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Violent emotions : modern Japanese and Korean women’s writing, 1920-1980 Jeon, Miseli 2004

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VIOLENT EMOTIONS: MODERN JAPANESE AND KOREAN WOMEN'S WRITING, 1920-1980. by MISELI JEON B.A., M.A., M.L.S., M.A.,  Yonsei University, Korea, 1976  Hanguk Oegugo Univeristy, Korea,  1986  The University of British Columbia, 1991 The University of British Columbia, 1996  A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF T H E REQUIREMENTS FOR T H E DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in T H E F A C U L T Y OF GRADUATE STUDIES PROGRAMME IN COMPARATIVE LITERATURE  We accept this thesis as conforming to the required standard.  T H E UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA June 2004 © Miseli Jeon, 2004  Abstract  This thesis aims to draw scholarly and general attention to two long-neglected areas in the fields of modern Korean and Japanese literature. The first is the way that individualism (an imported concept) was adopted and adapted by modern Korean and Japanese women writers from the 1920s to 1970s. The second is the role that the traditional sensibilities of urami (in Japan) and han (in Korea) play in modern women's writing. A n additional purpose of the thesis is to introduce these traditional sensibilities to Western readers. The work of six writers will be highlighted, namely Hirabayashi Taiko, Kono Taeko, and Oba Minako in Japanese literature, and Kang Kyong-ae, 0 Chong-hui, and Pak Wan-so in Korean writing. The discussion is divided into the periods before and after the Second World War. Within each period, Korean and Japanese women writers are paired according to thematic similarities in their works. My discussion is based on the hypothesis that the Western ideal of individualism provided an outlet for Korean and Japanese women previously silenced and marginalized by the rigid precepts of the traditional neo-Confucian patriarchy in both Korea and Japan. I focus on how the concept of individualism affected these women writers, and also how they adapted the ideal of individualism to voice their feminist concerns. Urami (1S<^) and han (tS) share the same Chinese character  that signifies potentially  violent emotions of resentment and anger that accumulate in a person when exposed, for a long time, to ideological oppression, often paired with its physical equivalent. Despite this similarity, Koreans and Japanese have developed dissimilar ways of dealing with and expressing the emotions. These ways have further changed along with socio-political developments in the two countries. The evolution of urami and han has been influenced by industrialization and westernization, and by the neocolonial presence of the  United States in the East Asian region. I apply a Western theory or a set of theories to the examination of each author, but remain aware of the difficulties that arise from such a procedure due to the cultural and historical differences between East Asia and the West (i.e., Europe and America). In so doing, I want to create a bridge between Asianists and Western readers, as well as permitting myself an exit from "innate" critical concepts that may themselves be implicated in Confucianism. The theories invoked are all deconstructionist, and are perhaps best summed up by Kathleen Marks's concept of "apotrope," that is to say a moving away from the trope, the latter designating any rigid systems that need to be dismantled in order to bring about reform. These theories are chosen so as to highlight not only the difference between urami and han, but also the similar themes and motifs that recur throughout the works by all six authors. My research opens up various new fields of research, including comparative studies of national-/?a/7, c\ass~han, and women's han, and of male and female writers' interpretations of individualism.  - iii -  Table of Contents page Abstract  ii  Table of Contents  iv  Acknowledgements  •  Stylistic Notes  vii ix  Introduction  1  Objectives  1  Existing Research  2  Method and Scope  8  Outline of Chapters and Motifs  14  Chapter One: History and Traditional Sensibilities  23  History  24  Existing Views of Urami and Han  39  Chapter Two: Hirabayashi Taiko and Kang Ky5ng-ae Hirabayashi Taiko  51  Biographical Background..  :  51  The Apotropaic and the Language of the Body  55  "The Self-Mockery"  61  The Origin of Urami.  67  Miscarriage and the Apotropaic Strategy  76  "In the Charity Ward"  78  Back to "Self-Mockery"  82  Kang Kyong-ae  88  Biographical Background  89  "Can the Subaltern Speak?"  91  Human Problem  94  From Han to Class Solidarity Through the Process of Individuation  99  The Intellectual versus the Labouring Class  104  Can the Intellectual Speak for the Proletariat?  108  - iv -  Salt  HO  From Chong (Compassionate Attachment) to Won (Venomous Grudges) The Traces of the Intellectual: A Disembodied Voice  116 121  Chapter Three: Kono Taeko and 0 Chong-hui Kono Taeko  130  Freud versus Deleuze  131  Kono's Understanding of Sadism and Masochism  132  Transcendence Through Negation  135  An Unexpected Voice  137  Borrowing the Father's Body  141  Waking up from the Sadistic Fantasy  150  0 Chong-hui  154  O's Poetic Realism  155  Evoking the Legend  157  Plot Structure and Summary of "Weaver Woman"  158  Clues  168  Chronotope and Carnivalesque Ambivalence  172  Unweaving the Entangled Chronotopes  176  The Final Enigma: The Six-Fingered Man  183  The Dissolution of Han  187  Visions of a New World: Kono versus 0  188  Chapter Four: Oba Minako and Pak Wan-so Oba Minako The Language of the Sybil  191  Oba's Taoist View of Language: The Language of the Individual..  194  The Language of Exile  200  "The Smile of a Mountain Witch"  205  An Example of Previous Critiques on "The Smile"  212  Reading Minds or Learning to Repeat Others' Words  214  "The Repairman's Wife"  221  - v -  The Dissolution of Urami.  226  Dismantling the Old Language and Assembling a New Language  231  Russ the Healer or Shaman in the Land of Exile  233  Pak Wan-s6  237  What is "Outsider's Consciousness"?  237  Colloquialism as a Narrative Strategy  242  Brief Historical Background  243  //a;?-talk  245  The Use of Profanities and Abusive Language  247  Naked Tree  247  The Origin of Han  253  The Process of Individuation  255  Little America in Seoul  261  The Artist Ok and the Economic Pragmatist Tae-su..;  278  Oba's versus Pak's Encounter with American Culture  292  Conclusion  295  End Notes  303  Works Cited and Consulted  326  - vi -  Acknowledgements I am indebted to the co-directors of my dissertation, Professors Bruce Fulton and Eva-Marie Kroller, who so generously shared their time and knowledge. Professor Bruce Fulton guided me through the translation of Korean literature, prepared me for conference presentations, and helped me with the publication of my works. Professor Eva-Marie Kroller showed me how to write good research proposals in order to obtain the necessary funds, repeatedly read my dissertation at all stages, corrected my mistakes, directed my attention to crucial points that I missed, and showed me what dedicated scholarship is all about. But above all, I am grateful to her for believing all these years in my ability to complete the dissertation, and for her straightforward advice. 1 thank all members of my dissertation advisory committee. Professor Sharalyn Orbaugh was always ready to share books, knowledge, and information, and she was wholeheartedly supportive of my research project. In particular, her essays inspired me and gave me the courage to consider my dissertation topic worthwhile. I am grateful to Professor Steven Taubeneck for his time and encouragement. With his guidance in critical theory, I was able to organize thoughts and ideas. I am deeply indebted to Professors Susan Fisher and Janice Brown, who worked so hard for me when I applied for a postdoctoral fellowship, and for encouragement throughout. I thank Susan and Gordon Fisher from the bottom of my heart for copy-editing my dissertation despite their busy schedule and for bringing to my attention up-to-date journal and newspaper articles on Korea and Japan. I would also like to thank the many professors who assisted me in various ways: Professors Nancy Frelick, Emily Goetz, Graham Good, Valerie  Raoul, Ross King, Yun-shik Chang, Donald Baker, and Joshua Mostow. I am indebted to Professors Y i Nam-ho and Kim U-ch'ang in Korea University, and Yi Chae~s6n in Sogang University for their kindness and willingness to help me collect research material. In particular, Professor Y i Chae-son generously donated to me several of his expensive books. These became important source-material for my research. I am deeply indebted to Professor Oshima Hitoshi at Fukuoka University for his selfless and enthusiastic support for my search for the Japanese research material. Professor Chungmoo Choi kindly directed me to books and articles about han. M y dear friends Tomoko Goto and Lucia Park, with their expertise as librarians, gladly involved themselves in my research by searching databases and libraries throughout the world for books and articles that I needed. My gratitude goes to all the library staff in both the Asian Library and the Inter-Library Loans Division of Koerner Library. Mr. Y i Yong-jun, a doctoral candidate at Harvard, did not hesitate to share his knowledge of the source material on Korean women writers at the beginning of my research. I am grateful to Hanako Masutani who spent many weekends proofreading the first draft, one chapter after another, and encouraged me to keep writing. My thanks also go to Christine Dawson in Comparative Literature and Mina Wong in Asian Studies for their practical help and for always being there. I thank SSHRCC for a doctoral fellowship (2000-2002) and the Korea Foundation for granting me a generous graduate student's scholarship in 2000. I thank my parents, brothers, sisters, my son, and my friends who have patiently waited until my dissertation was completed.  Stylistic N o t e s 1. W h e n the author's original text is quoted, the translation comes first followed by the original text. 2. F o r K o r e a n o r Japanese sources, the titles of monographs and journals are surrounded by chapters by  r  r  j and the titles of journal articles and monographic  j .  3. Dialogue in K o r e a n and Japanese dialogues is e n c l o s e d in  r  j ', thoughts  are bracketed with < >. 4 . K o r e a n and Japanese names appear in K o r e a n and Japanese style, surname first, e x c e p t in the case of individuals writing in E n g l i s h who have chosen to adopt the W e s t e r n order. 5. Romanization styles are M c C u n e - R e i s c h a u e r for K o r e a n and H e p b u r n for Japanese, e x c e p t in the case of individuals who have romanized their names in alternative styles. 6. K o r e a n first names are hyphenated to avoid possible misspelling (when transliterated back into Korean) and mispronunciation.  Introduction  Objectives This dissertation aims to accomplish two tasks. The first is to examine adoptions of the imported concept of "individualism" in selected texts from modern Japanese and Korean women's writing. The second is to introduce 1  Western readers to the traditional Japanese and Korean sensibilities called, respectively, urami and han, both potentially violent emotions of resentment and anger. These emotions accumulate in a person when exposed, for a long time, to ideological or/and physical oppression. Individualism provides an outlet for women's pent-up urami and han. A dimension of these sensibilities serves as the framework for contrasting the two literatures. My time frame runs from the 1920s to the 1970s for Japanese writers and from the 1930s to the 1970s for Korean writers. The 1920s and 1930s were decades when the two countries witnessed a sudden increase in the number of women writers. The 1970s saw a second upsurge in the number of Japanese women writers and the debuts of major Korean women writers who would be part of an unprecedentedly large number of women writers in the following decade. The discussion below is divided into the periods before and after the Second World War. Within each period, Korean and Japanese women writers are paired according to the thematic similarity of their works. Around the turn of the twentieth century, Korean and Japanese intellectuals were preoccupied with a new idea called "individualism" that had been introduced into Japan only a few decades earlier and into Korea via Japan. This preoccupation has naturally attracted the attention of students of 3  the period (see, for example, Walker, Suzuki, Karatani, Kim Uchang, Hwang Jong-yon). Nevertheless, research (on individualism) has consistently omitted  any consideration of how individualism left its mark on women's writing. This silence might create the mistaken impression that the process of adopting and adapting this Western concept primarily affected male intellectuals. However, given the intensity of the debate, it stands to reason that women knew about it and participated in it too. Moreover, for Korean and Japanese women, who lived in a neo-Confucian society which denied their needs and suppressed their opinions as a matter of principle, the introduction of individualism must have offered a welcome opportunity to have their voices heard. Starting from the hypothesis that women writers also contributed to the debate about the ideal of individualism, I will focus on the ways in which they adapted this ideal for their own strategic purpose of establishing female subjectivities. Adapting the concept of individualism helped women writers break away from the traditional neo-Confucian code of morality and the neo-Confucian world view. Adapting individualism also helped them focus on their feminist interests despite the contending claims of other ideologies.  4  Existing Research Many scholars of Japanese studies (for example, Inoue, Karatani, Walker) have explored the manifestations and ramifications of the Western concept of individualism in the Japanese context. Literary criticism (including Fowler, Kobayashi, Walker, Suzuki) tends to focus on the first-person narrative (shishosetsu  or watakushi shosetsu) which emerged and flourished during the  Taisho period (1912-1926). However, autobiographical narratives by women have been excluded from the genre of watakushi shosetsu. Instead, their texts have been categorized as "women's literature" when in fact women's writing encompassed other genres besides autobiographical narratives (see Ericson 87-8). This classification as "women's literature" carries with it an implied  - 2 -  value judgement. The aesthetic standards of contemporary watakushi shosetsu saw women's autobiographies as "family-based, fraught with complications such as the love affairs of married women and married men" (Muramatsu 175; qtd. in Ericson 88) and therefore intrinsically inferior to men's watakushi shosetsu which were assumed to require authorial self-discipline and a quest for personal truth. Nevertheless, because these women writers did not adhere to generic strictures as closely as their male counterparts, they enjoyed greater freedom to express themselves in an individual and unique manner. A s a result, "women's literature" may have been an unusually fertile area for the development and expression of individualism. In her study Daughters of the Moon: Wish, Will, and Social Constraint in Fiction by Modern Japanese Women (1988), Victoria V . Vernon takes up the issue of "women's autobiographical writing" as opposed to the  watakushi  shosetsu of male writers. She concludes that, compared to works by men, modern women's writing seems "more aware of the special social, economic, and political constrains that directly affected their own lives" and that it is therefore politically and ethically more sensitive (8). Their awareness of social constraints strongly suggests that these women would have responded with alacrity to the concept and value of the individual self. This hypothesis is another argument for including their fiction based on autobiography in any discussion of individualism. Nine years before the appearance of Daughters of the Moon, Janet A . Walker published The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism (1979), an important source book for the study of individualism in Japan. However, she fails to include women writers in the discussion. She acknowledges that Higuchi Ichiyo (1872-96) was preoccupied with the concept of individualism, but she decides not to include Ichiyo because her diaries "do not present a coherent statement of the author on the idea of the modern self"  -3  -  (ix). By contrast, I argue that this very incoherence may be a concrete reflection of how Ichiyo, and women writers like her, struggled with the alien but appealing idea of a modern self. In Korea, modern writers tried to comprehend Western individualism in ways comparable to those found in Japan. A number of male critics have provided evidence for this effort including Hyon Sang-yun, Kim Tong-in, Yi Kwang-su, and Yom Sang-sop. Their works appeared in literary magazines such as Hakchigwang (The Light of Learning), Ch'angjo (Creation), and Kaebyok (The Dawn of the World) during the 1910s and 1920s. The latter half of the 1920s and the early 1930s was the peak period of socialist realism. Poets and novelists discussed the relationship between individual and society, and they depicted the subject in their works. However, as Japanese hostility increased after the occupation of Manchuria in 1931, Korean writers saw their freedom of expression dwindle rapidly under Japanese colonial rule.  5  A massive purge of proletarian authors initiated in 1934 by the colonial government ended in many arrests. In order to maintain some outlet for their creativity, it became imperative for authors to find ways to adapt to an increasingly hostile social and political environment. Experimental writing that was not overtly or directly politically expressive was one such way. Their techniques were eclectic: they turned, for instance, to "art for art's sake"; stream-of-consciousness; symbolism, allegory, and folk motifs! and to psychological fiction. Along with these stylistic explorations came a sudden increase in the number of women writers. In P'eminijum pip'yong kwa Han'guk sosol (Feminist Criticism and Korean Fiction, 1996), Song suggests that the general atmosphere of experimentation and the emergence of a journal-based publication industry allowed room for women to participate in intellectual and literary production even if it was male-dominated (60-61). These women writers' activities continued throughout the 1930s, but  - 4 -  they received almost no serious critical attention. The second period of particularly rapid growth in the number of women writers in the 1980s finally made it impossible for literary critics to continue to ignore them. Bruce Fulton, in "Seeing the Invisible: Women's Fiction in South Korea Today" (1996), writes^ "In 1994 six of the ten stories nominated for the Y i Sang Award, South Korea's most prestigious short-fiction award, were written by women, including the prize winner. And women fiction writers are increasingly finding themselves represented overseas in translation" (66). Fulton refers to an article (September 1995) in the Han'guk Ilbo, a prestigious Seoul daily, where "critics (95 percent male) ... expressed concern that the wave of fiction recently published by Korean women in their twenties and thirties was threatening to inundate the establishment. Was modern Korean fiction becoming feminized?!" (66). Critical attention in the 1980s was mainly enjoyed by the new generation of women writers. It was not until 1990 or so that women scholars such as ChOng Yong-ja, So Chong-ja, and Kim Chong-ja undertook to recover the 1930s women writers. The male critics' attention to these prewar women writers was still minimal even in the 1990s. For instance, one standard work on Korean literature during this period, 1930 nyondae Han'guk sosol yon'gu (A Study on Korean Fiction in the 1930s, 1994) by Shin Tong-uk, deals with fourteen male writers but does not discuss a single woman. At the same time that the number of women writers was increasing in Korea, Japanese literature for the first time became a subject for graduate study in post-independence Korea. The first program was instituted at Han'guk OegugO Taehakkyo (The Korea University of Foreign Languages) in 1973, and research papers began to appear in 1979. According to a survey of the period from 1973 to 1987, a total of 430 research papers and theses were produced during this time, among them 230 on Japanese language and literature. Of  - 5 -  these, 130 dealt with modern Japanese literature, but only 15 were comparative studies of Korean and Japanese literature (Chong In-mun 13-4). According to Chong, since 1987, the last year of his survey, there has been neither qualitative progress in the general area of research on Japanese literature nor an increase in the number of Korea-Japan comparative studies. Chong in Han'il kundae pigyo munhak yon'gu (A Study on Comparative Research between Modern Korean and Japanese Literature, 1996) complains about this stagnation: "Korean scholars and students have limited their efforts to collecting the research papers published in Japan and translating them. Without Koreans' own perspectives on Japanese literature, how can Korea-Japan comparative studies be possible?" (14) What is necessary is not only Koreans' perspectives on Japanese literature, but Japanese perspectives on Korean literature as well. No woman was included among the writers discussed in the few existing comparative studies listed by Chong. Other comparative works on Korean and Japanese literature, such as Kin Yun-shik's Hanil munhak Qi kwallyon yangsang (The Relationship between Korean and Japanese Literature, 1974), Kim Sun-jon's Hanil kundae sosol Qi pigyo munhak chok yon'gu (A Comparative Study on Modern Korean and Japanese fiction, 1998) and Shim Won-sop's Hanil munhak ui kwangyeron chok yon'gu (A Study on the Relations between Korean and Japanese Literature, 1998), do not deal with any women writers either. Only the works by Chong In-mun and Kim Sun-jon are textually based comparisons; the rest deal more generally with Japan's influence on Korea. In Japan, the situation is even worse. I have been unable to locate any publications in Japan comparing modern literary texts in Japan and Korea. Given this state of affairs, it is hardly surprising that there is virtually no comparative work on individualism in the writing of modern Korean and Japanese women. However, as I will illustrate, Korean and Japanese women writers have, even under enormous cultural and political pressure, developed  - 6 -  ways of expressing their individual selves. My discussion of their modes of self-expression will fill a significant gap in research on comparative modern Korean and Japanese women's writing. Later in this Introduction, I will comment on my comparative method for this dissertation. Comparative studies on women's writing such as this may also help alleviate the lack of East-East comparative literary research, and thereby assist in modifying Western colonial views of a monolithic "Orient." Twenty years ago, in the 1984-5 issue of Tamkang Review: A Quarterly of Comparative Studies between Chinese and Foreign Literatures, Yip Wai-Lim and John J. Deeney each emphasized the need for this type of comparative research in articles entitled, respectively, "Beyond Chinoiserie: Differentiating Sameness in the Oriental Hermeneutic Community" and "Chinese-Eastern Comparative Literature Studies: The Case of China-Korea-Japan." A s Deeney remarked: One of the strangest things in the modern history of comparative literature studies is that Chinese, Koreans, and Japanese should have persisted in travelling so far afield Westward when there are acres of more fruitful comparative work to be found in their own backyards! Once the theoretical and methodological problems of the discipline have more or less been sorted out, why shouldn't Eastern countries with longer and stronger literary ties among themselves than with any other Western nation cultivate comparisons on their own turf, so to speak? (187) Why shouldn't they, indeed?  - 7 -  Method and Scope Method of Pairing As I commented at the beginning of the Introduction, Korean and Japanese women writers are paired according to thematic similarities. I have chosen themes for comparison that are closely related to the concept of individualism, including the female body, feminine sexuality, and woman's language. Instead of beginning my discussion with a definition of individualism derived from Western perspectives, I will, as much as possible, allow the narratives to speak for themselves. It is for these women writers to inform this reader what they understood "individualism" to be. Hirabayashi Taiko (1905-1972) and Kang Kyong-ae (1906-1944) represent the prewar period. Hirabayashi and Kang politicize women's bodies as a site for the formation of women's subjectivities and agency. For the postwar period, I have chosen two pairs. Kono Taeko (1926-) and 0 Chong-hui (1947-) attempted to deconstruct traditional concepts of motherhood and woman's sexuality by pursuing individual desires that are considered outside cultural norms. Oba Minako (1930-) and Pak Wan-so (1931-) grappled with the issues experienced by women traumatized by colonial imperialism and war, and resisted the socio-cultural dictates of patriarchal and chauvinistic state ideologies. I focus on the encounters of Oba's and Pak's protagonists with American culture and the English language, and on ways in which these encounters affect their views of individualism.  Critical Perspectives Comparative Method My understanding of the comparative method for this project has been affected by the uneven distribution of influence. It will be clear from the  - 8 -  following that Korean literature has responded to Japanese literature in the prewar period. However, taking the modern histories of the two countries into consideration, it is difficult to imagine the influence in the opposite direction. After much resistance, Japan and Korea opened their doors to the West in the 1854 and 1876 respectively. However, after the Shogunate was overthrown and the emperor was restored to power (Meiji Restoration in 1868), Japan realized that the only way for the country to survive against the imperial powers of Europe and the U.S. was to modernize and westernize. From then on, Japan's and Korea's attitudes towards the ideas of Westernization and modernization were diametrically different. While Japan proactively adopted Western ideas from 1868 on, Korea, even long after withdrawing the official closed-door policy, rigorously resisted foreign influence, cultural or political. Korean administrators and influential literati were broadly divided into two factions, liberals and conservatives, over the matters of opening ports to foreign ships and adopting modern ideas. Representatives of major foreign powers (Japan, England, Russia, America, Germany, etc.) were present in Korea, forming a complex network of alliances with local political factions. The conflict between liberals and conservatives also existed in Japan before the Meiji Restoration (1868). However, the conservative factions in Korea maintained their strong influence for many decades even after the country opened its ports to foreign nations.  6  In the early years of the Meiji era (1868-1912), the government dispatched people in large numbers to the West to learn about modern ideas. Western culture including literature soon flooded the nation. Korea, in contrast, did not fully engage with modernization until the Japanese annexation in 1910. After 1910, Western concepts and technology came to Korea mostly via Japan. Japanese colonial rule prohibited Koreans from travelling to other countries. Many young Koreans were sent to Japan to learn the Japanese language, and  - 9 -  they approached Western knowledge mostly through Japanese translations and interpretations.  7  There can be multiple, domestic and foreign, factors that conditioned the emergence of modern literature in Japan and Korea. Among them, modern writers' effort to translate and imitate Western literature has been understood by literary historians and critics as one of the essential factors. For Koreans, who had no way of obtaining access to the West except.through Japan, whatever was available and fashionable in the Japanese literary establishment represented Western and therefore modern literature. Modern Korean literature began in the 1910s after the Japanese annexation. Since Japan declared Japanese the official colonial language and began systematically eliminating the Korean cultural heritage, modern Korean literature was hardly translated into Japanese.  Without active and sustained translation, influence in the opposite  direction was impossible. For decades after Korea's liberation from Japan, there were neither official diplomatic ties nor significant academic or cultural exchanges between the two countries. Even now, compared to the volume of Japanese literature translated into Korean, Japanese translations of Korean literature are rare. I hope that my work stimulates future mutual influence 9  between the two literatures.  The Reader This thesis is aimed at Western, non-Asianist readers, both scholarly and general. This audience is one of the reasons why I use Western theoretical concepts in my analysis, because I assume that these theories provide a paraphrase for concepts that are not completely translatable. The retelling of the novels and stories is also meant for the Western reader since Korean literature has not been extensively translated. English translations of Japanese literature are more readily available! still, relatively few Japanese  - 10 -  women writers have been translated or read widely in English. In addition to my translations of the works that have not been translated into English, I sometimes offer my own translations even when others exist already. I do so when individual words or sentences have, I think, been mistranslated, and also when I differ in the interpretation of tones and nuances. Yu Young-nan's The Naked Tree (1995) is an excellent rendition of Pak Wan-so's Namok ( $kfai , T  1970). Here, I offer my own translation to emphasize the rough colloquialism that is characteristic of Naked Tree and many other works by Pak. Korean and Japanese specialists may also benefit from my work which undertakes to present one of the first serious comparative studies of Korean and Japanese women's writing. Most of all, I hope that my discussion of han and urami using Western theory contributes to establishing the latter in comparative literary studies between and among Asian countries. To reiterate Deeney, "the theoretical and methodological problems of the discipline need to be more or less sorted out" in order for Eastern countries to cultivate their own comparisons. Han and urami may serve as a comparative paradigm. The fact that both han (IS) and urami (tB^O derive from the same Chinese character (IS) adds to their methodological significance.  Urami and Han Han is one of the prominent traditional sensibilities in Korea; its Japanese counterpart is urami. Although the Chinese character for urami and for han is identical ({8, meaning grudge, regret, or/and lamentation), the Korean and the Japanese have dealt with and expressed these emotions in dissimilar ways. These emotions can be experienced by both men and women. Nonetheless, these sentiments are generally perceived to be feminine. This general perception reflects the less privileged position of women in both countries. A full description of these emotional traditions is given in the first  -  11  -  chapter. The discussion of individualism and the feminine sensibilities of urami and han serve as two structural axes of my discussion, diachronic and synchronic, that thread through the entire dissertation. The diachronic axis traces the development of individualism in women's writing as each country's historico-political and socio-economic milieu changed as a result of Westernization and modernization. Urami and han serve as the synchronic axis to help contrast the two authors in each pair. Although I use the term "synchronic," the term does not necessarily mean that the feminine sensibilities remained the same throughout the period covered. They evolved, along with the changes, in each writer's understanding and adaptations of individualism. The changes along both axes reflect the symbiotic relationship between the concept of individualism and the feminine sensibilities. The feminine sensibilities of urami and han signify the emotional states in which women suffer pent-up anger and resentment. Women's repressed emotions needed an outlet and individualism provided one.  Western Concepts Different Western and Eastern theories are employed for different authors in order to illuminate the themes and motifs that are depicted, in direct relation to urami or han, in the particular works chosen for analysis: the concept of the apotropaic as proposed by Kathleen Mark bring to the fore the motif of infanticide in Hirabayashi's works; Luce Irigarary's critique of the division between mind and body sheds light on the theme of body-loathing in Hirabayashi's stories; Gayatri Spivak's critique of the theory of representation emphasizes the motif of protest against Marxist leaders' intellectualism in Kang's novels; Deleuzean theory of sadism effectively deals with the motif of sadistic fantasy in KSno's story; Mikhail Bakhtin's concept of chronotope helps  - 12 -  to investigate the temporal manipulation in O's narrative; both Julia Kristeva's theory of the exile and the Taoist understanding of solitude explicates Oba's Utopian vision of society devoid of collective ideologies; and postcolonial criticism foregrounds the motif of colonized women mired in multiple ideological bind in Pak's work. These various theories also reflect the evolution that took place over a half century in the understanding and adaptations of the concept of individualism and the sentiments of urami and han by writers who lived in the rapidly changing socio-political milieu within and without Korea and Japan. In addition to these concepts, I also refer to others that critics have already applied to the works of the six writers, including generic terms such as the Bildungsroman and psychological novel, narrative techniques such as stream-of-consciousness, and modes such as realism, naturalism, surrealism, socialism, French feminism, and so forth. The writers themselves read Emily Bronte, Tolstoy, Dostoevski, Kafka, Zola, and so forth. They were interested in Western literature and perhaps literary criticism as well. The ideas of sadism and masochism that will figure prominently in my discussion were introduced to Japan in the first half of the twentieth century through the Japanese translation of works by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch (1908), Richard von Krafft-Ebing (1913), and Marquis de Sade (1949).  10  K6no Taeko may well have been familiar  with these translations when she depicted sadomasochist relationships in her fiction. I have not been able to find concrete evidence that these women writers read psychoanalytic, linguistic, feminist, or postcolonial critics and theorists I cite. However, direct influence has not been my chief concern, and in some cases the theories appeared well after the authors would have been able to respond to them. Nonetheless, my discussion of urami and han has benefited from these readings of Western theories. It might have been possible  -  13 -  to produce a study on urami and han using only Korean and Japanese religious and cultural thought. However, to use only these internal paradigms would implicate this reader in a vicious hermeneutic circle from which Western theories have helped me escape. My discussion of urami and han therefore has benefited from these external perspectives. That said, the dissimilar theories used in my discussion, at a fundamental level, serve to illuminate common feminist agendas that I wish to emphasize. By feminist agendas, I mean the three concepts that underlie my analysis of the six women's works: the formation of subjectivity, revolutionary spirit, and transcending the gender hierarchy. The revolutionary spirit originates from self-agency and the ability to recognize injustice in a binary hierarchy, in other words, the ability to step out of the binary structure and see it from a new perspective. All of the theories that I cite seem to suggest that this new perspective can be obtained, ironically, by respecting an individual's subjectivity and her body's reality. In this light, the theories invoked are all deconstructionist, and are perhaps best summed up by Kathleen Marks's concept of "apotrope," that is to say a moving away from the trope, the latter designating any rigid systems that need to be dismantled in order to bring about reform.  Outline o f C h a p t e r s and M o t i f s  Several motifs recur throughout the works by all six authors: images of bodies and houses, motifs of language, realism that blends into surrealism, and objectivity that dissolves into subjectivity. In the following, as I outline each chapter, I will introduce the most significant motif in the works of the authors discussed in that chapter. Along with the introduction of the motif, I will briefly discuss how it is used by the other pairs of writers.  -  14 -  Chapter 2 discusses works by Hirabayashi Taiko (1905-1972), a Japanese author, and Kang Kyong-ae (1906-1944), a Korean author. Although Hirabayashi, unlike Kang, enjoyed a long, prolific career, my discussion will focus mainly on the works she wrote before the end of World War II since she belongs to the prewar pair. Both women were, at one point or another in their lives, involved in the socialist movement and subscribed to the ideal of a classless society. Critics have, however, had some difficulty placing these writers' prewar stories and novels in any one category of literature. Hirabayashi is considered a socialist, an anarchist, or even a naturalist writer by various contemporary critics. Kang was viewed either as a "fellow-traveller" (-g-ar^V  a socialist sympathizer) or an accomplished proletarian writer by  her contemporaries, whereas more recent critics such as Y i Chae-son and Kim Chong-hwa call her a critical realist writer. Recently, perhaps influenced by Western feminist criticism, critics have begun to examine Hirabayashi's and Kang's works from a feminist perspective. This viewpoint provides critics and readers alike with an opportunity to have a fuller understanding of these authors' social and political agendas. These writers were clearly aware of the fact that the patriarchal denial of gender equality could not be overturned by socialist ideology. The proletarian literary platform did not give them an effective means to express their urami and han that originate from their lived experiences as gendered bodies. Some translated writings by foreign women socialist writers, Alexandra Kollontai for instance, did help Hirabayashi and Kang in their effort to determine the position of women within the socialist movement. However, the disparity in the developments of socialism in Korea, Japan and Russia, combined with the persistent neo-Confucian  11  patriarchal oppression of women  in the two Asian nations, presented insurmountable barriers for these women writers in their wish to achieve gender equality.  -  15  -  In an effort to reveal and correct gender inequality in the socialist movement, Hirabayashi and Kang resorted to a narrative strategy that one Japanese critic calls "writing with her body" ( ^ - f t T H ^ t : ^ &, Kuroshima, qtd. in Nakayama 81). Kuroshima's expression means that Hirabayashi's narratives are full of depictions of bodily functions and experiences in minute detail such as the smell of secretions and the changes in the female body after childbirth. By writing about or speaking for their bodies, these writers attempted to shift the reader's attention from the objective socio-political reality to the subjective realities of women. They viewed objective reality as built on phallogocentrism. Therefore, by depicting the functions of and experiences by their female bodies, Hirabayashi and Kang tried to expose and resist gender inequality. I will use this concept of "writing with one's body" to examine Hirabayashi's m*>j r  ("Self-Mockery," 1926; tr. 1987) and  R  J 6 ^ f C j  ("In the  Charity Ward," 1927), and Kang's " W ^ b (The Human Problem, 1934) and r  ^ o " j (Salt, 1934) — the works full of depictions of women's bodily  experiences. I first try to locate the sources of the protagonists' urami and han, and investigate how these emotions are expressed and dealt with. Then, by examining the dynamics between these emotions and the protagonists' or narrators' perceptions of women's bodies, I consider the protagonists' understanding of individualism. How did individualism help them politicize their bodies as a site for resistance against the Confucian patriarchal oppression of women? How did individualism protect them from the socialist fallacy that the revolution would do away with women's oppression? The main motif in Hirabayashi's and Kang's works is mother's milk that is not available to her baby because of the unfair capitalist and masculinist social structure. The mother's resentment of the establishment manifests itself in psychosomatic pain in her breast. Ironically, however, the pain in the breast serves as an apotropaic symptom that eventually allows the mother to gain her  -  16 -  own agency. A pain in the breast appears in the works by K6no and Pak as well, sometimes superimposed on or associated with the image of heart. Even images of breasts that do not apparently involve pain, such as those that appear in O's and Oba's narratives, are accompanied by other images that represent emotional or psychological pain such as the flat belly of an infertile woman. The correlation between the phantom pain in the breast and the "apotropaic gesture" is portrayed as the correlation between a ghost or ghost-like being and the "apotropaic gesture" in most of the works that I examine. The ghost father, ghost husband, and ghost-like mother depicted by Kono, 0, and Pak respectively are good examples. Oba's yamanba figure also belongs to this group of ghostly characters. These characters are the "apotropes" which the protagonists allow to come into their lives and to cause what "they find horrible so as to mitigate its horror" (Marks 2). By undergoing this paradoxical process of the apotropaic, the protagonists come to establish their own subjectivities. Chapter Three compares and contrasts Kono Taeko (MUr^ST", 1926- ), a Japanese writer, and O Ch6ng-hui (.2. ^ s ) , 1947- ), a Korean writer. Their literary careers began in the same decade — 1961 for K6no and 1968 for 0. Both are known for non-traditional themes such as deviant sexuality and violence, for their grotesque imagery, and the often macabre atmosphere in their works. Imagery and atmosphere seem to arise from the authors' war experiences, the Second World War for Kono and the Korean War for 0. As the primary texts for discussion, I have chosen "Chingnyo" ( r ^ L ^ "Weaver Woman," 1970) by O and "Fui no koe" ( ^M^Pj f  "An  Unexpected Voice," 1969) by Kono. Both have as the protagonist a woman who cannot conceive. Their inability to bear children results in the protagonists' complete isolation from society, hence, their feelings of bitterness and  - 17 -  resentment. I will examine the narrative structure of these stories to see how they are deployed to express han and urami. Urami is purged in "Voice" while han is dissolved in "Weaver." In order to accentuate these different ways in which urami and han are expressed, I apply disparate theories (Deleuzean sadism and Bakhtin's concept of chronotope) to these two works. At the same time, close attention needs to be paid to the solipsistic fantastic world that exists in both texts. Through these two highly individualized expressions of urami and han, the authors link the protagonists' inner worlds with the outside world. The boundary between fantasy and reality is blurred. A s a result, Kono's heroine's internal fantasy demonstrates its possible and probable enactment in reality. This demonstration makes clear the need for reform in patriarchal oppression of women. The heroine in O's "Weaver Women" succeeds in inserting her sexual desire, repressed under patriarchy, back into the time of historical reality. In both stories, the authors suggest their respective visions for a new world based on gender equality. The most significant motif in "Voice" and "Weaver" is the house. Just as the protagonists' bodies are perforated and in pain, so too are the buildings they inhabit. Often, the breaches in these houses indicate a break away from the prison-walls that enclose the women protagonists, both physically and psychologically. The image of a house as the symbol of patriarchal structure is depicted in works by the other writers as well. Hirabayashi's protagonist in "Self-Mockery" seems to have decided to leave the rented room in which she has lived with her parasitic partner. Kang's protagonists are driven out of the house owned by abusive patriarchs. Pong-yom's mother in Salt, however, refuses to leave the house where her daughters died alone. Some of these women face a jail or jail-like institution as their final destination — that is, another place of isolation and suffering.  -  18 -  Oba depicts a yamauba  who leaves her husband's house in the human  settlement for a mountain abode where she wields supreme power and authority. However, both the patriarchal human house and the yamanba's mountain abode are places of domination based on hierarchical dichotomy. Only in Alaska, the land of exiles, can Oba's protagonist find a disintegrating house that refuses to be a place of absolute authority. The old house in Pak's Naked Tree is damaged during the Korean War. By the time the heroine finally overcomes her fear and guilt over the deaths of the patriarchs in her household during the war, her husband dismantles the house only to rebuild a Western-style home on the same site (now reduced to half of its original size). He takes his position in it as a new generation of patriarch. The protagonist dismantles herself to adapt to the new patriarch. However, she feels somewhere in her heart that there is a part of her own house that has escaped the new patriarch's destructive power. The fourth chapter discusses Oba Minako (1930- ), a Japanese writer, and Pak Wan-so (1931- ), a Korean writer. Like Kono Taeko and 0 Chong-hui, Oba and Pak also suffered from severe trauma caused by war: World War II for Oba and the Korean War for Pak. These wars brought the writers into close contact with the language and culture of the United States. Their exposure to a foreign language and culture is relived through their protagonists, who turn the encounter with America into an opportunity to investigate and contest the issues of sex, race, and class. The aim of this chapter is to examine how the protagonist's urami or han is dealt with in a small village in Alaska (Oba's protagonist) and an American Army PX unit, a microcosmic representation of America in Seoul (Pak's protagonist). The chapter focuses on Oba's «fc ^ T f f i t i t < 7 ) S j r  1989) and Pak's  r  r  LlJ*g*)»£j  ("The Repairman's Wife," 1974; tr.  ("The Smile of a Mountain Witch," 1976; tr. 1982), and  4 ^ - a (The Naked Tree, 1970; tr. 1995). I have selected these works  - 19 -  because they focus on geographically or culturally displaced characters. The most prominent motif in Oba's and Pak's works is language or the confrontation between patriarchal language and women's desire to create their own language. The complex relationship between female bodies and the "structures" they inhabit is battled out at the level of language. Oba's and Pak's protagonists are in search of a new mode of communication that does not blindly repeat patriarchal linguistic principles. In "Repairman," Oba uses the image of a "junk museum" as a metaphor for the disintegration of patriarchal language. Using various images of junk that is disassembled and reassembled in a mis-matched manner, Oba tries to weaken the tie between signifier and signified. Pak chooses colloquialism as a mode of speech for her protagonist, which in itself is a challenge to Korean mainstream literary practice. Colloquialism has been a traditional mode of speech for the community of women in their han-sharing  conversations. Pak proposes colloquialism as a  subversive language inside the nationalist as well as neo-colonialist patriarchal language. In this light, Oba's portrayal of a museum that houses junk that has been used by ordinary people can be interpreted as a figurative version of colloquialism. For Hirabayashi and Kang, women's bodies are the site in which the creative imagination for woman's language is stimulated. Both of these writers are critical of the division between mind and body, the privileging of male mind over female body. Hirabayashi pursues the reunion of female mind and body by returning her protagonist attention back to her own body. Kang parallels the split between mind and body to the gap between the socialist intellectual and the proletarian class. By depicting the most oppressed group in colonial capitalist Korea, that is, proletarian women and their individual bodies' lived experiences, Kang attempts to give voice to their subaltern narratives of the body. Kono and 0 attempt to reveal the unstable logics and assumptions on  - 20 -  which patriarchal language is built. Depicting what K6no calls "women's inner realities," she juxtaposes Japanese patriarchal logics with that of Japanese women, thereby exposing the illogic in patriarchal language. 0 views patriarchal domination over women as a tangled web of various temporalities or discursive matrices. By unweaving the tangled web, her protagonist discovers the women's time (or language) that was invisible to her before. She finally articulates her heretofore repressed sexual desire: "How uncanny fully open blossoms are!" (137) The motifs of female bodies, houses, and language visualize patriarchal oppression of women and women's growing desire to realize a reform in the established hierarchical structure. These motifs are linked to the motif of the blurred boundary between realism and surrealism that is found in works by Kono, 0, and Oba. Through this link, surrealism or the protagonist's inner reality reveals itself as a by-product of her outer reality under patriarchy. Her wish is not to simply reverse the present order of gender hierarchy, but to transcend the structure of domination altogether. Often violent fantasies imagined by women oppressed under patriarchy are not the product of free imagination in its true sense, since it still needs patriarchy for its self-definition. By blurring the boundary between surrealism and realism, these writers attempt to open up a third realm where a new society based on equality and harmony can be envisioned. The desire to transcend the binary and envision new ways of coexistence and communication can be detected in all writers discussed. As the writers endeavor to free their own and their protagonists' imagination from patriarchal reality, they do not place much trust in so-called objective reality under patriarchy. For Hirabayashi and Kang, objective reality is the world that is controlled by patriarchs' narcissistic intellection. For Kono and 0, objective reality is an intricate manipulation of human ethics and guilt  - 21 -  through which the dominant gender buries the interests and needs of the dominated in the subconscious. Kang, Pak and Oba also view objectivity as the manifestation of the collective will that always and already misrepresents the individual members of that collective. These writers aim to establish the feminine subjectivities by turning their attention to women's individual bodies, lived experiences, inner feelings, repressed desires, and subversive linguistic creativity. Not all of them pursue a society of exiles as Oba does. 13  Nevertheless, they all seem to agree that the process of individualization  is a  necessary step to free themselves from the established values in order to allow a new vision to emerge. These various motifs that I outline here and highlight throughout my discussion help me to illustrate women's realities under patriarchy. The pain in the women's breasts, nipples, and bellies bring to the fore the incompatibility between women's lived reality and the patriarchal view of objective reality. That these women writers depict almost identical images as their main motif or leitmotif should be clear evidence of the reality of that incompatibility. Their use of common motifs and themes also demonstrates a possibility of a women's language that simultaneously respects women's individualities and renders women's narratives communicable among themselves as well as with the male members of society.  -  22  -  Chapter One: History and Traditional Sensibilities  As stated in the Introduction, the six writers' understanding of individuality, urami, and han evolved along with the socio-historical changes in Japan and Korea. The first section of this chapter is to provide the brief socio-historical backgrounds against which the writers set their stories and novels. The themes chosen and the protagonists created by these women writers reflect not only the society and historical period depicted in their fiction, but also the position these writing women occupied in relation to the mainstream literary and intellectual milieu. Hence, the brief histories of women's writing in Japan and Korea from the 1920s to the 1970s are also provided. The second section discusses the existing views of han and urami. Since there has not been any significant research conducted on the subject of urami either inside or outside Japan, my discussion will mainly be on the subject of han. In Korea, the concept of han has developed into cultural, political, psychological, literary, and theological discourses of some significance. However, none of these discursive positions explains han as a specifically women's emotion. I will introduce some of the existing han discourses. I will also propose my own view of han felt and dealt with by premodern women. My views of han and urami have been formed through reading premodern as well as modern women's writing. Using these views as a point of departure, I hope to demonstrate in the following chapters the modern evolutions of han and urami respectively.  - 23 -  History After the Meiji government which imposed premodern Confucian values on Japanese, especially on women, a new era called "Taisho" (1912-1927) began. This era is often referred to as "Taisho democracy" because of the relatively mature party politics and the presence of various liberal ideals in Japanese society. Democratic political institutions sprang up and labor organizers and intellectuals adopted liberalism. Communist and socialist ideologies also took root. After the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia, the intellectual community was profoundly influenced by Western socio-political thinkers such as Marx, Engels, and Weber. Socialist women became active, establishing various organizations like Sekirankai (Red Wave Society) and Nihon Shakai Shugi Domei (Japan Socialist League). It was in this era that many women writers emerged in the  heretofore  almost completely male-dominated Japanese literary establishment. Ericson, in "The Origin of the Concept of 'Women's Literature'" (1996), traces the origin of so-called "women's literature" in Japan back to this Taisho period. Ericson calls the latter half of the Taish6 period (the 1920s) "a renaissance of women writers" (90) from many strata of society, for example, Hayashi Fumiko, Hirabayashi Taiko, Miyamoto Yuriko, Sata Ineko, Tsuboi Sakae, and Uno Chiyo. She lists the conditions that might have produced these writers^ the rapid increase in the number of literate women, the rise of journals specifically targeting a female audience, and the shift in traditional gender roles, with an ever-increasing number of women working outside the home and constituting a self-confident group with emotional and economic independence. Japanese women of the time were interested in the role of women in Western societies, and their interest manifested itself in the appearance of the urban "moga" or "modern girls," the Japanese equivalent of the "flapper," who rebelled against conventional demands for docility and conformity. Their  - 24 -  struggle for political rights began and continued largely under the leadership of socialist women, one of whose chief demands was the amendment of the Public Order and Police Law in order to lift the prohibition on women attending political assemblies or joining political parties. After the First World War, wartime inflation followed by postwar recession severely damaged Japan's economic stability. Public restlessness manifested itself in numerous riots such as the rice riots in Toyama Prefecture. In the decade following the Great Kanto Earthquake (1923) that reduced Tokyo to rubble, conservatism gained significant influence. Media depicted modern girls as decadent libertines and a threat to the social order. Conservative critics called for "a return to the natural distinctions between men and women" (Ericson 89) and between the public sphere for men and the private sphere for women. This call was a revival of the 1890s (mid-Meiji period) campaign to promote a separate sphere for women in the roles of "good wives and wise mothers" ( H S H S ) .  1 4  Socialist organizations were  disbanded by the government. Many socialist activists were blacklisted and had to escape police surveillance and arrest in Japan. Hirabayashi Taiko and her common-law husband, who had been blacklisted, decided to go to Manchuria. "Charity Ward" is set in Manchuria and based on the author's life there.  In this conservative socio-political environment, the terms "joryu hungaku" and "joryu sakka rashif  ("women's literature" and "woman  writer-like") were established' and circulated in their modern form (Ericson 90). The term "women's literature" did not simply mean that the author happened to be a woman, but carried with it a sense of "the principal conceptual antinomies" (Ericson 91) of literary criticism: the pure (that is, men's writing) versus the popular (that is, women's writing) or the confessional (men's watakushi shosetsu) versus women's autobiographical writing. The distinction  - 25 -  privileged the pure and confessional watakushi shosetsu and dismissed popular writing and women's autobiographical narratives (Ericson 91). In "The Origin," Ericson does not attempt to analyze the differences between the I-novel and the autobiographical novel, or to uncover the criteria that might have been used in differentiating them. Instead, she argues that there is no proof that women's writings in the 1920s were concentrated in autobiography. Women writers, just like their male counterparts, were writing in a variety of genres such as autobiography, history, drama, poetry, fiction, and so forth. A l l the same, "in spite of the diversity of genre, styles, approaches, and temperaments to be found among these writers, a stereotyped image of joryu bungakd took root among the public and critics, even the writers themselves, and has lasted to this day" (Ericson 95).  Like their male counterparts, modern Korean women writers began to emerge during the colonial era (1910-1945). A few of the women writers who produced works in the first and second decade of the twentieth century, such as Kim Myong-sun, Kim Il-y6p, and Na Hye-s6k, became frequent targets for criticism from male writers and male critics. These women, greatly influenced by Western feminist writings by Ellen Key, August Bebel and Alexandra Kollontai, demanded sexual liberation — free love and a new sexual morality — not only in their writing but also in their lives. Many male writers and critics paid more attention to their private lives than to their works, and evaluated these women writers' works "with prejudice and contempt" (Kim Mi-hyon 311-2). These so-called "first generation women writers" were called "yoryu" ("women writers") and their works were named "ySryu munhak" ("women's literature") by mainstream male writers. The name implied the inferior quality of women's writing compared to men's writing. In 1919, Koreans organized a large-scale protest (3.1 Undong or 3.1  - 26 -  Independence Uprising) against Japanese colonial rule. The protest in which so many Korean lives were lost did not result in Korea's independence. Right after the uprising, Japan adopted a colonial policy called "munhwa chdngch'aek" ("Cultural Policy") on the surface, which turned out to be a facade for an increased level of colonial exploitation. During the worldwide depression, Japan strengthened its military expansionist policy with the aim of annexing China as a vast market. Before Japan invaded Manchuria in 1931, Korea became the source for the supplies needed for the invasion, especially rice and other agricultural products. Economically, the massive influx of Japanese capital into Korea completely wiped out opportunities for Korean investments. T o meet the increased demand for agricultural goods, many small-scale Korean farmers had no other choice but to sell or lose their land to pay their increasing debts. They became either tenant farmers or low-wage farm, mine, or urban labourers with no labour law to protect them. In Human Problem, Kang depicts an orphan girl in a farming village in Korea who leaves her village and becomes an urban labourer. Many farmers who lost their land and had no other means to support their families left Korea and migrated to Manchuria, Japan, and other places. Unfortunately, the poverty and exploitation that the Korean immigrants experienced in these places were worse than in Korea. The life of the Korean farmers who settled in Manchuria was even harder because of the double policy  15  set up by both China and Japan regarding Korean immigrant farmers.  Furthermore, these immigrants suffered violence and extortion at the hands of various armed groups (both outlaws and official forces) in the region. One of the armed groups in the region was the anti-colonial communist guerrillas. After the establishment of the Manchurian government, the Japanese army as the real power behind the puppet government was bent on deterring the infiltration of the anti-Japanese communist guerrillas into the Korean  immigrant society in Manchuria as well as into Korea itself. Beside the communist resistance, there were the Korean independence fighters ( ^ - ^ ^ f ) , the Chinese Army ( i L W ) , the Peasants Self-Defence Army O ? ! 1  1 6  and  so forth, all of whom fought against the Japanese Army. The Japanese Army responded with a new policy to militarize Manchuria and establish a systematic network among the farming villages, making each unit responsible for its own defence. The Korean farmers were forced to become informants for the Japanese Army. According to lm Chong-guk, this systematic surveillance changed "the relationships among the Korean people" (o]4]o] - H - w l ^ t f ,  qtd. in Kim Chong-hwa 136). For example, if a father who was  a Korean independence fighter visited his family in one of these villages, his family had an obligation to report his visit to the Japanese Army. Failure to do so meant that the entire village would be severely punished.  17  Kang Kyong-ae  in Salt portrays one of the immigrant families in this region. Inside Korea, there was an effort to establish a united front of the nationalist and socialist political camps. A s a result, an organization called Shin'ganhoe  was formed in 1927. However, the marriage between the  two camps did not fare well throughout the 1930s. The decade also witnessed a social movement under slogans like "Into the factories, into the rural areas" and "Into the masses" as part of a strategy to conduct a systematic struggle based on grassroots organizations. The intellectual depicted by Kang in Salt seems to have had been modeled on one of the intellectuals active in the rural areas. In the 1930s, a new generation of women writers emerged. According to Kim Mi-hyon in "Ibu, chanch'i nun kkunnatta" ("Eve, the Feast is Over," 1999), this group of writers had a negative view of their predecessors' (women writers in the 1910s and 1920s) indulgence in Western liberalism. Kim Mi-hyon sees some truth in this criticism in that most of these writers were the  - 28 -  Tokyo-educated and quite possibly spoiled daughters of affluent families. However, the criticism should also be understood in the socio-historical context of the 1930s which marked the height of the socialist and Marxist movements in Korea. Bourgeois families, and especially bourgeois women, who could afford a Tokyo life and education were easy targets of proletarian criticism. The decade of the 1930s also witnessed a sudden increase in the numbers of women writers and their writings. Song Chi-hyon in P'eminijum pip'yong kwa Han'guk sosol (Feminist Criticism and the Korean Novel, 1996) speculates that an atmosphere favouring experimentation, and the emergence of journals allowed room for women to enter the contemporary, male-dominated sphere of intellectual and literary production (60-1). This phenomenon is comparable to the sudden increase in the 1920s in the numbers of Japanese women writers. Here too, the emergence of journals that targeted a female readership was an important factor (see Ericson). However, women writers such as Pak Hwa~s6ng, Kang Kyong-ae, and Ch'oe Ch6ng-hui, who were prolific in the 1930s, were treated much the same by male writers and critics as women writers in the 1920s. Pak Hwa-song, for example, was praised for her masculine writing - - a keen awareness of social problems, logical thinking, well-structured plots, broad thematic choices, an objective perspective, and so forth. Ironically, she was also severely criticized for her inability to use her femininity, that is, her avoidance of her emotional and intuitive faculties and of biographical narratives. Kim Mi-hyon argues that these critiques, whether positive or negative, were informed by "Freudian biological essentialism" (314) and that both expressions, "masculine women's writing" and "feminine women's writing," were used to oppress the voice of women (316). However, as we have already seen, this double-bind had long been part of Korean patriarchal society.  - 29 -  Im Sun-duk, the first female literary critic in Korea, who was active in the 1930s and 1940s, warned women writers about the praise bestowed on them by male critics. She expressed her suspicion that the double standard adopted by these male critics might very well isolate women's writing. She argued that gender should not be a factor in the appreciation of literary works. She questioned the validity of the term "women's literature": "In this country, 'women's literature' seems a [male] ideal to be achieved in the unknown future, because there has never been any concrete basis on which to call [the works written by women] so-called 'women's literature'" (qtd. in Kim Mi-hyon 315).  After its defeat in the Second World War, Japan was placed under the control of the Allied Powers. The most urgent task of SCAP (Supreme Command for the Allied Powers, 1945-52) in immediate postwar Japan was to democratize the country. SCAP recognized women's suffrage and the dismantling of the /e structure (extended family system under the authority of patriarchs) as the most effective way of establishing democracy in Japanese society. After the end of the occupation in 1952, Japan embarked on a large-scale economic transition by expanding the secondary and tertiary sectors. Many women went back to work outside the home, responding to the growing demand for labour. Soon, a women's labour movement emerged. In opposition to this movement, a discourse of motherhood and the family resurfaced.  