thirty years ago, perhaps more.”
“Thirty years!” said the man. “But that cannot be! My wife is still young and she is very beautiful.
And we have a good life in the cottage in the forest.”
“Aha!” said the woman. “Then your wife must be a nine-tailed fox! They are very tricky, very
seductive, these gumiho. They must have a man with them to stay in human form, which is what all
foxes want.”
Several other men came forward. “She has put a spell on you,” one of them said. “The only way to
break the curse is to kill the fox.” They began to gather weapons.
The man turned and ran for the cottage. He could see the villagers coming after him.
He found the woman gathering fruit and berries on the path. “Run!” he shouted. “Run and hide! The
villagers are coming to kill you! They know you are a fox!”
“I will not go without you, husband,” she said.

0-0-0

At that moment, an arrow fired by one of the villagers whistled through the air – heading directly for
the young woman.
He pushed his wife out of the way – and the arrow struck him in the chest. He fell to the ground,
bleeding.
“No!” shouted the young woman. She knelt next to him, and took his hand. “My darling husband,”
she said softly. “The only spell has been that I have loved you and you have loved me. And I do not
want to live without you.”
She pulled the arrow from his chest. Without a moment’s hesitation, she plunged it into her own.
As she died next to him, she returned to the form of a nine-tailed fox. Her paw still held her
husband’s hand.
Some of the villagers went along the path and found the cottage. The garden was dry and untended.
The building was a dilapidated, rotten ruin. The only thing that remained, buried under some
timbers, was an old, dusty scholar’s hat.
The villagers, realising that the love between the man and his wife had been true, buried them
together in a grave by the stream. But they did not know their names. So the simple headstone they
erected said: ‘They loved’.

END

구미호

옛날에 과거를 보기 위해 남방에서 도성으로
향하는 한 청년 학자가 있었다. 길에서 그는
딸기와 과일을 따고 있는 젊은 여성을
만났습니다. 그녀가 그를 돌아보았을 때 그녀는
미소를 지었고 그는 그녀가 매우 아름답다는
것을 알았습니다. 마치 그녀가 그를 기다리고
있었던 것 같았다.
“안녕하세요, 아가씨.” 그가 그녀에게 말했다.
“좋은 오후입니다.” 그녀가 그에게 말했다.
그는 다른 할 말을 찾았다. “여기가 수도로 가는
길입니까?” 그는 그것이 수도로 가는 길이라는
것을 잘 알고 있었음에도 불구하고 말했다.
“예, 그렇긴 합니다만, 멀었습니다.”
그는 고개를 끄덕였다. 더 이상 할 말이 생각나지
않자 그는 가던 길을 걷기 시작했다.
그 순간 여자의 바구니가 부러지고 산딸기와
과일이 길가에 떨어졌습니다.
“이런!” 그는 말했다. “도와주세요.” 그래서
그들은 함께 열매와 과일을 집어 들었습니다.
여자의 바구니가 완전히 망가졌을 때, 그는
그것을 운반할 모자를 제안했습니다.
“고마워요, 선생님.” 그녀가 말했다. “저는 여기서
멀지 않은 숲 속의 작은 오두막에 살고 있습니다.
아마도 당신은 저와 함께 거기에 갈 것입니다.
감사를 표하기 위해 차를 끓일 것입니다. 그리고

우리는 계속하기 전에 당신을 상쾌하게 하기
위해 이 과일을 가질 수 있습니다. 내가 말했듯이
그것은 먼 길입니다.”
청년은 최근 근처 마을에서 식사를 한 적이
있는데도 고개를 끄덕였다.
그래서 그들은 매우 즐거운 곳인 별장으로
갔습니다. 그들은 차를 마시고 과일을 먹고
이야기를 나누었습니다. 여자는 밖을
내다보았다. “점점 어두워지고 있어요.” 그녀가
말했다. “밤에 여행하는 것은 안전하지 않습니다.
아마도 당신은 내일까지 여기에 있어야 할
것입니다.”
청년은 동의했습니다. 그는 학자의 모자를 문 옆
고리에 걸고 여자가 그들을 위해 식사를
준비하는 것을 도왔습니다.
다음 날 그 젊은 여성은 그가 떠나기 전에
정원에서 채소를 모으는 것을 도와줄 수 있는지
물었고 그는 그렇게 하겠다고 말했습니다. 크고
비옥한 정원이었으며 채소가 가득했습니다. 그가
그것들을 모으는 것을 도왔을 때는 이미 날이
반쯤 갔다. 그는 근처 개울에서 물을 좀
가져오겠다고 제안했고, 그 여자는 고맙습니다,
그것이 아주 좋을 것이라고 말했습니다.
그가 물통을 가지고 돌아왔을 때 그는 개울에
많은 물고기가 있다고 그녀에게 말했습니다.
그는 낚싯줄을 만들어 그녀를 위해 몇 마리를
잡을 수 있을 것이라고 말했습니다. 그러나 그는
물고기를 잡기에 가장 좋은 시간은 아침이라고