Challenging the Discourse of Motherhood Uema Chizuko argues that this discourse of motherhood in postwar Japan was one of the characteristics of Japanese feminism since the beginning of the feminist movement as spearheaded by Hiratsuka Raicho and Yosano  - 30 -  Akiko in the prewar era. These early feminists' "mother-centered ideology" was readily connected to nationalism and fascism by "claiming the state's protection for child-bearing" and "emphasizing women's contribution to the nation through bearing children" (70). Uema claims that the idea of a mother-centered nation was carried into the postwar feminist movement because "the center of the Japanese women's liberation movement was spearheaded by mothers" (71). This feminist ideal was supported by the Japanese patriarchy which is based on "a nation devoted to a family system wherein the mother is honored and revered in her supporting role, both as wife and mother" (71-2). This does not mean that there has been no women's oppression in Japan; rather, the oppression has been "invisible and internalized under the well-structured patriarchy" (Uema 74).  18  Uema reports that, according to a survey in 1982, both men and women (seventy percent of women) supported the patriarchal ideology of motherhood and the family (74). However, after Japan's defeat, many women felt that they had been betrayed by the imperialist ambitions of their nation. Oba Minako expressed this view in her essay "The Nation and the Individual," discussed in Chapter Four. These Japanese women, like Oba's protagonists, might not have been all that enthusiastic about the symbiotic relationship between the Japanese  patriarchy and Japan's postwar ambition of building an economic empire with America's strategic blessing. Ueno Chizuko, in her essay  ^~k% L  TZMXMMJ  ("Transvestite  Patriarchy," 2000), observes that two characteristics of the postwar Japanese patriarchy are the myth of "Mother" and the absence of the Freudian "Father" (103-128). Under this patriarchy, the pre-oedipal son at once worships and feels smothered by his ever sacrificing, unconditionally loving mother. Ueno introduces the concept of "Ajase complex"  19  - 31 -  as the Japanese patriarchy's  attempt to theorize the triangular relationship among the father, mother, and son that is "unique to Japan" (119-21). Ueno contends that the absence of the Father and the authority of Mother should not be uncritically translated into matriarchy. In Japan, the Mother is only a puppet that follows the order of the Father who hides himself behind the Mother in order to avoid responsibility. In other words, the Father exercises his authority wearing the mother's clothes. The mother, who internalized the Father's ideology, willingly carries out his orders, thereby recreating the next generation Father out of her son. Ueno introduces another figure into this triangular relationship: a displeased daughter (W-W$ii £ffld. This new generation of women who emerged in postwar Japan in t  the 1970s and 1980s,  20  according to Ueno, began to say "No" to taking their  mothers as role models. Kono makes things even more complex than Ueno's model of "transvestite patriarchy": in "Voice," she attempts to make her heroine wear her father's clothes in opposition to her mother who is in her father's clothes. In her essay "The Body in Contemporary Japanese Women's Fiction," Sharalyn Orbaugh also observes the emergence of a group of displeased daughters in Japan during the period slightly different from Ueno's. Orbaugh calls it a literary phenomenon peculiar to the period between 1960 and 1975,  21  a time of remarkable economic growth in Japan. A group of women writers including Kono Taeko, Oba Minako, Ariyoshi Sawako, Takahashi Takako, Kurahashi Yumiko, Tomioka Taeko, Tsushima Yuko, and Kanai Mieko used fiction to explore "the various discourses and power relationships of postwar Japan" (Orbaugh 127). These writers are also linked through their use of themes and images that many readers find disturbing. These themes include incest, sadomasochism, infanticide, cannibalism, murder, dismemberment, all of which "involve the body directly and violently" (Orbaugh 127). These stories furthermore lack a  - 32 -  distinction between victim and victimizer as well as moral judgements. What are these writers trying to achieve through the violence inflicted on the body? If women oppressed under patriarchy are to "construct" a site in which they can gain agency over their own experience, it has to be the physical body (Orbaugh 124). The physical body is the "touchstone" that could keep them centered (Orbaugh 124). Women's bodies have been the "physical receiver/performer of all the abstract policies made by patriarchal institutions" (Orbaugh 124). For women, the political and the ideological are often experienced as the physical and the personal. For them, their bodies are the political battleground. Orbaugh calls this insistence on the individual, the specific, the personal, and the physical one of the primary political strategies of feminist 22  and postcolonial discourse: The women in these stories do not fulfill some (Judeo-Christian) romantic ideal of escape and healing. But by appropriating aspects of the gender-based power economics and inverting them, collapsing them, twisting them, and particularly by exaggerating them through rendering them literal, Kanai (and with her Kurahashi, Oba, Tsushima, Takahashi, among others, in various ways) makes obvious the grotesqueries, absurdities, and actual dangers to women that are glossed over by abstract, intellectualized narratives of power.... By taking the power paradigms that are abstract, and therefore difficult to see, and returning them to the physical plane implicit in all of them, writers can expose the violence to women's bodies and identities inherent in these paradigms.  (153)  Orbaugh's textual analysis in this essay focuses on stories by Kanai Mieko. Although I approach from the perspective of han and urami in my dissertation, I find the same emphasis on the individual and the physical in the postwar works by Kono Taeko and Oba Minako, and even in Hirabayashi's prewar stories. I am convinced that Hirabayashi also attempted to use the female body  - 33 -  as a touchstone to keep her protagonists and Hirabayashi herself centered in the midst of various patriarchal discourses in prewar Japan, including capitalism, anarchism, socialism, and Marxism.  After liberation from Japan in 1945, Korea was divided and occupied by the Russian Army north of the 38th parallel and by the American Army in the south. After three years of politico-economic chaos, it was decided to establish separate governments, North and South Korea, in 1948. Two years later, the Korean War broke out. The newly established Korean Army was powerless under the attack and the government and the army retreated south before the citizens of Seoul, the capital city, had a chance to escape. On their way, the chief of the staff made a decision to bomb the bridge over the Han River to slow the enemy's advancement. Thus, the citizens' only escape route was cut. Pak Was~s6 informs the reader of this event in Naked Tree. General MacArthur's Inchon Landing Operation was successful and Seoul was recovered in September 1950. The allies' front line moved up deep into the North Korean territory. However, in January 1951, the allies began to retreat again and Seoul fell once more into the hands of the North Korean Army. Months later, Seoul was recovered by the allies. This was the last time that Seoul was lost to the enemy. The U.S. Army PX unit was built in Seoul. Naked Tree is set in this PX unit sometime between the winter of 1951 and the Cease Fire in 1953. The Korean War resulted in not only the perpetuation of the territorial division between the communist north and the democratic south, but also the destruction of the prewar value systems and extreme ideological confusion. In South Korea, an absolute anti-communism became the ruling ideology under strong American political influence and an American military presence — at least on the surface. The confusion over their moral and ideological stance  - 34 -  experienced by the people during and after the war is vividly depicted in the literature of the period. According to Kim Yun-shik in Han'guk sosolsa (History of Korean Fiction, 2000), some writers during the immediate post-Korean War period produced works from an anti-communist perspective (347-9). Apart from these, many other writers, throughout the 1950s and 1960s, chose one of two ways of coping with the ideological war between fellow countrymen: they either attempted to transcend the problem of ideology by appealing to compassion as the ultimate human value, or they depicted war experiences from a distinctively personal standpoint. Both of these two approaches are criticized by Kim Yun-shik: the first for depicting the Korean War as a war in general rather than as a specifically Korean war, and the second for failing to go beyond a narrow subjective perspective (347-9). These critical remarks by Kim Yun-shik, a leading authority in modern Korean literary criticism, clearly reveal the two principles 23  that have come to define the essence of the tradition of realism  in modern  Korean literature: the first is historical consciousness or historical legitimacy (^Aj-^^i)  as the memory of collective Korean historico-political experiences, -  and the second is an objective perspective. This objective perspective emphasized by Kim can be understood by feminists as a collective masculine perspective: women's viewpoints are almost always considered subjective and marginal.  .  Women writers in the immediate postwar period depicted the destruction of oppressive prewar moral values. Ironically this meant the disappearance of prewar feminist arguments as well. So Chong-ja in Han'guk ydsQng sosol kwa pip'yong (The Korean Women's Novel and Criticism, 2001) observes "the lack of the prewar feminist perspective" in women's moral state in postwar Korean society depicted by the women writers of the period: "Most female - 35 -  protagonists depicted in their works are not fettered by the sexual ethics of the past but freely indulge in extra-marital love affairs" (289). However, So continues, these heroines, who live in the moment as if there is no tomorrow, suffer from the shock of the war and disillusionment, personal and national, in its aftermath. They lack the will to engage in the search for personal agency or subjectivity (So 289). Only six years after the Korean War, South Koreans suffered two more political crises^ a bloody conflict between the corrupt government and students' demand for democracy on April 19th, 1960 (usually referred to as 4.19); and the military coup d'etat in the following year (usually referred to as 5.16) that began almost three decades of military dictatorship. With large-scale citizens' support, the April student demonstrations were successful in bringing down the Rhee regime. Although their success and their hope for democracy was short-lived, the memory of 4.19 lives on in the hearts of Koreans as a recognition of the potential revolutionary energy existing within the Korean masses as a unified force. In the 1960s, Korea saw industrialization and securing economic viability in the international market as its most urgent national task. A s will be discussed in more detail in the final chapter, the Korean economic development was planned under the powerful influence of American interests in East Asia, especially the American strategic manipulation of matters concerning Korea and Japan. In the literature produced in Korea in the 1960s and 1970s, a new type of heroine reflected the emerging new Korean society, a society that was rapidly rebuilding itself under the totalitarian military leadership of Park Chunghee who came to power through the 5.16 coup d'etat (1961). The society became extremely conservative; the patriarchal control and oppression of women intensified. The dualistic world view of "men in the public sphere and  - 36 -  women in the private sphere" or "prostitutes as women outside and housewives as women inside the family" compelled women to internalize a prescribed femininity (Kim Mi-hyon 317). The traditional Confucian view of women, including the ideology of motherhood, prevailed. Housewives once more stayed home. Women's contribution to the survival of their families during the Korean War and in its aftermath was quickly forgotten. Many young women worked in factories for low wages, in bars as hostesses (many of which catered to Japanese sex tourists) or as prostitutes around the American Army camps. The entire country was overwhelmed by modernization, industrialization, and Americanization. A neo-colonial dependent capitalist economy was systematically nurtured by the government and a materialistic society was born, although the distribution of the wealth was far from even. Large-scale anti-government protests by students who were demanding democracy and freedom of speech began in the late 1960s and continued until the end of the 1980s. O Chong-hui's "Weaver Woman" is set in the social, political, and economic milieu of the 1960s. In the early 1970s, a group of new-generation women writers, including Pak Wan-so, So Y6ng-fin, and 0 Chong-hui, revived the dormant feminist tradition, criticizing the double standard and rejecting conventional feminine ideals. Pak Wan-so, who will be discussed in the fourth chapter, has written on a broad range of themes, such as the Korean War, the lives of the families separated by the division of the country, capitalism and materialism in postwar Korean society, and so forth. However, as Kim Mi-hyon notes, when Pak began writing stories that treated Korean patriarchal society critically in the 1980s, her works received hardly any attention from male critics, unlike her works dealing with other themes such as the Korean War experience that attracted a significant level of critical attention from both women and men. Many female critics, such as Hwang To-gyong and So Chong-ja, have  - 37 -  analyzed Pak's feminist fiction. Kim Mi-hyon deplores the seemingly perpetual division between mainstream literature and women's literature, and the scant critical attention received by works by women compared to those by men. Kim wonders if women's writing and women's criticism of them exist in isolation, "as if on an island where only women live, celebrating each other's works" (319). K i m is deeply concerned that the continuing, gender-specific critical practice may perpetuate the segregation of women's writing.  - 38 -  Existing Views of Urami and Han Modern Japanese women and their Korean counterparts draw on different traditions of feminine sensibilities, urami  and han (tS)  respectively. These, emotions are different, despite the fact that they are written with the same Chinese character, and despite the strong possibility that both originated in the same Chinese word (1S). A s can be seen in Onnazaka 24  (The Waiting Years, 1957," tr. 1971) by Enchi Fumiko and "Yamauba no bisho" ("The Smile of a Mountain Witch," 1976; tr. 1982) by Oba Minako, the emotion of urami arises from unfulfilled desires and the pent-up grudges or resentment that they cause. Urami expresses itself as a raw and violent emotional outpouring with the intention to wreak vengeance. Urami is an individual sentiment, acquired through the experience of unfairness and injustice. Most women writers assume that this deeply repressed emotion has been shared by generations of women. A l l of them have followed the harsh ethical precepts of the Onna Daigaku (1729), a neo-Confucian text that contains the code of ethics for women.  25  Therefore, as in The Waiting Years, one woman's urami can be  expressed by another woman, and any woman's expression may be understood as giving a voice to all women. From this collective dimension comes much of urami's power.  26  Nevertheless, individuality is one of the most distinctive characteristics of urami. Urami accumulates within a person over a long period of time before it is forced out into the open. The intensity of one woman's urami provokes a response from other women who recognize the same intensity within themselves. Although urami is individual, it links women together through their recognition of each other's experience. Han, like urami, is an emotional state that results from unfulfilled desires and pent-up resentment. However, han seldom finds expression in a violent, emotional outpouring, in the way urami does. Chon I-du, in Han'guk  - 39 -  munhak kwa han (Korean Literature and Han, 1985), develops five different stages of han, all of which are integral parts: (1) a grudge or vengeful spirit; (2) regret; (3) profound sorrow or lament; (4) the ethical wisdom to turn violent emotions into compassion or empathy for other people's misfortunes or sorrows; (5) the aesthetic sublimation of strong violent emotions. If the process has not run through all five stages, Chon contends, the result cannot be called han (8-12). When han remains in its raw, vengeful state, it is called won (SO. In Han ui kujo yon'gu (The Structure of Han, 1993), Chon compares han with urami and explains the differences between the two (81-8). Unlike urami, which can be resolved through vengeance only, han is reconciled through an intense struggle with one's own negative emotions, not with the external factors that have caused those emotions. The goal is to overcome negative emotions, and achieve peace of mind and the capacity to sympathize with others who are experiencing similar emotional difficulties. This explanation accounts for the sympathy the oppressed have for one another. It does not deal with the need for an emotional response to oppressors or victimizers. One example is the sympathy that the couple, both orphans, feel for one another in Pak Wan-so's Naked Tree. Chon emphasizes that han should not be understood as sentimentalism, fatalism, or masochism. To prove that han is not fatalistic, Chon provides the example of grasses that are always blown in one direction by the wind. After this has happened many times, the grasses bend of their own volition when the wind is about to blow. According to Chon, if fatalism means a view of life in which persons feel that they have no agency to make decisions and to act on them, han is not fatalism, because the potential choice not to act or resist may be seen as an exercise of their agency. This approach to social oppression may help maintain the stability of society, but it cannot address the problems inherent in an unfair social  - 40 -  structure. In Chon's sense, han means a coming to terms with the undesirable situation that has engendered han. It does not allow for an attempt to resist. To deny the fatalism of han and insist on volition or agency may easily be understood as self-justification of those interested in maintaining the status quo. Chon also introduces the Buddhist notion of musang (Ji'ft; literally, uncertainty, mutability, or transience) in order to contrast it with "the aesthetic sublimation of violent emotions" as the ultimate stage of the process of han. Musang may be explained as a feeling one experiences in the face of the sublime, namely a recognition of the transience of life and the insignificance of human struggle. Musang is closely related to another Buddhist concept which maintains that the phenomenal world is contingent and thus unreal. Reality or the Truth is present only in the realm of nirvana. A l l attachment to the contingent things of the world is a source of misery and must be renounced. However, han cannot be viewed as a Buddhist idea. Han is a way of life, not of death or of entering the realm of nirvana. It applies to oppressed people who live day-in day-out in the middle of this world. As a way of life, han helps alleviate pain, whether caused directly by external factors or by one's own emotional reaction to these factors. I would like to propose another view of han, one that sees it as a collective process of healing. Personal han dissolves in collective han — "an emotional universe" of a group of people who have undergone the same social and historical experiences. This process of healing may be termed sublimation, not because negative feelings become positive, but because the original violent pain of han can be overcome and transformed into a communal emotional crutch for the injured to lean on for a sense of belonging and peace of mind. Through this companionship, the oppressed find the energy to endure hardships dealt out by their oppressors.  - 41 -  As a process of collective healing, han may seem not to make enough allowance for individual experience. At least theoretically, a completely individual experience of han is not possible. A violent emotion is shared with others, often by talking about the event that has caused the emotion in the first place. This sharing through talking is called t'ongsajong ("letting others know about the whole event," "having sympathetic understanding," or "confiding in"), sasol ("explaining the history behind an event or emotion"), a shamanic term, nokturi ("complaining or grumbling about one's lot"), or hasoydn ("an appeal"). Han can be sublimated without sharing when the violent energy is channeled into other accomplishments such as artistic training. This is what Chon calls aesthetic sublimation. In the film "Sop'yonje" (1993), the father, the head of an itinerant family of singers, poisons his step-daughter to perfect the han in her singing. //a/?-ridden voice is supposed to be the highest aesthetic achievement in p'ansori (a traditional art form of telling stories by singing). 27  The poison blinds her  and isolates her from the rest of the world. Her han  that is not shared with others accumulates internally. From Chon's perspective, the daughter should not express her han in its raw, violent state, but sublimate and express it in her singing voice. She undergoes excruciating training under her stepfather's supervision and eventually comes to obtain a Aan-ridden voice. She can now perform in front of her audience.  28  Perhaps not all cases of  sublimation of han are as cruel as this example. Nonetheless, it is an example that demonstrates what it means for a woman to undergo the process of sublimation of han individually under patriarchal supervision. During the feudal era han usually signified " sdmin ui han" or "minjung ui han" ("commoners' han"), sdmin and minjung being collective terms referring to the entire less privileged class. When it came to women's han, however, there was no class distinction. There is an old saying that women's han can - 42 -  precipitate frost in the middle of the summer ( ^ f ^ f ?r-§- f - A ^  . S - T r i M l S . ^e)7>  i-H^lc]-). This saying points more to the male fear of women's han than to women's han itself, yet it vividly demonstrates the intensity of the emotions felt by women suffering under Confucian patriarchy. Although there is no class distinction in this old saying, it is not difficult to see that the women of the lower class must have suffered doubly as a result of their class and gender. Probably, lower-class women benefit more than the women of the higher class from sharing han with other women in the same class. One of the Confucian prohibitions against talkative women, indicating that a woman's laughter and voice should not travel beyond her private room, was difficult to enforce with women of the lower class who worked outside the house most of the day. Park Andrew Sung, in Racial Conflict and Healing (1996), discusses another aspect of han called chdng (Iff). Chdng is an intense longing or nostalgia on an interpersonal level, meaning a yearning to see one's lover, family, friends, and so on. Such longing produces han in the heart of the chdng- sufferer: Many Koreans have suffered separation from their [c/20/7^ ] -relationships for a long time. Such longing produces the han r  29  of the minjung. [chong] is both the material cause of han and the power to transcend han. The [chong]-filled  munjung usually suffer from  han. When they fulfill their dreams by seeing their people, their han can ebb.  [chong]-related  (Ill)  By "the han of the minjung" Park refers to the division of the Korean territory after the Korean War. However, if chdng is at once the cause and the power to transcend han, why can han of the minjung not be transcended by the power of chdng? Why do the dreams of chdng need to be fulfilled in order for han to ebb? Perhaps Park is referring to two different kinds of chdng. In my  - 43 -  opinion, the chong that has power to transcend han is similar to the fourth stage of the process of han suggested by Chon: the ethical wisdom to turn violent emotions into compassion or empathy for other people's misfortunes or sorrows. Chong has additional attributes aside from the intense longing. For example, it involves affection, warm-heartedness, compassionate attachment, and so forth (Chon 53-66). These are all crucial ingredients to maintain the tightly knit /7.3/7-sharing community. There seems to be another dimension to chong that Park refers to, that is, the national nostalgia for families and friends in North Korea. This aspect of chong is discussed by Philip Gourevitch, a columnist for The New Yorker, in his article "Alone in the Dark: Letter From Korea" in the same journal (September 2003). Gourevitch's reflections are proof that the concept of han has also begun to interest Western critics and has entered their reading of Korean society. Revealingly, Gourevitch uses a comparison with a well-known Western concept - - "German ideas of Volk" - - to illustrate han. A part of this article is an interview with Y i Mun-yol, a widely read, prolific, contemporary author in South Korea. In response to Yi's rather "dismissive" remark on han as "a peculiar mixture of tragedy and comedy" (74), Gourevitch explains the crucial emphasis on humiliation in han' [hlumiliation is a key ingredient of han, which is where its ironic or comic side comes'into play: the self-mockery of the self-loving who are all too aware of their weakness. It is touted as a keenly Korean emotion because it recognizes the contradictions of the Korean experience: traditionally, the intense nationalism and yearning for purity, so close to German ideas of Volk, coupled with an overwhelming experience of victimhood, and, for the past fifty years, the bitter reality of national division. Han at its tenderest is melancholic and wistful, and in its darker forms militant and vengeful; in either case it is freighted with and the temptations of extremism.  - 44-  (74; my emphasis)  dissatisfaction  Gourevitch's understanding of han is quite different from Chon's definition of it. For Chon, han is first and foremost a violent emotion that has been sublimated. In its raw stage, it cannot be called han. Therefore, a sentiment that is "freighted with dissatisfaction and the temptation of extremism" does not qualify as han, from Chon's perspective. Y i may dismiss han as it is seen from a nationalist's perspective, namely, as a dangerous self-indulgence.  30  In his own  fiction, Y i depicts han in a way similar to Chon's definition. He portrays two half brothers, one South Korean and one North Korean, who meet in China. To his North Korean brother who recites the hardships of life in the north, the narrator says: "My dear brother, please stop. You have to live under that system for some time yet. If you can't get shoes that fit you, you have to make your feet fit your shoes. Of course it's best to find shoes that fit your feet, but that is not always possible for everyone. The shoe shops of history are always run by unskilled shoemakers."  (qtd. in Gourevitch  75)  Yi's objections notwithstanding, this type of conversation is the "han-ta\k" (Andrew Park 9) that took and still takes place among han-sharing  groups of  people in an effort to alleviate the pain from the unfulfilled desires and hardships of life. The issue of minjung's han, according to Chon, was raised by the oppositional camp in the late 1970s and 1980s under the Park Chunghee and Chon Tu-hwan dictatorships. There are several interpretations regarding minjung's han including socio-psychological (spearheaded by Han Wan-sang,  - 45 -  Kim S6ng-gi), minjung theological (So Nam-dong, Mun Tong-hwan), minjung literary (Kim Chi-ha, Ko On), and so forth. The common concepts among these interpretations are the powerful energy that stems from accumulated minjung's han and the use of this energy as a driving force behind social reform. Ch'on admits the merits of these interpretations of han as proactive energy, rather than passive resignment. However, he argues that the energy from accumulated han does not necessarily help create an equal and just society; it may very well turn out to be a destructive force with no prospect of bringing about social reform. He maintains that the powerful han energy must first undergo a "qualitative transformation" so that it can be channeled into constructive social reform. Han must be sublimated before it becomes an outwardly-directed force ("Structure of Han" 97-8). These two paradoxical aspects, accumulation and sublimation, are inherent in han. Is there a difference between minjung s han and women's han? While 1  there are similarities, men's han and women's han cannot be the same. It represents a collective emotional healing that can be effective only among those who have had similar life experiences in similar socio-historical contexts. Because of han's tendency to augment the base of the collective, women's han is always viewed as deeply implicated in that of men (who are women's spouses or relations), and as something to be sacrificed for the benefit of the whole class, community, or nation.  Following the Japanese colonization of Korea, commoners' han was expanded to become national' han ("minjok ui han"). At the same time, the Western concept of individualism arrived, bringing with it the hope of moving away from the tradition of the collective han and breaking the long silence of the oppressed people. Women writers faced a dilemma or a double consciousness: on the one hand, there was an urgent need to express their  - 46 -  inner selves, and on the other, they could not jeopardize their solidarity with the national cause. Since the beginning of modern literature, Korean women have been torn between their sense of duty to the tradition of the collective han and their desire to break away from the collective and express women's han. It is in this context that early modern women writers' adoption of realism as their narrative form may be understood. At the beginning of prewar Korean literary history, most male writers were preoccupied with Western realism. Women writers also preferred realist narratives to fantastic ones, not simply because male writers considered them the most effective mode of narrative, but because women realized that realism could be instrumental in providing historical legitimacy for their writing. Realism allowed them to express social criticism from a feminist perspective. Early modern women such as Pak Hwa-song and Kang Kyong-ae made conscious attempts to deal with women's issues and to situate their women characters in realistic social and historical contexts.  From Han- talk to Storytelling Lee Jae-hoon, in The Exploration of the Inner Wounds — Han (1994), allocates a chapter to discussing han as the central issue of Korean shamanism. Lee takes a psychological approach to the interpretation of han, especially from the perspective of the depth psychologies of Melanie Klein and Carl Jung. He analyzes the myth of Princess Pari, one of the most important Korean shaman myths. This myth is recited by the "mudang" (female shaman)  31  at the Chinogwi kut (a ritual for recently-dead souls performed to guide /?a/7-ridden souls, that are unable or refuse to leave this world, to the nether world). It is also called hanp'uri kut (the ritual for the dissolution of han). The  - 47 -  ritual begins with the shaman's recitation of the myth of Pari. According to Lee, the "success of the ritual depends upon how well she can identify herself with 'Parikongjoo' [Princess Pari] and tell the story as if it were her personal story" (99-100). The han of the individual shaman and the participants is "reactivated and reexperienced" (100). This myth is especially favored by Korean shamans because Pari's life story reflects the han of the shamans themselves: . It is a well held view among both scholars and the public that shamans are individuals who have suffered much han, and overcome it in the process of becoming shaman. By overcoming their han they acquire the power to heal the wounds of other people and become the priestess or the priest of han.  (100)  The story of Pari begins with her birth as the seventh daughter of King Ogu. The king, who wants a son after six daughters, becomes furious and orders the new-born baby to be cast into a pond. Heaven, out of compassion, sends a dragon king to rescue her and entrust her to the mountain spirit to raise. She grows up without knowing anything about her parents. One day the king becomes critically ill. He is told that the only cure for his disease is the medicine water in the western fountain. The queen asks her six daughters if they could get the water for the king. A l l of them refuse to do so. The mountain spirit appears in the queen's dream and lets her know where Pari is. When asked, Pari gladly agrees to fetch the medicine water for her father. After overcoming many difficult barriers and hardships for several years, she finally arrives at the western fountain and successfully fetches the water. The king, now cured, offers Pari the highest position in the royal court, but she refuses and becomes the first ancestor of all shamans. Her task is to lead stray souls into the nether world. Lee interprets Pari's difficult journey to the western fountain as the  - 48 -  process of dealing with her own han. Using Jung's concept of "individuation," Lee links Pari's journey of han to the process of Pari's recognition and acceptance of her own unconscious. Pari comes to gain profound knowledge of human nature and psyche, and she accepts her vocation as a shaman who guides stray souls to the nether world. The process of "individuation" is closely related to the Taoist concept of solitary being and this being's knowledge of the path to universal wisdom and harmony. (The influence of Taoism on Jung will be discussed in more detail in the section on Oba Minako.) In addition to Lee's interpretation of Pari's journey of han, I would like to draw attention to two points: first, Pari refuses to stay in her father's court and second, she becomes a shaman who tells the story of her own life. A l l shamans tell Pari's story as if it were their own lived experience. What is the significance of Pari's /73/7-ridden life story, one that is repeatedly told to the participants and audience of the ritual that she or any shaman performs? In order to answer this question, we need to observe what the story does to the shaman herself and to her listeners. At the beginning of the story, the shaman always takes the listener back to the origin of the heroine's han. By so doing, she (re)activates han, in herself and the listener, in its violent form. By telling the story of Pari's long, difficult journey, the shaman guides the energy of the listener's han through the process of transformation. The violent and destructive emotion turns into a proactive and constructive force that enables the listener to transcend the dichotomy of good and evil or that of sublimation and accumulation. With the help of her broadened knowledge of human nature, the listener becomes able to see the third option that has so far been invisible. The story needs to be repeated, always going back to the origin of han first, to maintain the cycle of activation and resolution of han, lest han should become a passive acceptance of the status quo. The repetition of the story is  - 49 -  also necessary to adapt to new types of han that occur along with the changes in a person's life or in the socio-historical context in which the person is situated. However, the profound knowledge of human nature and psyche that is contained in the story does not change; it is always there for the listener to discover. I am convinced that there is a will (or an intention) embedded in the story to activate a dynamic circulation of han energy. This circulation of han energy can safeguard the listener from "the temptation of extremism," that is, the temptation of accumulation or sublimation of han. I wonder if Pak Wan-so takes advantage of haris dynamics by circulating han-ridden  stories among her  readers. Society has changed and there no longer exists the type of community in which the members physically live together in the same area. Nonetheless, the traditional practice of han-ta\k or telling the stories of women's lived experiences has adapted itself to the new social environment. In this new individualized society, Pak strikes a /73/7-conversation with the community of her women readers using "written colloquialism." She attempts to reactivate the dynamic cycle of han through her storytelling, telling the story of her life, the history of women, her-story rather than his-story.  - 50 -  Chapter Two: Hirabayashi Taiko and Kang Kyong-Ae  Can the Body Speak?  Hirabayashi Taiko Biographical Background Hirabayashi grew up in a poor family in a small village in mountainous central Japan, Nagano. Despite her parents' opposition to her education beyond elementary school, she took the examination for a women's high school and passed with the top score. A s a bright student with an unquenchable thirst for reading, she was exposed to foreign writers like Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and Tolstoy. Beside these foreign writers, a high-school teacher introduced Hirabayashi to Japanese realist writers such as Kunikida Doppo and Shiga Naoya, whose watakushi shosetsu narrative style and self-criticism influenced her own writing. She was also drawn to leftist ideology. After reading Germinal (1885) by Emile Zola, she wrote to the translator, Sakai Toshihiko  one  of the leading Japanese socialists at the time. It is not known whether or not Sakai replied. After graduation, Hirabayashi came to Tokyo and worked as a telephone operator and a bookstore employee. In the Sekirankai ("The Red Wave," a women's socialist group) meetings she attended, she met Sakai. Sakai introduced Hirabayashi to an ex-Christian, unemployed anarchist, Yamamoto Torami (ili^^gH), who soon became her common-law husband. In the government's crackdown on the socialist and anarchist movement after the Great Earthquake of 1923, Hirabayashi and Yamamoto were jailed for a month. After their release, it was impossible for them to get a job since Yamamoto was blacklisted and under strict police surveillance. Hirabayashi, pregnant with her first child, moved from one city to another with Yamamoto and finally decided to go to Manchuria in January 1924. In Manchuria,  - 51 -  Hirabayashi suffered night-blindness and beriberi caused by malnutrition. While Yamamoto was in jail for writing a document containing criticism of the Emperor, she gave birth to a baby girl, her only child, in a Christian charity hospital. The baby died seventeen days later of malnutrition. Hirabayashi returned to Japan, leaving Yamamoto in jail. Back in Tokyo, she joined such anarchist artist groups as "Damudamu" ( ^ " A ^ ' A ) and "Mavo"  ). She lived with a group of painters and poets and  started a sexual relationship with one of them, Handa Tokutaro (tzBTflii:6|3). Hirabayashi later looked back on her life at this time and said: I could not be satisfied with merely reading about or listening to other people's experiences. I was determined to taste the ups and downs of life directly through my body. At that time, I was truly the devil herself,  (qtd. in Modern Women's Literary Dictionary,  298; my  translation)  mK^mm^mA.ti^m^tz^-thtmx^tm^f^ toot, x^m^x'n mt^R^Wi. *<r>*$mW£r>tt. ( ^ f ^ l 4 i W * j r  The relationship with Handa did not last long, as Hirabayashi returned to Yamamoto when he came back from Manchuria. However, they soon separated again. Several men with whom Hirabayashi became "entangled in difficult relationships were as irresponsible and parasitic as her first lover" (Tanaka 69). Her ex-lovers would come to the cafes where she worked and try to extort money from her, beating her if she could not or would not give it to them. Among the people whom Hirabayashi knew at this time was Hayashi Fumiko, who would become a very successful writer and a lifetime friend and rival. Tanaka Yukiko explains Hirabayashi's and her associates' way of life: Some of them believed that capitalists owed them a living, since their profits were the result of exploitation. Basing their views on theories  - 52 -  , 2  they had read in Kropotkin's Spoliation of Bread, they managed to extort small amounts of money from businesses and banks. Rejecting all bourgeois conventions, including sexual morality, they led decadent, hand-to-mouth lives. When hungry, they would steal food ... borrowed money whenever they could, with no intention of repaying it.  (69)  In 1927, Hirabayashi met and married Kobori Jinji ('h^BS—), a self-educated, poverty-stricken socialist from a working-class background. Kobori was less abusive than her previous lovers, but did not have a steady job and was often dependent on his wife's income from writing. Hirabayashi won the Osaka Asahi Newspaper New Writer's Award in May 1927 with "Self-Mockery," an autobiographical story depicting her life after she came back from Manchuria, and another prize with "In the Charity Ward," published a year after "Self-Mockery" was written. "Charity Ward," based on her Manchurian experience, won Hirabayashi a name. She was dubbed "a new, unique, proletarian writer" by the left-wing literary journal Literary Front (:£3lifelsl) in which the story was published. After the Japan Proletarian Artist Federation ( H * 7 o i / j ! IJ T H I S J S H ) was disbanded and regrouped into two factions, Hirabayashi became a member of the Labour Artists Federation (Jjfflj-SWMWL'M or JcWM) in opposition to the other faction, the National Proletarian Art Federation (1:0 ^ i t i i ^ S ^ S I S l , NAPF,  or +• -y  and she started to produce one story after another. "Diary  of Members of the Opposition Faction" ( ^ g t f ^ B f B ,  1929) and The Railroad  Workers (IfclS^iJ^, 1929) are examples from this period. Some socialists, including Hirabayashi, became skeptical of the formal teachings of the Marxist group (NAPF) that did not seem to reflect the Japanese social and political realities: Taiko shared this skepticism, which she particularly felt toward the more radical faction of the leftist leaders, which included several writers. The proletarian school of writing advocated the theory that  - 53 -  political ideology had to override personal sentiments. Taiko could not swallow this dogma and twice left the leftist writers group over disagreements on views of literature. Keenly interested in the complexity of human nature as well as in the relationship between the individual and society, Taiko put these interests above ideological concerns. In 1937,  (Tanaka  71)  Hirabayashi was arrested by the police on behalf of her  husband who had escaped the police arrest. She was not released even after Kobori was captured and jailed. In the eighth month of her incarceration, she developed a serious case of peritonitis and was released on the verge of death. Hirabayashi's husband was released later to be with her at her deathbed. Miraculously, with her husband's devotion, from the illness by 1944.  32  Hirabayashi recovered  This period coincides with the years of literary  silence kept by all writers who refused to cooperate with military state until the end of World War II. Hirabayashi resumed her prolific writing in 1946.  Some of her widely  read works were published during the immediate postwar years, for example,  J ("Walking Alone," 1946), W + H ^ j ("Blind Chinese Soldiers," 1946; tr. 1982), Jt^e*$j ("The Goddess of Children," 1946; tr. 1952), ^ i ^ i i r j ("This Kind of Woman," 1946), and & l ± £ § £ j ("I Mean to Live," 1947; tr. 1963). For "This Kind of Woman," Hirabayashi received the prestigious R  -A?T<  r  r  r  r  Women's Literary Award. When she came back to Tokyo after the war, she said to herself that, this time, she would never listen to any one ii  l i i ' i ^ f , Nakayama 11).  (ZA.£1±  It is not clear whether she meant  men in her life, other writers, or political ideologies. Nonetheless, she seems to have declared her individuality. Hirabayashi's "writing with the body" was an effective method to express her individuality. Below, I hope to demonstrate how the author struggled to achieve her individuality through writing about her  - 54 -  body in the early stage of her career. I also hope to show that "writing with the body" enabled her unabated criticism of Japanese patriarchal society, but also of anarchism, socialism, and, most of all, herself.  