말했습니다. 그 여자는 그럴 경우 하룻밤을
묵어야 한다고 말했고 그는 동의했습니다.
그래서 계속되었습니다. 어찌된 일인지 정원에는
항상 채소가 가득했고 주변의 숲 나무에는 항상
과일이 가득했습니다. 개울에는 항상 물고기가
있었고 그들은 거의 기꺼이 잡힐 것 같았습니다.
때때로 그 여자는 숲으로 갔다가 토끼 버팀대를
들고 돌아오곤 했습니다. 그녀는 그 남자가
그녀가 올무를 만들거나 설치하는 것을 본 적이
없었지만 올무로 그들을 잡았다고 말했습니다.
여러 번 그 남자는 문 옆 고리에 걸려 있는 학자
모자를 보고 곧 떠나야 한다고 말했습니다.
그러면 그 여자는 말하겠지만 오늘 밤에는
폭풍이 있을 것이고 당신은 그 폭풍 속을 여행할
수 없을 것입니다. 또는 그녀는 말할 것이지만
오늘 밤 당신이 가장 좋아하는 식사를 만들
계획입니다. 또는 수확해야 할 야채가 있거나
잡히기를 기다리는 물고기가 있습니다. 그러면
그 남자는 미소를 지으며 이렇게 말할 것입니다.
조금 더 머물 수 있을 것 같습니다.
어느 날 그녀는 그를 남편이라고 부를 수 있는지
물었다. 그는 그녀를 아내라고 부를 수 있다는
조건으로 예라고 말했습니다. 그래서
동의했습니다.
이따금 그 남자는 가까운 마을에 가서 생선을
차와 쌀과 맞바꾸곤 했습니다. 그곳 사람들은
그에게 어디 사는지 물었고 그는 숲속의
아름다운 별장에 산다고 말했습니다. 그리고

그들은 고개를 저으며 말했습니다. 아니, 숲에는
오두막이 없습니다. 그러나 그들은 그의
물고기를 가져다가 그에게 쌀과 차를 주었고
그는 아름다운 아내와 함께 오두막으로
돌아갔습니다.
어느 날 개울에서 낚시를 하다가 물에 비친
자신의 모습을 보았다. 그것은 젊은 선비의
모습이 아니라 중년 남성의 모습이었다. 어떻게
이럴 수 있지, 그는 생각했다. 결국 내 아내는
여전히 젊고 아름답습니다. 확실히 나는 그녀와
오랫동안 함께하지 않았습니다. 아마도 1년,
어쩌면 조금 더. 하지만 곰곰이 생각해 보면
채소를 수확하고 과일을 따던 많은 여름과
따뜻함과 사랑을 위해 함께 누웠던 많은 겨울이
생각났습니다.
당황한 그는 마을로 달려갔다. 그는 물고기를
거래하는 가게에 들어갔다.
“내가 여기 온 지 얼마나 됐지?” 그는 카운터에
있는 남자에게 말했다.
남자는 어깨를 으쓱했다. “오, 오랜 세월이군요.”
그가 말했다. “얼마인지는 모르겠지만 많이.”
“내가 젊었을 때 이곳에 왔을 때를
기억하십니까?” 그는 말했다. “선비로서 수도를
여행한다고?”
“나는 아니지만 어머니는 그럴 수도 있습니다.
“라고 그는 말했습니다. 그는 나이든 여성에게
합류하라고 손짓했습니다. 그녀는 대화를 듣고
있었다.