The "Apotropaic" and the Language of the Body In examining Hirabayashi's stories, I apply Kathleen Marks's concept of "apotropaic gestures" (proposed in her study Toni Morrison's Beloved and the Apotropaic Imagination [2002]) and Luce Irigaray's critique of the division between mind and body (introduced in her study Speculum of the Other Woman [1985]). I do not intend to apply directly the African-American experiences depicted in Morrison's novel, nor do I in any way equate Japan in the 1920s to the European social and intellectual milieu that conditioned the emergence of French Feminist theorists like Irigaray, Helene Cixous, and Julia Kristeva. Instead, I extrapolate from the theories proposed by Marks and Irigaray those general concepts that are applicable to the reading of the works by Hirabayashi. Marks' term "apotropaic," Greek in origin, means "turning (tropos) away from (apo) evil" (7). The term has ritualistic overtones that derive from "a body of religious rites of aversion" dating back to pre-Olympian time (Marks 7). Horror-inducing images like the Gorgon mask were used in these rites of aversion to ward off evil. The use of such images was not limited to the West; it was prevalent in traditional Korean and Japanese societies as well. For example, in Japan, there was the mountain witch or yamanba, a figure that Oba depicts in "The Smile of a Mountain Witch." In Korea, poles with fierce-looking faces carved in them, changsung (^"^) were erected at the entrance of a village to ward off evil and disease. Thus, it seems that the apotropaic can be  - 55 -  applied to my examination of Japanese and Korean literary texts as Western ones. In her study of Morrison's Beloved (1987), Marks specifically deals with the ethical issues concerning the protagonist's act of infanticide. The plots of the two stories by Hirabayashi also center on an incident of infanticide. Marks relates infanticide to the excess in the protagonist's love for her children and links this excess to one of the attributes of the apotropaic, that is, "one does what one finds horrible so as to mitigate its horror" (2). I apply the same apotropaic model in my analysis of Hirabayashi's "Self-Mockery" and "Charity Ward." Marks introduces the term "the apotropaic" in her discussion of a scene in Morrison's novel Sula (1973), in which the title character slashes off the tip of her finger with a knife to ward off a group of white boys who approach her and her friend Nel with the intention of harming them-' By cutting off a piece of herself, Sula reveals that she has internalized a self-loathing so deep that she does not mind causing herself harm in order to deflect harm. Yet in this purposive self-destruction is embedded an element of self-preservation: the boys' threat is diminished, their power vacated. The apotropaic, then, are those gestures aimed at warding off, or resisting, a danger, a threat, or an imperative. More exactly, apotropaic gestures anticipate, mirror, and put into effect that which they seek to avoid: one does what one finds horrible so as to mitigate its horror.  (2)  Marks outlines a repertoire of apotropaic gestures, citing various sources, ranging from the pre-Olympian Greek religious rites of aversion and the Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone to Sigmund Freud's theory of castration, Jacques Derrida's paradoxical logic of the apotropaic, proposal to link  34  33  and Gayatri Spivak's  Derrida's idea' of Aufheben to "a kind of self-agency" through  - 56 -  the concept of sublation. For my discussion of the Hirabayashi's protagonist's self-loathing and its correlation with her infanticide, however, I would like to consider only two elements of the apotropaic among those suggested by Marks: the ambivalence between self-loathing and self-preservation (or self-agency), and the mother-daughter relationship in the myth of Demeter and Persephone. According to Marks, Demeter's excessive love for Persephone prevents her daughter from maturing into womanhood. Demeter's profound grief upon 35  Hades's abduction of her daughter to the underworld--the grief which stops all agricultural growth on the earth—is a type of "apotropaic paradox" since Demeter, the goddess of agriculture, destroys what she is supposed to preserve, all out of love. When, through Zeus's mediation, Persephone finally returns to her mother for two-thirds of every year, the daughter is no longer her previous self, that is, a part of her mother: "Cut off from the mother, Persephone is what I am terming an apotrope! that is, she exists apart from the trope of Demeter" (Marks 19). Further, having eaten Hades's pomegranate, she is the "apotropaic seed-bearer" (14), the goddess who "models an attitude of resistance and acceptance" (18). In other words, she is at once the "object of maternal love" and the "underside of maternal love" that "embodies a feminine deadliness," most removed from life in her underworld capacity (18). This paradoxical attribute of life-giving and life-taking belongs to the apotropaic.  36  Demeter is forced to accept Persephone's split "psyche" (18) and the fact that her daughter does not fully belong to her world. From a slightly different angle, one wonders if Persephone reflects Demeter's apotropaic attribute. If that is the case, Demeter's acceptance of her daughter's split-ness is nothing but her recognition of the paradox of love that is at work within herself, that is, the ambiguity between self-love and parental or altruistic love.  - 57 -  This view also ties in with Marks's argument that the myth depicts how the excessive and harmful effect of what is supposed to be nurturing is discarded. Marks relates Demeter's excessive love to Sethe's (the heroine in Beloved) that drives her to kill her own daughter in order to save her from the pains and horror of slavery. Eventually, Sethe has to answer an important question: does she have the right to make a decision on the life and death of her daughter, an individual separate from her? In order to resolve this question, Sethe allows Beloved, or the ghost of her daughter, to come back into her life. By concluding that she does not have the right, Sethe liberates herself from the vicious circle of the "rememory"  37  of her dead daughter and  moves on with her life. As Baby Suggs, Sethe's mother-in-law and the preacher for the Black community, always emphasizes, Sethe must learn to love herself and her scarred body, without the excess of self-pity that has perpetuated her internalized self-loathing and diffidence. In parallel to Sethe's evolution, the Black community also learns to love itself and its painful history, it sheds the self-pity and diffidence ("the problem of slavery's diminishment of the human psyche," 41) that caused the betrayal of Sethe's family when no one warned them that the slave catchers had arrived. Like Demeter, Sethe accepts her daughter's individuality. The community too accepts that their future is separate from their past, but they need not abandon the positive aspects of remembering their history. The logic of the apotropaic holds true here: it consists of preserving the memory and warding off its harmful effects. In the chapter entitled "... And If, Taking the Eye of a Man Recently Dead, ... " in Speculum of the Other Woman (1985), Irigaray criticizes the Cartesian split between the intellect and the body. She calls the subject who thinks (as in the expression cogito ergo sum) "I" or "eye" and thereby links  - 58 -  the thinking subject to the seeing subject. "Eye" is a masculine subject and his subjectivity is formed by looking at his own image reflected in the mirror. Irigaray associates sight with the male desire to see things clearly and logically and to master them theoretically (Rivkin and Ryan 573). Thus "eye" privileges intellect over body and the visual perception over the tactile perception of reality. To establish his masculine, self-identical, subject position within the realm of metaphysics (the mind), "eye" uses the feminine as a reference point (Other) and positions the feminine in the realm of ontology (the body): The eye of the spirit [masculine subject] gives up all the various sights that are presented to it or forced upon it [through senses other than visual?] and thus reveal itself at last to be an organ of sight that has forfeited the body ... cut itself off from the order to see into it better. That is, in clear and distinct fashion, without the profusion of nerve impulses that jumble the parts of the body and the environment all up together: sensations, imaginations, memories, ... these need to be suspended during the aseptic procedures accompanying this surgical dissection.  (184)  Irigaray contends that, in the Cartesian view, woman "consists of an extended corporeal thing" (185). This extension is originally amorphous, unknowable, and unpenetrable. However, the solipsistic masculine discourse exercises its disembodied logic to systemize the corporeal extension into the dominant structure. Within this structure, the feminine body, as "an object of desire," "of representation," "of discourse" (133), helps maintain the masculine self-same subjectivity. The exchange under patriarchy takes place exclusively among men. Women are treated as "signs, commodities, and currency [that] always pass from one man to another" (Irigaray, "Commodities" 574). In another essay, "The Power of Discourse and the Subordination of the Feminine" (1985), Irigaray urges us to challenge and disrupt philosophical  - 59 -  discourse that is based on the division between mind and body. She suggests as a method of subversive writing "the elsewhere of feminine pleasure" (571). Women have been forbidden to express their own pleasure because it threatens the underpinnings of logical operations. A s long as women use the same language as men, "to speak of or about woman may always boil down to ... a recuperation of the feminine within a logic that maintains it in repression, censorship, nonrecognition" (571). Nonetheless, Irigaray does not suggest a new theory of which woman would be the subject or the object. Instead, she proposes "jamming the theoretical machinery itself ... suspending its pretension to the production of a truth and of a meaning that are excessively univocal" (571). Rather than attempting to be men's equals in knowledge and logic, women should repeat and interpret the way in which masculine discourse defines the feminine as a lack, deficiency, or corporeal extension and signify that the masculine logic could engender a "disruptive excess" on the feminine side (571). This excess disrupts common sense, which is only possible by practicing "feminine writing" (or "feminine style," 572). This style does not privilege sight or intellect; "instead, it takes each figure back to its source, which is among other things tactile" (572). This style dismantles every dichotomizing break such as enunciation vs. utterance, the perceptible vs. the intelligible, a right side vs. a wrong side of discourse, and so forth. There is no self-identical meaning, linear reading, or teleological effect. Feminine writing is "always fluid, without neglecting the characteristics of fluids that are difficult to idealize," (572) resisting and exploding every firmly established form, figure, idea, or concept. It loosens phallogocentrism from "its moorings in order to return the masculine to its own language, leaving open the possibility of a different language" (573). The disruptive excess in feminine writing, that in my opinion is none other than the language of the body that Hirabayashi uses, enables women to  - 60 -  possess their own minds and liberate their bodies from patriarchal presuppositions.  "The Self-Mockery"  38  An autobiographical story, based on Hirabayashi's experiences after her return from Manchuria, "Self-Mockery" depicts the life of the narrator Yoshiko who lives with a parasitic man named Koyama, an unemployed ex-communist. Koyama keeps asking Yoshiko to get money from her previous lovers. One day, she becomes so angry that she decides to sell her body to one of her ex-lovers, Yada. She explains that she wants to take revenge on Koyama and that prostitution is the only way to make money at the moment. Yoshiko sleeps with Yada that night. The next morning Yada throws a one-yen note at her, a bit more than the streetcar fare. Even to borrow money, she has to sleep with him since there is no guarantee that she will pay it back. It is implied that Yada promised to lend her fifteen yen, but ignores his promise in the morning. When Yoshiko is given the one-yen note, she hears a loud noise of self-mockery from inside her body. Her spirit is crushed, not only because of the amount of money, but also because she was planning over the sleepless night to transform her act of sleeping with Yada into a turning point in her life, pulling herself out of her miserable relationship with Koyama and starting a new life alone. She was determined to leave Yada in the morning without asking for money. However, in the morning, having received the money (or some of it), she is disappointed at herself. She realizes that all resolutions she made over the previous night were nothing but delusions. Yoshiko leaves Yada's room with the one-yen note and starts to walk. She does not know exactly where she is heading and feels dizzy. She walks  - 61 -  with faltering steps due to a serious pain in her left breast. The narrator steals a look at her breast under her kimono when no one is around, but cannot find anything wrong with it. Instead, looking at her saggy breast, Yoshiko is reminded of the fact that she once nursed a baby. Yoshiko hates looking at her breasts because they are the image of her ugly self. She feels a surge of self-mockery whirl up inside of her once more: "Perhaps I've been walking with a faint sneer on my face, exposing my yellow teeth. People turn around as they pass, to take another look at me, a strange-looking woman"  ^ l : ,  g 4 : f c « > j g £ j | - r . r L t , i i 0 t ^ ' o TfTo fc, 4 0 ; 75 ) 39  40  An expression comes to Yoshiko's mind out of nowhere'- "Who could stop a boulder rolling down from the top of a mountain?" (75) Repeating these "epigram-like" (M^^X  i &) words, she walks aimlessly, with her eyes fixed on  "the passersby with the rudeness of a fly that stays on your skin" ( $ J ± , I T £ %CD£  7 l c - * * U t i m ^ o t f C , 40; 76). This staring and repetition of  the epigram keep "the scenes of the last night and this morning from coming back to my mind like a ball of yarn spitting out an endless thread" ( ^ I s ^ S 0  JgW5fi-C*T< ? > £ $ & » f 1 - 4 0 ; 75-6). Suddenly, Yoshiko hears a loud bell behind her and looks around to find a streetcar moving towards a labourer working on the track and unaware of the approaching vehicle. The streetcar screeches to a halt an inch away from the labourer. The conductor yells at him. Yoshiko talks to herself: "My own brake cannot stop anything, even if I try harder than that old conductor" (@#0 ^tlTii,  ±t  7V-3rl±,  h<r>.  1 •? tzWfc&fcW  i>%[,*<?>fZ, 41; 76). Like the boulder epigram, "the broken  brake" seems another perfect metaphor for Yoshiko's situation. She wants to burst out laughing. Although she does not want to waste the money that Yada gave her on  - 62 -  the streetcar, Yoshiko is too tired to walk, and she decides to take the streetcar home. She pictures Yada's face in her mind, but for some reason, she does not shudder as she has ever since that morning. It is like seeing a picture of someone she does not know. She asks herself: "Is this the mentality of an ugly woman?" (^.ti^M^^ic^'fjW^. 41; my translation) Yoshiko finds a well-dressed young man standing right next to her. He gives her and her shabby appearance an indifferent glance and never looks back. She knows the type, a young man "who classifies women by their appearance, who enjoys golf and going to parties at the Imperial Hotel" (-<7)f§k, E#JU  ffiB*r/i'*>££jMff.**  ^7jl&,  I- ± o X it £  -5 4, m^-W±X'h^tz, 42; 77). She thinks  that he must be sneering at her. She purposefully leans on him each time the bus jerks. When he moves away, she follows him and repeats the same act. Finally, the young man finds an empty seat and sits down, pushing her away with his elbow. Yoshiko stands in front of him and when the bus makes a jolt, she puts her hand on his lap, to the man's great annoyance. He moves away. Taking his seat, Yoshiko feels pleased, "as if something refreshing flowed down into my chest"  t £ ^ t > ? ) ^ $ 5 £ T £ X i X'h ->fc,42; 77).  Returning home, Yoshiko cannot find any words with which to console herself. Koyama asks her where she has been. She does not answer, but in her mind, she reminds herself of the answer that she composed in the morning and repeated to herself all day-' "I was out there doing whatever I could, even doing that, simply to support a useless man like you; that is how much I want to safeguard our life together" ( i t f g £ f t ? j t < 7 ) £ g £ ^ h fzih\z, %i±m^X. ZtiX'lX.  t'i *»L J: i t LXvhWTt.  Ztim.  0 Wotk>4»t  43; my translation). She imagines someone using these words to sympathize with her, enjoying the sense of tragic beauty in them. In the next moment, however, she wonders why she sells her body to support a man like Koyama, "a wretched man who conceals his real reason for living with me,  - 63 -  namely to live off my earnings"  —  £  Sjt&^t  %LM%35Z.ZM-<7)m&t LXUZt^tHcl-TtUXicb*^*  £-fifr-££,  tvn  & ttb%%Th^tz,  44; 79).  Yoshiko makes it clear that her sacrifice is not like that of the virtuous women  41  throughout history who cast their chastity away in order to save their  marriages. For her, it is neither a matter of chastity nor of marital obligation. She has no reason to sell her body to support Koyama. Besides, she is a woman "who has known three men, each of whom I left without much agony" G&ttMicfc, HA<7) £ £ £ 1 9 , HA<0#!£> f5T*>B3* t & I ^XX^tz-kXh  o  fc, 44;  79). Koyama asks if Yoshiko obtained money from Yada, complaining that he does not have any money for cigarettes. She lies about the reason for spending the night at Yada's, saying that she needed to get the streetcar fare from one of Yada's friends who Yada said would visit in the morning. She does not want to give Koyama the coins left from the car fare, but while watching him looking for a cigarette butt in the brazier, she changes her mind and gives him the remaining money. Going out to buy cigarettes, he seems genuinely happy, which makes her feel good, too. While he is out, Yoshiko writes a letter to Yada to demand that he lend her the money that he promised, saying that he belongs to the bourgeois class and has an obligation to help the poor like herself. She decides not to mail the letter, however. When Yoshiko complains about the pain in her breast that started that morning, Koyama becomes suspicious about the last night. She angrily defends herself, pointing to the fact that it was Koyama himself who sent her to Yada to get money. However, she denies having sex with Yada, and Koyama somehow believes her. That night, Yoshiko persuades Koyama to go out to steal bamboo shoots from the landlord's garden to eat with the next meal. For some reason, the sight of fresh bamboo shoots stimulates her otherwise poor appetite.  - 64 -  The next day, Yoshiko goes to Yada's again, determined to demand the money in person. However, she finds that he has a couple of friends visiting. One of them, Kigawa, knows all about Yoshiko's past with her first lover whom she left in jail in Manchuria. Kigawa despises her for leaving her husband and looks at her with an expression of disgust as if looking at something festering. Yoshiko finds a pair of rimless glasses on Yada's desk and puts them on. Saying that she can see better with them, she keeps them on for the rest of the day. Yoshiko follows the three men to the A A Corporation to extort 42  money. While other people get only five yen, she is able to get ten yen by wielding a communist cliche: "This is money extorted from working people. You tell them not to be stingy" (&L %%m% i T - ^ t T - ^ L S r ^ S r o T H - v t - o T * »)  X fc -5 »t  t*h 0 i  *>.  ;? n J , 5 5 ; 92). Afterwards, Yada says to 43  the other two men that women have an advantage after all.  Yoshiko is  insulted. After Yada chases his friends away, she "ends up in Yada's room after all, unable to decide otherwise" (&K&l±£ffi<?>£C#fc§| £ -f h ;Mtfifc*>T?g^ fjofc,  5 6 ; 93). She tries many times to talk about the money, but cannot bring  herself to do it. That afternoon, Yada asks Yoshiko to go to the theatre. Leaving for the theatre with Yada on a beautiful sunny afternoon, the narrator thinks about Koyama at home. A t that moment, she cannot honestly say that the pleasure of revenge is the only thing she feels towards Koyama. In the theatre with Yada, she is afraid that they may be seen together. Unfortunately, Kigawa is sitting in the seat in front of her. In the final scene of the play the heroine meets her former lover whom she has not been able to forget. She describes her present life with one word, "hell" (MW), before fainting. Distracted by Kigawa's presence and Yada's ill-fitting glasses that she is still wearing, Yoshiko is caught off guard by the actress's final word "hell." She begins to weep, but manages to stop by laughing loudly. After the play, Yada shows no doubt at all - 65 -  that Yoshiko will come to his place again for the night, and says to Yoshiko that he feels sorry for Koyama. Too weary to respond to Yada, she starts to walk away from the theatre crowd when she spots Koyama across the street-' "Did you come to meet me? How did you know that I was here?" I said, running to him. I forget about Yada at that moment and feel relieved that I am returning to my legitimate place. "So you went to see a play today?" Koyama says in a hoarse voice, glancing at my [spectacled] face.  44  (94)  lt*fc^)i'j H'tafcjSffofc.  (57)  Some time has passed; it is summer. Yoshiko realizes she is pregnant. But the mere possibility of having a child seems comic, inappropriate, and unthinkable. There is no money; they are far behind in rent and the rice pouch is empty. Yoshiko does not tell Koyama about her pregnancy. Koyama sits as usual on the window-sill, whistling a tune when a poetry magazine published by one of his friends arrives. A poem in it fascinates Koyama and he reads it to her-' It's near the streetcar station, and besides there is a nice view; But your noble wife goes to town and sells mourning bands Heroically, and with such modest pride. (95)  m^&Ximi^Mi:  ih  (58)  Koyama praises the poet, saying that it is as if the poet is describing the way they (Yoshiko and Koyama) live. Yoshiko looks at the poet's name and feels her face turn pale. The poet is Kigawa. Yoshiko immediately knows that Yada  - 66 -  has told him about her selling her body. At that moment, she feels a strange sensation in the lower part of her body and soon finds out in the washroom that she has miscarried. Suspecting nothing, Koyama keeps praising the phrase "selling mourning bands" all day long. Each time she hears the phrase, she feels she is suffocating. That night, Yoshiko calmly tells herself in bed: "I've sold off a mourning band" ( ^ $ £ 9  r> h^-ofz,  59; my translation). Listening to  Koyama's breathing next to her, Yoshiko cries with a despair that she has never experienced before.  