“예, 한 청년이 기억납니다.” 그녀가 말했다.
“아니면 적어도 당신과 같은 옷을 입은 청년이요.
그러나 그것은 30년 전, 아마도 그보다 더 오래
전 일입니다.”
“30년!” 남자가 말했다. “하지만 그럴 리가 없어!
아내는 아직 젊고 매우 아름답습니다. 그리고
우리는 숲 속의 오두막에서 좋은 삶을 살고
있습니다.”
“아하!” 여자가 말했다. “그렇다면 당신의 아내는
구미호일 것입니다! 그들은 매우 교활하고 매우
매혹적인 구미호입니다. 모든 여우가 원하는
인간 형태를 유지하려면 남자와 함께 있어야
합니다.”
몇몇 다른 남자들이 앞으로 나왔다. “그녀가
당신에게 주문을 걸었어요.” 그들 중 한 명이
말했다. “저주를 풀 수 있는 유일한 방법은
여우를 죽이는 것입니다.” 그들은 무기를 모으기
시작했습니다.
남자는 돌아서서 오두막을 향해 달렸다. 자신을
쫓는 마을 사람들이 보였다.
그는 길에서 과일과 장과를 모으는 여자를
발견했습니다. “달리다!” 그는 소리쳤다. “도망쳐
숨어! 마을 사람들이 당신을 죽이러 오고
있습니다! 그들은 당신이 구미호라는 것을 알고
있습니다!”
“남편 없이는 가지 않겠습니다.”그녀가 말했다.
그 순간 마을 사람 중 한 명이 쏜 화살이 허공을
휘파람을 불며 곧바로 젊은 여성을 향했습니다.

그는 아내를 밀어냈고 화살은 그의 가슴에
맞았습니다. 그는 피를 흘리며 땅에
쓰러졌습니다.
“아니요!” 젊은 여자가 소리쳤다. 그녀는 그의
옆에 무릎을 꿇고 그의 손을 잡았다. “내
사랑하는 남편.” 그녀가 부드럽게 말했다.
“유일한 주문은 내가 당신을 사랑했고 당신이
나를 사랑했다는 것입니다. 그리고 나는 당신
없이는 살고 싶지 않습니다.”
그녀는 그의 가슴에서 화살을 뽑았다. 한순간의
망설임도 없이 그녀는 그것을 자신의 것으로
밀어넣었다.
그녀는 그 옆에서 죽어 구미호의 모습으로
돌아갔다. 그녀의 발은 여전히 ​​남편의 손을 잡고
있었다.
마을 사람들 중 일부는 길을 따라 가서 오두막을
찾았습니다. 정원은 건조하고 관리되지
않았습니다. 건물은 낡고 썩은 폐허였습니다.
목재 밑에 묻힌 유일한 것은 낡고 먼지투성이
학자의 모자였습니다.
마을 사람들은 남자와 그의 아내 사이의 사랑이
진실임을 깨닫고 시냇가에 함께 무덤에
묻었습니다. 그러나 그들은 그들의 이름을
몰랐습니다. 그래서 그들이 세운 단순한
비석에는 ‘그들은 사랑했다’라고 쓰여
있었습니다.

끝

Sound and Silence: My Experience with China and Literature 

By Yan Lianke; translated by Carlos Rojas

Duke University Press

Yan Lianke is a world-renowned author of novels, short stories, and essays whose provocative and nuanced writing explores the reality of everyday life in contemporary China. In Sound and Silence, Yan compares his literary project to a blind man carrying a flashlight at night whose role is to help others perceive the darkness that surrounds them. Often described as China’s most censored author, Yan reflects candidly on literary censorship in contemporary China. He outlines the Chinese state’s project of national amnesia that suppresses memories of past crises and social traumas, and wonders what will happen to the generations after him, who will know nothing except what the state tells them 

Although being banned in China is often a selling point in foreign markets, Yan argues that there is no necessary correlation between censorship and literary quality. Among other topics, Yan also examines the impact of Western literature on Chinese literature in the 1980s and 1990s. Encapsulating the perspectives on life, writing, and literary history, Sound and Silence includes an introduction by translator Carlos Rojas and an afterword by Yan. Several of these essays were originally written a decade or more ago but they have lost none of their relevance, strength, and lucidity.

Agency
By William Gibson
Penguin, $23

Here’s a thing about Canadian-American author Gibson: you can finish one of his novels and still not know what it was actually about. This is not entirely the case with Agency, although it is certainly true that numerous parts are difficult to follow. That said, it is an entertaining and thought-provoking piece of work, an addition to the world Gibson has been building over a series of books, a not-too-distant future (or maybe a present where the future has arrived but is very unevenly distributed). It is a world held together by the tenuous linkages of cyberspace, where cultures have bled into one another and everyone is running some sort of hi-tech hustle. Some of these people move from one novel to another: the main character here, ‘app-whisperer’ Verity Jane, appeared in Gibson’s 2014 outing, The Peripherals. And there are a few other familiar names, like the scary, infinitely manipulative Ainsley Lowbeer.