The origin of urami The protagonist suffers from self-loathing and the feeling of resentment towards Koyama, a parasitic partner who drives her into prostitution, it is difficult to understand why Yoshiko stays with Koyama when she is well aware of his lack of love and the way he uses her. She takes pains to differentiate herself from the virtuous women in Japanese history who sacrificed their chastity to save their marriages, as if to say that she does not have the traditional Confucian ethics those women did. She also states that she had three men before Koyama and left them without much agony and that there is no apparent reason that she should stay with Koyama, either. Why then is Yoshiko unable to leave him? Further, is her inability to leave him the true reason for her self-loathing? The narrator explains at one point that she has worn herself out trying to find a man who lives up to her ideals. She has lost her self-reliance; consequently, she is leading a miserable life, controlled by the most trifling external forces (45). However, the story is full of contradictions about her self-reliance. On the one hand, Yoshiko lets the men around her determine where she goes, with whom she spends the night, and so on. Even the  - 67 -  decision to sell herself is not based on her own initiative, but merely a spiteful reaction to Koyama's repeated demand that she get money from her ex-lovers. On the other hand, Yoshiko bullies the affluent-looking young man on the streetcar, demands money from the A A Corporation (using communist ideology as her weapon), steals bamboo shoots from the landlord's garden, and demands money from Yada, the son of a bourgeois family. How can Yoshiko be both so determined and so spineless? We can find one possible answer by looking at the type of matters on which she is capable of making decisions on her own. These include situations which can be justified intellectually, using socialist assumptions, for example, the assumption that the rich owe the poor since the money owned by the rich has been extorted from the poor in the first place. Likewise, Yoshiko's attitude towards the affluent-looking man on the streetcar and the bourgeois Yada, her stealing from her landlord, and her extortion from the company can all be justified using socialist theory.  45  On the other hand, Yoshiko is unable to make decisions on matters that involve her body and emotions. Consciously or unconsciously, she severs her mind from her body. This split occurs, for example, in the scene in the streetcar when she pictures Yada's face. Until that moment, she has dreaded the memory of the previous night and the morning. However, to her surprise, his face does not provoke the horror she expected: Hanging on to the leather strap, I picture Yada's face and his thin hair on the fogged window. But, oddly, remembering his face no longer makes me shudder. It is as if I am looking at a portrait of a man I don't know. "Is this the mentality of an ugly woman?" I ask myself nonchalantly. (41; my translation)  - 68 -  £ K  &^ o  &J±,  „  @7>Sfft< g ^ - C ^ f c .  (41)  Now, Yoshiko is able to confront Yada's face with no emotional distress. This may mean that she has distanced herself from her emotion as well as from her body. Yoshiko calls her ability to put an intellectual distance between her mind and body "the mentality of an ugly woman," the kind of woman she thinks she is. She does not seem to approve of her ability at all; and yet, she seems not particularly concerned with doing anything about it either. It is as if Yoshiko has given up on herself, or as if she is looking at herself from outside her body nonchalantly. There is one more scene during the same streetcar ride that vividly demonstrates Yoshiko's deliberate split between mind and body. The conductor collects fares from the passengers and takes the one-yen note from her. When he asks her where she got on, she feels embarrassed: When he gives me a quick glance with the typical brightness of young men's eyes, I feel aghast, imagining that he can see through me to the core of my heart.... He goes away and I cross my arms, somehow relieved. "But, that money, you see, is a legitimate note issued by the National Bank of Japan." Instead of saying this to the conductor, I flash a smile at him as I get off the streetcar. iX\  %&htiXli^tz£  L i i t , r  g , l ± M t ts. <  L * » U htlK^X,  ^OSB^C,  (42-3; my translation)  i%%fr'lXfz  th^iin-rrbiit.  ...  S * « i o T  ^LXMt&A,tz\  tzi> B*mi7Wl7<7)&m%A,X'1-frhte.„ j  ^ i i . - j t i o o u t ,  ht^>  t&mtmgtmffrifti.  (42-3)  The protagonist feels at once embarrassed and aghast, imagining that the  -  69 -  conductor can read in her mind what has happened to her since last night. However, she immediately convinces, herself that the money itself has nothing to do with her prostitution. Money is money regardless of how she made it. By separating the money, simply an abstract exchange value, from what happened to her body to earn it last night, she perpetuates the division between her mind and body. This mind-body split, privileging the mind and ignoring the body, is soon articulated by Yoshiko when she realizes the memory of the previous night with Yada is moving to the back of her mind while she coaxes Koyama into stealing bamboo shoots with her: A voice in my head tells me, "That [sleeping with Yada for money] was really nothing, if you think about it." Another voice agrees, "The real vice in the world is not that type of thing." A s a woman whose body retains the memories of many men, I have lost the capacity to emotionally agonize over that type of thing. I can only intellectualize the matters at hand.  (48; my translation)  ^ J J ^ o T L ^ t i > ^ f l ) ^ ; .  (48)  By this time, the narrator declares that she has lost her capacity to access her emotions or listen to what her body tells her. Now, the reader has a problem-' if the protagonist's prostitution can be explained away like this, why would she be so shocked as to suffer a miscarriage after reading the poem that seems to describe her prostitution? It is hard to believe that Yoshiko worries about Koyama's catching the allusion in the poetry, when we take into consideration her extremely liberal view of sexual conduct and her negative opinion of her current relationship with Koyama. Nakayama Kazuko in Hirabayashi Taiko (1999) argues that  - 70 -  Hirabayashi's "life-energy" was turned into "sexual-energy" by her innate, excessive, sexual desire and became the catalyst for her downfall (47). Although there are many scenes that allude to Yoshiko's sexual desire (for example, the cat in heat crying on the roof or Yoshiko's fantasies about ideal men who arouse her sexual desire), these do not necessarily imply that she is worried about losing Koyama as a sexual partner. Besides, Yoshiko can have her sexual desire satisfied by men other than Koyama (Yada for example), if that is what she is after. There must be some other reason for the shock that causes Yoshiko to miscarry. One significant motif that eludes many critics of this story is the little box containing the ashes of the protagonist's baby. She can never let go of this small urn. After she returns home from Yada's, the pain in her breast reminds her of the box: The sagging skin of my abdomen is evidence that I delivered a child. My breasts are as limp as the dead body of a cat. At the bottom of my suitcase is a small box ... wrapped in a piece of imitation brocade. I, a woman who left her first lover in a cold prison cell and then went from one man to another as if guided by some unknown force, have not been able to discard this small box which, when I shake it, makes a faint rattling sound as a toy would. More than a few times, Koyama and I have exchanged foul words over this little box. [Logically as well as emotionally, he has managed to accept it, more or less. But from time to time, he just has to say something about it to give himself the upper hand in our relationship. That is the kind of man he is. The endless reminiscing at last brings tears to my eyes. What force brought me to where I am today? I ask myself. But there is no strength left in me to think it through. I find myself adrift in a sea of weariness and wasted time, letting myself flow wherever the current takes me.] ( 4 5 - 6 ; my translations in brackets; emphasis added) 46  -  71  -  ofe„  ' fe  ifitfttt, & f c f ± , fecogS: -5 2> i-*fe„ i-5 ^ -5 S S t - ^ f e i>nit* fflnfi-cto^fcir.  £L£n,  flfcfi-CfTfrfrl+fitfS:  $n,»g#$r«0-C*o  fe--„  (45-46)  Yoshiko says that she feels guilty whenever she remembers her time in Manchuria and what she has done since she returned to Tokyo. She asks the crucial question, "what force brought her to where she is now," and yet, she says that she has no energy to think seriously about it. The author leaves this question unanswered, as if to ask the reader to discover it in his/her own way. (I will discuss my own discovery later in the section on "In the Charity Ward.") Although the narrator says that her body retains the memories of her past lovers, there is no mention of these men in the story except for a brief reference to her first lover, the father of her dead baby. A s a matter of fact, even the memory of her first lover is significant only in its relation to the memory of the baby. Yoshiko's loathing of her body—that she says is the image of her ugliness—is concentrated on her sagging breasts and abdomen, the signs of motherhood. What is the relationship between Yoshiko's self-loathing and her dead baby? Does it have anything to do with her miscarriage that ends the story? In order to answer these questions, I would like first to investigate what happened to Hirabayashi's determination to experience life directly through her body. I find it hard to read her determination other than as a  - 72 -  desire to achieve an individual perspective on life based on her lived experiences. Hirabayashi refused to have her life prescribed by external forces, especially intellectual or abstract ones. At the same time, she would not allow anybody else's lived experiences to influence her view of life. One can say that she lived her life, to a large extent, according to her own determination, that is to say individually and concretely through her body. What does it mean for women like Hirabayashi, however, to live directly through their bodies when the entire patriarchal system is based on the absolute division between the mind and the body, and where mind is privileged over the body? Can a woman's body still be the site where her individuality is allowed to mature and flourish? Or is her body merely at her mind's service while her mind is controlled by the masculine mind? In "Self-Mockery," Yoshiko has persuaded herself that she lives outside the patriarchal restrictions on the female body. Yet Yoshiko has also become a scapegoat as she admits to herself: "I may think I am winning, but in fact, I am being done in by these men. I also realize that the same is true about my past" ( @ 7 > ^ i t i ± ^ - ? - 3 & o H t k  frL%^\z^t?tih<r)?i,  ii^ttz,  52; my translation). A s  Irigaray observes, a woman is merely a corporeal extension of the masculine intellect. She passes from one man to another as a commodity of flesh in the phallogocentric socio-cultural environment. Achieved through her bodily experiences, Yoshiko's individuality is nothing but an illusion produced by the system itself. Her inability to think in any other way than through her intellect vividly demonstrates this fact. Is Hirabayashi's language of the body as used in "Self-Mockery" and other works also part of the illusion created by the system? M y answer to this question is no. Hirabayashi lets the reader know, through her protagonist, that she, as the author of the story, is aware of the danger of the illusion: Yoshiko wears Yada's glasses (Yada's "eye" or "I") that do not fit her eyes and make her feel  - 73 -  tired and confused (57). Her body feels uncomfortable with the glasses; however, she claims she can see just fine with them (54). Yoshiko views the world through someone else's lens, the lens of patriarchal logocentrism. Hirabayashi also informs the reader that Yoshiko has fallen victim to patriarchal logocentrism. The scene in which Yoshiko remembers her resolution during the sleepless night lying beside Yada makes this apparent: I felt it ludicrous to stoop this low for a man [Koyama] like that. It was debasing. Suddenly, a new world that I hadn't seen thus far unfolded before me. It was still possible for me to have dreams. I also felt my old youthful courage coming back to me and decided that . I would leave Yada without asking for money. "I let it happen just this once. I'll begin a new life'alone this time." I stayed awake all night, listening to Yada's breathing that smacked of an animal's and composing the harsh words that I would throw at Koyama when I announced my resolution. However, by the time I left Yada's boarding room, my resolution proved to be nothing but an illusion. When I told him that I was going back home, Yada seemed to remember his promise and grudgingly took out a one-yen note from his wallet. Sticking it out towards me, he mumbled something like "Well, then," although it might have been my imagination. Suddenly, my entire body was ringing with the words of self-mockery, like cicadas' clamour. I turned around and left his place.  (47; my  translation)  %HX\ IsUtfk^n&frn  «fc i £ lis h I < & o T ,  z.t<r)m£tlX,  <7)XJb-otz 3—g, Z-tUtz.!^! 0  -  74 -  ^co^ilifhftil^UUi -A<7), fri ^ £ f f i £ ( ±  ttbX  lt<r>-crhh, (47) Unfortunately, the narrator feels that the harder she struggles, the deeper she falls into the trap of logocentrism; thus, she likens herself to a rolling boulder that cannot be stopped. One wonders if the logic Yoshiko uses in her resolution is not the logic of the "pure mind," devoid of the logic of the body. She reasons with herself that if she does not ask Yada for money, her sleeping with him is not prostitution. However, it is not whether or not she receives the money that determines her self-worth. Rather, it is her decision to let her body be used by Koyama, Yada, and most dangerously, by her own intellect. Again through intellect, Yoshiko justifies her behaviour, saying that she prostitutes herself out of a desire to sustain her life with Koyama, Yoshiko wishes that someone else would use the same logic to praise and sympathize with her; she even appreciates the tragic beauty (^T-tfcH) of this idea (43). Her resolution is indeed an illusion that her mind creates and uses against her body. Her logic may appear to be apotropaic in that she degrades her body and attempts to gain agency in doing so. However, it is only pseudo-apotropaic because it cannot perform what a true apotropaic strategy would, that is, "doing what is horrible in order to preserve what is precious to her." She degrades her body in order to preserve what is precious from someone else's perspective. The horror she inflicts on her body does not mitigate the horror but intensifies it (the tragedy of her body that she glorifies as the tragic beauty). Hirabayashi wants the reader to see this fact in her protagonist's self-mockery, the true origin of her urami.  -  75  -  Miscarriage and the Apotropaic Strategy Where, then, is the power of Hirabayashi's language of the body that demonstrates to the reader how the heroine transforms her urami into a means of overcoming the division between mind and body, and thus repossessing her body?  I will deal with this question first by arguing that there is another kind  of language of the body at work in "Self-Mockery," an apotropaic language of the body. It is apotropaic because it inflicts horror/pain on the protagonist's body in order to bring the body out of the horror/pain in which it is hopelessly imprisoned. Through its horrible experience, the body gains agency, thereby freeing itself from the tyranny of pure intellect and the abstract. In order to substantiate the notion that there is apotropaic language of the body in "Self-Mockery," we need to go back to the motif of the small box of ashes that Yoshiko refuses to part with even when it gives Koyama the upper hand in their quarrels.  47  Yoshiko recalls how her restless wandering  began: I had a child by the man who was my first love. The child, born on a rusty bed in a dismal charity hospital room in Manchuria, died [on a thin mattress]  4 8  like a candle blown out, while I was bedridden with  post-delivery beriberi. The child's father had been taken to prison, accused for something he himself had not quite understood. That happened on the morning of my first labor pains. My life of restless wandering began then.  (81)  S L ^ t ^ t ^ i L - r ^ S K f c , mihXi\z, ilXft^tzcryx-h-otz,  ZilX,  -) 1-n*&a*>±-c?E/<,-effort:.  ^ K l ^ i o f c .  =f-^  (45)  This scene in the hospital is one of four separate occasions in which the protagonist remembers her baby. On three occasions, the memory accompanies  - 76 -  the severe pain in her left breast. The pain reminds Yoshiko of her baby, sharpening her awareness of her body: "Ever since that morning [when she left Yada's after spending the night], everything around me has been fuzzy, without contour. Only this pain is vivid and solid, like a drill driven into my nerves" (£«7)?LM^J£t-> &?z$$£  liLtoW&Z,  i fr&ts X i tc^fikWU-? X # tv>fc. iH^fe.  $\<r>X i iz^>\,->X\,^£>cox*h-otz, 46; my translation). The memory  of her baby's death and the pain in her breast come back to haunt Yoshiko like Sethe's rememory in Beloved. This "rememory" has everything to do with Yoshiko's self-loathing and prevents her from moving forward with her life with "new dreams." In order to examine the cause of her body-loathing, we need to go back to the scene of the baby's death, detailed in "In the Charity Ward." Both "Self-Mockery" and "Charity Ward" are autobiographical narratives. Chronologically, the events in "Charity Ward" (Hirabayashi's life in Manchuria) took place before those depicted in "Self-Mockery" (her life soon after her return to Japan). Some critics, including Tsuboi Shigeharu (154), treat these two stories as consecutive parts of one story, that is, the autobiographical depiction of the author's life surrounding her move to and return from Manchuria. This view sounds reasonable, taking the watakushi shosetsu tradition into consideration. Also, there is a remarkable resemblance between the heroines in the two stories and Hirabayashi herself as portrayed in her biographies.  49  I will follow suit and treat both protagonists as one and the same  that represents Hirabayashi herself.  - 77 -  "In the Charity Ward" This story is set in a Christian charity hospital in Manchuria under Japanese rule. Like Hirabayashi herself and her first lover, the narrator in "Charity Ward" and her lover are socialists who have drifted from Japan to Manchuria. The story begins on the day the narrator/heroine comes back to the charity hospital from a visit to the police station where her husband is jailed. The reader is told that although both she and her husband were arrested for instigating a labour strike, she was sent to this hospital since she is pregnant and close to delivery. Upon arriving at the hospital on a hot summer day, she collapses in the hallway and cannot get back up. She realizes that she is suffering from a severe case of beriberi. She waits lying on the floor until a worker in the hospital comes to help her up and take her to her bed. The hospital is described as a place where poor or homeless people come to die. Housed in a semi-basement of a building, it is dirty, filled with stench and flies, and serves horrible food. The doctor is unqualified; he and his wife, the head nurse, are both devout Christians. The doctor is only interested in minimizing the costs of the patients' treatment so that he can line his pocket with the difference between the costs and the charity budget. When a patient dies, the rest of the patients watch through the window while the body is carried into a hut in the backyard where the autopsy will be performed. The protagonist tells the head nurse that she thinks she has beriberi, but the nurse will not believe her until she shows the deeply dimpled skin on her thigh. She faints due to cerebral anemia, but receives a shot of German medicine and comes to. The protagonist gives birth to a baby girl that night, but worries about her milk; she has heard of a mother with the disease who nursed her baby. The baby died of terrible diarrhea.  -  78 -  Listening to the baby crying for milk, the protagonist decides she will beg the doctor for some cow's milk the next morning. In the morning, a nurse, finding her unconscious again, gives the new mother another shot of the German medicine. During his morning round, the doctor discovers the bottle of medicine and becomes furious, berating the nurse for wasting expensive medicine on the poorest of the poor. Hearing the doctor's angry voice and the sound of the bottle breaking when he throws it on the ground, she abandons her plan to ask for cow's milk, and decides to give her baby her own milk: Hearing his badly pronounced umlaut of the German term above my head, I sneered. "The life of a woman patient insulted by a doctor who values a bottle of medicine more than her life." I felt a decision wending its way woefully into my heart like a draft of wind, the decision to feed my baby my diseased milk.  *<7)^p p^fl©i: 0 t & S H r & f i f c & j & i g ^ i f r a  •CZZ.<?)&mtK..  (102)  (102)  50  —  51  Suffering from severe pain in her swollen breasts that night, the protagonist twice feeds her milk to her baby. She explains to herself: It's a brief mother-child relationship. At the dead-end of my destination awaits the walls of a penitentiary. They will take the baby away from me once it has grown a bit. It is no good to expose the child to the dismal life there. Also, because the child is innocent, unlike its guilty mother, it will be illegal to keep it there. So, the child will be driven out of that place. However, in this self-serving world, how can a child who is torn away from its mother be free? That law simply treats the child as a thing that its mother loves and the law forbids its mother's owning it since the place does not allow any personal belongings. Alas, without realizing it, I have fallen into the bottomless pit of pessimism. I, a socialist, am daunted in the face of a jail term. That's right, I am daunted. This realization makes me fall deeper into despair. Woman! Put  - 79 -  your faith in the future. The more profound your love for your child is, the firmer your vow for the struggle should be.  