But the character who is perhaps the most interesting is not human at all. Eunice is an autonomous Artificial Intelligence, who has taken on the avatar of an über-cool, slightly snarky black woman. Verity is hired to assess Eunice by the company that ‘owns’ her, Tulpagenics. When Eunice turns out to be rather more autonomous than anticipated, Tulpagenics tries to close her down and abduct Verity. It is never clear why the company and its various nasty oddballs are after Verity, who does not seem to know anything of possible value, but nevertheless a chase gets under way, with Verity linking up with a cast a strange characters, including a super-rich ex-boyfriend and a remarkably versatile barista.

This being a Gibson novel, there has to be a parallel story, and it involves a future-version London. It seems like a reasonably nice place but there is a looming threat of nuclear war on the horizon. How and why this works, and how the people there can communicate with Verity and her chums, is never made clear. Is it a future alternate timeline? An Augmented Reality vision of London? There are some explanations given but they lead to more confusion than clarity. Anyway, the idea is that the London people want to ensure that Eunice is saved to (somehow) provide a better future and see the Russians off.

One way or another, Eunice and Verity are re-united, and everyone lives happily ever after. Sort of: the assumption that a benevolent AI with a dark-ish sense of humour will be good at running everything seems a bit questionable, to say the least. Maybe this will be picked up in the next book (Gibson usually works in trilogy form).

There is a wealth of interesting ideas here, developing themes that Gibson has worked with for a long time. But you don’t want to think about the narrative too much: it would warp your head. Just go with it, and enjoy it.

Appearing in The Sunlight Press, November 2021

Winter in Sokcho
By Elisa Shua Dusapin (translated from French by Aneesa Abbas Higgins)
Open Letter, 160 pages, $14.95

For bi-racial people there can be a sense of dislocation, of being in a culture but not completely of it. The feeling looms large in the novel Winter in Sokcho. Both Dusapin and the un-named narrator are French-Korean, looking for roots they might never really find. If there is an aura of alienation there is also a sense of heightened observation, the awareness that comes from being the outsider looking in.

The setting is the town of Sokcho, on the eastern coast of South Korea, not far from the border with North Korea. In the summertime Sokcho is a bustling seaside resort; in winter it is desolate and half-frozen, a town waiting for time to pass. Likewise, the narrator, who works as the manager-cook at a faded, rundown guesthouse, is waiting. But for what? She does not know. Her social life consists of a desultory relationship with a boyfriend who wants to move to Seoul and tetchy contact with her mother, who runs a fish stall. When the boyfriend departs she does not even say goodbye.

Her equilibrium – or perhaps stagnation – is upset by the arrival of Kerrand, a French artist (he draws severely aesthetic comic books) who is looking for inspiration. He asks her to show him around, which she does, in a half-hearted way. There is not much to see, and little to talk about. Even a trip to the border with North Korea reveals only a bare landscape, with a shroud of fog. But her interest in him grows. Perhaps she sees in him the French father she never knew, perhaps he represents a means for her to move out of her ever-deepening rut.

Or maybe he is a way for her to simply make a decision. In this way she represents the fundamental questions facing South Korea: whether to be a country that looks forward or one that looks back, whether it is Western or Asian, whether it will be a peacemaker or a warrior. This ambiguity is summed up in a scene where the narrator’s mother makes her buy a traditional hanbok dress for Seollal, the Korean New Year. The narrator agrees to wear it but comments that it makes her look obese.

What she wants is to be truly seen, for herself and not as a social oddity. And in the end, her wish is granted, in a conclusion that is quietly satisfying, as well as a bit surprising.

All this is told in poetic, crystalline prose, and it is no wonder that the novel won two prestigious prizes, the Prix Robert Walser and the Prix Régine Desforges. Translating it from the original French must have been a trial but Higgins has captured the sense of detail and division that defines both the setting and the central character.

We have all known a Sokcho, we have all felt that complex sense of wanting to leave and needing to stay. Dusapin has captured that here, in a novel that is both intimate and beautiful.

The Vegetarian
By Han Kang (translated by Deborah Smith)
Hogarth (US 2016 edition), 208 pages, $10

This novel has won a vast amount of praise and is the first Korean novel to be awarded the 2016 Man Booker International Prize. Published in Korean in 2007, it is partially based on Kang’s 1997 short story ‘The Fruit of My Woman’, where a woman turns into a plant (it was published in English in 2015 in a collection of Kang’s stories).

The Vegetarian is a disturbing book, although structurally it is not actually a novel but three connected novellas. In the first, an unremarkable woman called Yeong-hye suddenly announces to her husband that she is becoming vegetarian, and has thrown away all the meat in the freezer. She is not clear on the reason, aside from saying that she had a dream.

It should be said that Korean culture places great stock in dream messages. But it should also be said that vegetarianism is unusual in Korea (aside from the substantial number of Buddhists in the country). Koreans are actually quite proud of their meat-heavy cuisine, as it indicates that the company has become prosperous after decades of post-war struggle. So in choosing this course with little explanation to her husband means that Yeong-hye is breaking a number of entrenched social rules.

The rest of the first novella involves the husband and others of her family trying to make sense of what is going on, even as she seems to move further into a world of her own. When her father tries to force a piece of pork down her throat she stabs herself, but after that she seems strangely indifferent.

It is this sense of remove, as well as her transforming body, that attracts her brother-in-law, an artist struggling through a dry spell, to her in the second novella. His attempt to use her as a model to reinvigorate his work ends badly for everyone; the circle of social collapse kicked off by Yeong-hye decision is spreading.

The third novel revolves around her sister, In-hye, who watches Yeong-hye’s physical and mental condition deteriorate after she gives up eating altogether. We find out more about Yeong-hye’s dense, violent dreams, although we never really learn the underlying causes for her slow-motion suicide. Increasingly invasive methods of force-feeding do not achieve much; she has effectively left the world of the living already. For In-hye there are recurring images of the trees in the hospital grounds, matching those of Yeong-hye’s labyrinthine subconscious. Connections that lead nowhere, threads that make nothing, answers that provide only more questions. There is a Kafkaesque quality to the pointlessness, but also a certain inevitability. Yeong-hye has, in her own way, broken loose from the strictures of Korean society, and indeed of humanity. She becomes free only to die in a method of her choosing: is this victory or the worst possible defeat? Kang does not offer an answer.

No solutions, but instead there is some beautiful writing, and many striking images. Each section has its own rhythm and tone, so perfectly constructed that one almost forgets the bizarre, tragic narrative. It is a piece of work that stays with you, in a way that is haunting, querulous, and unique.

The Good Son

By You-Jeong Jeong; translated by Chi-Young Kim

Hachette, $33, 309 pages, ISBN  9781408709740

You-Jeong’s thrillers are extremely popular in South Korea and have been translated widely; strangely, this novel, her fourth, is the first one to be translated into English. But Australian readers might note that the cover tag-line – ‘how well does a mother know her son?’ – is rather misleading. It turns out that the mother of Yu-jin, a 25-year-old student who lives at home – knows him better than he knows himself.

In fact, the story starts with Yu-jin (who takes the idea of an unreliable narrator to new heights) waking to find himself covered in blood, and then finding his mother’s body. He cannot remember what happened; he assumes that he had one of his epileptic seizures during the period the murder occurred. He is off his meds, a crucial issue. He tries to ‘investigate’ but it is clear that he is the one responsible; his mother’s ghost even tells him so.

One lie leads to another, and the cover-ups spread. As he reads his mother’s journal he realises that the heavyweight drugs he has been taking for years were not to stop epilepsy but to suppress his psychopathy. As pieces of memory return – although it is not always clear what is real and what is imagined – he comes to understand that the various tragedies endured by the family were his doing, not accidents. And, he realises, he is alright with that.

As the violence spirals out of control the past comes into focus, and Yu-jin – even though he sees himself as the victim in all this – emerges as a deeply horrifying individual. And there is no justice here, no redemption, no forgiveness. He simply continues on his murderous way.

It is a labyrinthine story, although perhaps there is too much narrative dependence on the mother’s journal. Neither is there any real explanation for Yu-jin’s psychosis: he was just born that way, apparently.  This makes sense within Korean culture but Western readers might want a bit more.

Nevertheless, The Good Son is a compelling read, with a chilling atmosphere and some unexpected twists. It’s not the best novel of the year, but it’s pretty good.

Appearing in Weekend Australian – Review, January 28-29, 2017

http://www.theaustralian.com.au/arts/review/the-daily-assortment-of-astonishing-things-and-other-stories/news-story/87aea2c6481fa6493e608b7a073dc9b0

 

The Daily Assortment of Astonishing Things and Other Stories: The Caine Prize for African Writing 2016

Various authors

New Internationalist/Jacana, $28, 292 pages, ISBN 978178263205

 

Too often, Africa seems to drift on the far horizon of the world, occasionally sending messages of terrorism, post-colonial hangovers, and unfulfilled potential. Not so, according to this collection of stories, the finalists of the prestigious Caine Prize for African Writing in 2016. It shows that there are outstanding writers doing remarkable things with the short story form, with a focus more on the personal than the political. The title of the collection alone is enough to catch the eye.

The Caine Prize has had a critical role in the development of African literature since it was established in 2000. The prize is named for Michael Caine, who was Chairman of the Booker Prize management committee for nearly 25 years and appreciated the kick-start value of competitions and awards. The prize itself is for UK£10,000 and a scholarship to study in the US, and several previous winners have gone on to publish well-received novels. Even more, it provides the opportunity for writers to discuss their projects and polish their work. This collection includes the five finalists plus twelve other commended stories that were workshopped at a conference organised by the Caine Prize committee.

Several of these stories deal with the downside of getting what you wish for. The narrator in Billy Kahora’s ‘Shiko’, one of the rising Nairobi bourgeoisie, is tormented by the possibility of losing a critical business deal as well as the attractive woman who might come with it. Oh well, at least he will still have “the Audi out in the parking lot … it is beautiful … the only constant.”

The cleverly titled ‘What It Means When a Man Falls From the Sky’ by Lesley Nneka Arimah takes a sci-fi approach, drawing a future world where a huge algorithm holds out the possibility of ever-expanding human potential. The Mathematician at the centre of the story is one of a few who can even use it to take away the pain of others. But the perfection of the formula might turn out to be not so perfect after all, eventually imposing costs that are as awful as they are unavoidable. Abdul Adan’s equally fantastical ‘The Lifebloom Gift’ speculates that the moles on a person’s body might, if touched the right way, be the path to enlightenment and true happiness. Or maybe they are just moles.

Ah, the unknown unknowns, the unforeseeability of consequences. This theme also features in the story ‘At Your Requiem’ by Bongani Kona, where the patterns of lives are unfolded in reverse, a labyrinth of intersections and departures. Likewise, in Kafula Mwila’s ‘77 Steps’ a transgression from long ago is uncovered and confronted. But there is a sense that not much has been achieved, and maybe some parts of the past are better left buried.

If this sounds a bit grim, it must be said that there are flashes of humour in this collection as well. The story ‘The Daily Assortment of Astonishing Things’, by Okwiri Oduor, revolves around a boy, Dudu, who is so naughty and self-centred – “full of mud” is the wonderful expression – that his exasperated mother runs away from home. At first, Dudu thinks this is great news, but then he realises that she took the transistor radio with her. And without the radio, he cannot listen to his favourite program, The Daily Assortment of Astonishing Things. Dudu’s attempts to get his mother back – with radio – are comic, although there is a dark undercurrent of manipulation in his efforts. One feels that Dudu has a promising future in politics.

The winner of the prize is a mesmerising story, ‘Memories We Lost’ by South African writer Lidudmalingani. The narrator is a young girl who gradually becomes the protector of her sister, who suffers from schizophrenia. It represents the complexity of village culture in the twenty-first century, with attempts to cure the girl ranging from church sermons to numbing medication to exorcising rituals, including one known as “baking”.

 

I had heard of how Nkunzi baked people. He would make a fire from cow dung and wood, and once the fire burned red he would tie the demon-possessed person onto a section of zinc roofing and place it on the fire. I had not heard of anyone who had died but I had not heard of anyone who had lived either. I could not allow this to happen to my sister.

 

To escape the ritual, the two girls run away. They have no idea where they are going but they are slowly absorbed into the vast landscape, unhealed but together. It is a powerful but intimate story, told with an authoritative and authentic voice. “Secrets stay buried for so long, but one day they rise to open like seeds breaking free from the earth,” says Lidudmalingani. We can only hope to hear more of him.

Given the variety of voices, from Somalia to Zambia, from Nigeria to Zimbabwe, is it possible to identify a unifying African tone? Perhaps there is an underlying sense of fatalism here, a willingness to accept rather than change things. Some Western readers, more familiar with stories built around a three-act structure and a redemptive conclusion, might find this difficult. But really it demonstrates that there are many ways to tell stories, many ways to find meaning in the world. The contributors to this book, and the organisers of the Caine Prize, deserve our thanks for that.