J- Iz Ii p it % ^  i?>  x. ^ffiftjfc lz % I - % ^  , HAT*  ^*3S)l'St>4^ff.  r S i v n  r  £  ^ 1 - § ^ ^ ) j  ff^^it,  a  *  £ ,  f§iv>£*;*-„  (102-3)  -CT#^ K it Ii fl-^ii v * fi 5 i t S fBpl&fc  ,  fc^o-CuS^Mgtt^o  (102-3)  Two days later, the baby dies of severe diarrhea and vomiting. When the nurse comes with a big smile on her face to let her know that her baby has died (as if assuming that the protagonist also wanted to rid herself of the burdensome baby), the protagonist simply acknowledges the fact by saying "I see" (•?• i ~Cl~/6\ 105). In fact, she cannot feel anything inside. She refuses to see the baby's body, although she can clearly see in her mind's eye its tiny, still body. Even with this image in her mind, she is numb, as if her capacity to feel has died along with the baby. She asks herself- "Am I sad?" Soon, she is told that the baby's body is in the autopsy room. She imagines what goes on in the room'The autopsy report will say that, for lack of money to buy alternative nutrition, the baby was knowingly fed the mother's diseased milk and subsequently died of infant beriberi. In addition, the warning, "Beware of the mother's milk when she has beriberi. In such a case, the child should be nursed by a wet nurse or be given formula," will be proven correct in the world of medicine. However, the result of the autopsy of my poor baby will not include what should be done in the case of mothers like myself who do not have money to buy formula. (105)  -  80  -  ^  fe-r^ £ i ± r # it>.  (105)  The next day, while she is still gravely ill, the protagonist decides to leave the hospital for jail.  It is not easy to determine in this story whether the narrator/protagonist kills the child to protect it from future pain and hardship (as Sethe does in Beloved), or to take revenge on society that creates poverty and injustice.  52  Having said that, one wonders if the distinction really matters  to the narrator of the story. Some critics like Nakayama and Tanaka take pains to distinguish what seems to be a willful killing of the baby in the story from what the author said about the cause of her baby's death, namely, death by malnutrition. Nonetheless, Hirabayashi, a social critic, might have seen all cases as ultimately caused by the unfair and unjust social system. According to Marks, Morrison in Beloved depicts Sethe's eventual recognition of her infant's individuality as an answer to the question: does a mother have the right to decide for the baby on the matter of life and death? However, Hirabayashi does not seem to take issue with the individuality of her protagonist's infant daughter. Instead, she focuses on the mother's state of mind after the death of the baby. The soul of the mother in "Charity Ward" dies when the baby dies. According to an old Korean saying, when a parent dies, his/her children bury him/her in the mountain (traditional graveyards), and when a child dies, its parents bury it in their hearts. Although this saying describes the parents' grief as enduring throughout their lives,  53  one wonders if  it has another meaning: the parents' bodies become the child's grave in which  -  8 1  -  parents join their child in death. Although Hirabayashi's protagonist's body lives on, her body perhaps is no longer a place of life, but a place of death for both herself and her baby. In this light, we should reinterpret the protagonist's determination to engage in courageous class-struggle: "The more profound your love for your child is, the firmer your vow for the struggle should be." This cry signals that the protagonist's strong socialist spirit remains intact. In this moment of determination, her mind's relation to her body changes. The mother becomes ready to sacrifice her life/body for the cause of socialism. In other words, socialist ideology (a product of intellect) has priority over her body. This priority of intellect/mind over body happens to coincide with the patriarchal privileging of the (male) mind over the (female) body that Irigaray problematizes. The danger of her being manipulated by patriarchy, socialist or not, lies in this coincidence. The minute the narrator declares her body's devotion to the struggle, she loses the agency of her body. Nakayama in her analysis of "Charity Ward" calls the protagonist's mentality something close to the mentality of terrorists (83) in that terrorists are ready to sacrifice their lives to the ideological cause of the group to which they belong.  Back to "Self-Mockery" In light of the readiness of the protagonist in "Charity Ward" to sacrifice her body to socialist ideology, let us reread Yoshiko's obsession with understanding the world only through socialist intellectualizing and her loss of control over her body. A s discussed earlier, the enigmatic epigram of the falling boulder that cannot be stopped may also be interpreted as Yoshiko's loss of control over her body and her frustration over not being able to stop it. However, the scene where several boys from the neighbourhood play on the  - 82 -  road demonstrates Yoshiko's concern that she may allow the metaphor of the unstoppable boulder or the broken brake to become reality. In other words, she worries that her body is irrevocably alienated from her mind: Sitting by the window, I look vacantly down the dirt road, dried white. Some neighbourhood children are playing the menko card game. There is a large boy in dirty rags among the other smaller, nervous-looking  54  children. He raises his shoulder high and throws his menko hard on the ground. Each time, a card belonging to one of the small children is flipped over and won by the large boy.  Tn&irnw&tfii^-xfytitit:.  (58; my translation)  (58)  If we interpret the large child as representing the proletariat and the smaller, nervous-looking children as representing socialist intellectuals, the analogy reveals the narrator's distrust of the intellectual leaders in the socialist movement of the time, and with it Hirabayashi's distrust of them. The fundamental basis of socialist ideology is the alienation of the labour/the body from the product of the labour via the division of labour. Regaining agency or control over their labour/bodies is one of the proletariat's revolutionary goals. However, the socialist movement in Japan at the time, especially the intelligentsia in N A P F that were increasingly controlled by the Russian Comintern, was quickly becoming an intellectual, abstract, ideological movement. Hirabayashi's analogy of the body-mind conflict in this scene reflects her preoccupation not only with the labouring class but also with women whose bodies have been manipulated and degraded under patriarchy, socialist or not. Like the large boy winning cards from the other boys, Hirabayashi wants her protagonist to win her own body back from the control of intellect.  - 83 -  Immediately following this scene of children's play is a strong hint that the protagonist may be pregnant. Yoshiko recognizes the symptoms she also had when she was pregnant with her first daughter. The recurrent pain in her breast that signifies the recurrent memory of her dead daughter is a leitmotif that culminates in her pregnancy, much like Sethe's rememory of her dead baby is the leitmotif in Beloved until the inevitable return of her dead daughter in the ambiguous form of a ghost in a human body. Yoshiko, who feels the "lump" inside her grow day by day and is unable or unwilling to tell Koyama about it, worries since there is no money, no job, and no future for her, let alone for the child. Her situation is not very different from the time when she was pregnant in Manchuria; the death of the baby from malnutrition is again highly likely. Nevertheless, the "lump," a new life, growing inside Yoshiko's body focuses her attention on her body. This new life is not something she can explain away through abstraction. What then traumatizes the heroine so much that it ultimately causes her miscarriage? I would like to suggest that we find the answer in the poem itself: It's near the streetcar station, and besides there is a nice view; But your noble wife goes to town and sells mourning bands Heroically, and with such modest pride. ( 9 5 ) The first stanza (the first two lines) depicts the suburban, rented room where Yoshiko and Koyama live, a small room on the second floor from which downtown Tokyo can be seen on a sunny day. The second stanza is sardonically written to inflict an insult on Yoshiko. In the expression "goes to town and sells mourning bands," the poet refers to Yoshiko's selling her body to Yada. By adding "with such modest pride" at the end, the poet also points out the fact that she has sold her body for the price of a streetcar fare.  - 84 -  Yoshiko feels ashamed to tell Koyama of her body's small worth. Worse yet, her action is described by the poet as heroic, reminding his readers of the virtuous self-sacrificing women in Japanese history. By this reminder, the poet ridicules Yoshiko's feudal mentality (her prostitution for the sake of saving her relationship with Koyama). Yoshiko, a socialist, is depicted as bound by Confucian loyalty to Koyama — the feudal ethics she emphatically denies. The personal insult intended by the poet is traumatic for Yoshiko, but there is another, much more powerfully hurtful item in the poem: the parallel between the selling of the mourning bands and the selling of her body. The mourning band is a metaphor for death, and the only death that haunts Yoshiko is her baby's. For Yoshiko, both her body and her baby's death are concrete entities that can never be transmuted into a male poet's abstract metaphor. Irigaray calls this transmutation "'masculine' games of tropes and tropisms" that deny the specificity of feminine pleasure "by inscribing it as the hollow, the intaglio, the negative, even as the censured other of its phallic assertions" ("Any Theory," 140). Ironically, however, this poet's trope equating Yoshiko's body to the symbol of death makes her realize that she has thus far adopted the male view of feminine bodies as intellectually dead, corporeal things.  -  ,  • .  The metaphor also provides a correlation between the heroine's inability to grieve over her child's death in "Charity Ward" and the heroine's selling her body in "Self-Mockery." It may very well be that the heroine has not been able or has refused to see the link between the two. However, she can no longer afford to refuse to see the truth of it, as it is so vividly portrayed in the poem, whether or not intended by the poet himself. Yoshiko thinks back to her baby's death and realizes the link between her self-loathing and her inability to grieve for the death of her daughter. This link was formed at the  - 85 -  moment when she called herself to the cause of the class-struggle, at the sacrifice of her baby's life and her own. It is tragic for Yoshiko to suffer a miscarriage, but the fetus that has been growing in her only to die before it is even born duplicates her past experience, thereby giving her an opportunity to grieve the deaths of both her first and second child. Grieving as part of the process of healing after the trauma of losing a baby is absent in "Charity Ward." In the ending of "Self-Mockery," Yoshiko is able to grieve for her own body, which has been subjected to the split between "pure mind" and "pure body." Emancipated from the grip of "pure intellect," her body now releases inconsolable sorrow and uncontrollable tears. She finally sells off the mourning band, and frees herself from its haunting, harmful influence. The morning band has stood for the excess of her love for her daughter (her decision on her baby's death) as well as her turning both her body and her baby's body into an abstract metaphor. Interpreted from the viewpoint of the apotropaic, Yoshiko's body does what she finds horrible, namely, miscarriage, so as to mitigate its horror, the horror of not having agency over her body. The ending of the story may appear to be dark and hopeless. However, seen from the perspective of the apotropaic strategy, the final scene is not completely hopeless or tragic: That night, under the futon, I finally felt relieved and uttered these words quietly so that he [Koyama] could not hear: "I have sold off the mourning band." By the time he breathed deeply in his sleep, I was struck by an unexplainable despair and started crying, my. body writhing. The uncontrollable tears streamed down over the pattern of the quilt. (59; my translation)  v  K P <T) dp X W o  tz.  - 86 -  Mi  fcItofeft£v*il£;fcffl?)ifiS*)±fcflf&lfc.  (59)  Yoshiko articulates what she is thinking. She not only admits that she has sold her body, but she also understands what it means to disconnect from her body. Her abandonment to despair is an apotropaic gesture that contains her wish to preserve what is precious to herself. Sethe's self-abandonment to the ghost of her daughter leads her to the verge of death, but she is promised redemption when she faces her demon from the past. Likewise, Yoshiko's giving in to despair paradoxically promises delivery from it. Such is the most fundamental logic of the apotropaic: Sethe and Yoshiko say "Yes" to life rather than to death. Yoshiko's weeping at the ending may be understood as an anticipation of her body's release of urami. She turns her urami into a means to repossess her agency and her own body.  -  87  -  Kang Kyong-ae Introduction Kang Kyong-ae grew up during the height of the socialist and proletarian literary movement in Korea (1925-1935). Living in abject poverty all her life, Kang developed an interest in socialist ideology that, like Hirabayashi's, was more than an intellectual curiosity. The two writers have much in common with each other. Both Hirabayashi and Kang emphasized women's experiences through their bodies, and were critical about the privilege given to the intellect over the body by the predominantly male leaders of the socialist movement. Both women were well aware of the patriarchal oppression of women that existed even under an emancipatory ideology like socialism. Both used the strategy of "writing with the body" or "the language of the body" to define women's position within the leftist movement. Despite these similarities, there is one essential difference between the two writers. While most of Hirabayashi's protagonists are intellectuals, Kang's protagonists are mainly uneducated, poverty-stricken peasant women or city labourers with no social self-awareness. Hirabayashi's heroines, even when they are non-intellectuals, such as the peasant-class young woman in r  i£jlij ("The Night Wind," 1928), seem to possess social consciousness. Kang  created intellectual protagonists only to reveal their inability to identify with and speak for the proletarian class. Hirabayashi dwells on the body in order to criticize the intellectual leaders' emphasis on the purely conceptual dimension of socialism. Kang's insistence on the body aids in expressing her serious doubt about the privileged position the intelligentsia occupy in the socialist movement as leaders who speak for the proletariat. Kang challenged the intellectuals to earn, not assume, their raison d'etre in the movement, by showing them the reality of colonial Korea's most exploited class, peasant and urban working-class  - 88 -  women. Kang uses "the language of the body" to illustrate the most difficult barriers that these women must overcome in order to gain self-awareness and class consciousness.  Biographical Background Kang Kyong-ae (1906-1944) was born in Hwang-hae Province, the setting for Human Problem and many other works. After her father's death when she was four years old, Kang lived with her mother in extreme poverty. She remained destitute until her early death after lengthy illness at the age of thirty-eight. A t the age of eight, Kang began to read classical literature. She read stories to a group of village elders who called her "the little storyteller." With the help of a relative, she was able to raise the tuition for Pyongyang Sungui Yojung (a middle school  55  for girls in Pyongyang) in 1921. In the  following year, she organized a students' strike rejecting the colonial education policy and demanding better teaching facilities. This activity led to her being expelled from the school. There is no reliable information about Kang's life from 1922 to her literary debut with "A Broken Guitar" (MM) in 1931, except for sketchy accounts of her relationship with Yang Chu-dong (1923-1924), a leading literary critic who is said to have introduced her to socialism, and her involvement in Kunuhoe (MM.^), movement in the late 1920s.  an organization for the women's liberation  56  In 1931, Kang married Chang H a - i l and moved to Yongjong in Manchuria (?rSL) where her husband worked as a mathematics teacher in a middle school. Her own experience and the Korean immigrants' lives that she witnessed in Manchuria led Kang to depict Manchuria in many works (Salt, for instance) as a place where abject poverty, capitalist exploitation, and colonial  - 89  -  oppression destroyed the lives of the Korean immigrants. Kang worked in the Choson Daily Newspaper's Manchurian Branch from 1934. She was the director of the Branch from 1939 until her return to Korea in 1940 because of illness. Kang died in her hometown, ChangyOn, in 1944. Socialist ideology arrived in Korea through Japan in the early 1920s and spread like wildfire among Korean young intellectuals. The Korean Proletarian Artists Federation (KAPF) was established in 1925. In the early 1930s, the K A P F writers began to reflect on the far too dogmatic approach to literary production based on proletarian realism and the dialectical materialist world view. This period of self-reflection coincided with the Japanese crackdown on the socialist movement, as part of preparation for war. There were large-scale arrests of K A P F writers on two separate occasions. After these arrests, a split developed within the K A P F literary movement between those who looked into the possibility of adopting socialist realism,  57  an import from Russia through  Japan that demanded that writers play the role of ideological educators and engineers for workers, and those who left K A P F , rejecting the organizational and literary directions it took. Kim Nam-ch'on, a leading leftist writer, suggested the adoption of critical realism  58  as the most effective method of  depicting Korean's colonial realities. There was heated debate on creative methods and the writers' world views. None of these took women's issues into consideration. Kang, who based her writing on her lived experiences as a woman, did not affiliate herself with any of these methods. Having read her work, I am convinced that she not only unswervingly pursued her own way of realist writing, but also critically responded to one of the directives of socialist realism that mandated that writers act as ideological educators and engineers for workers.  - 90 -  The following discussion will examine The Human Problem and Salt, both written in 1934. I wish to investigate Kang's interpretation of individualism and its usefulness in educating Korean women. In order to establish a theoretical framework for my reading of Kang's novels, I will discuss Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak's concept of the "subject consciousness of the subaltern" as presented in her essay "Can the Subaltern Speak?" (1988).  "Can the Subaltern Speak?"  59  60  In "Can the Subaltern Speak?," Spivak informs us that the original title of her essay was "Power, Desire, Interest." The essay's epigraph reads as follows: An understanding of contemporary relations of power, and of the Western intellectual's role within them, requires an examination of the intersection of a theory of representation and the political economy of global capitalism. A theory of representation points, on the one hand, to the domain of ideology, meaning, and subjectivity, and, on the other hand, to the domain of politics, the state, and the law.  (271)  The essay covers numerous important subjects from a "critique of current Western efforts to problematize the subject" to "the question of how the third-world subject is represented within Western discourse" to "the still more radical decentering of the subject implicit in both Marx and Derrida" to "an alternative analysis of the relations between the discourses of the West and the possibility of speaking of (or for) the subaltern woman" (271). However, I will try to cull from Spivak's discussion of specific examples selected from Indian (post)colonial historical context a general theoretical framework that can be used for my discussion of Kang's work. One of the examples is the "Subaltern Studies" conducted in India, the aim of which is to  - 91 -  "rethink Indian colonial historiography from the perspective ... of peasant insurgencies during the colonial occupation" (25). The question Spivak poses is whether the elites who participate in studies by speaking of and for the subaltern groups can indeed represent subaltern interests and consciousness truthfully. Spivak finds that these elites, regardless of their own castes or economic classes, cannot speak for subaltern interests. Spivak attributes the elites' inability to what she calls "epistemic violence." According to Spivak, this "epistemic violence" is targeted at the "silent and silenced margins" (25), that is, "men and women among the illiterate peasantry, the tribals, [and/or] the lowest strata of the urban subproletariat" (25). By "epistemic violence," she means that any subaltern interest, when represented on a collective (or "social") level rather than individual (or "libidinal," 27) level, is bound to be abstracted and integrated into the dominant desire, whether it be imperialist or bourgeois nationalist. Spivak concludes that for "the 'true' subaltern group, whose identity is its difference, there is no unrepresentable subaltern subject that can know, and speak itself" (27). This inevitable move upwards from the concrete interest of each of the individual subalterns to the representable, therefore, more generalized, more abstract desire is not limited to imperialism or bourgeois nationalism. A s Spivak also emphasizes, the inevitable move is also inherent in Marxism or other socialist ideologies that represent the proletariat class interest on the "artificial  61  and social" (27) level. Despite this upward mobility and the silence  of the subaltern, Spivak does not recommend that the intellectual cease his/her effort to represent the margins. Instead, she asks the people who speak of and for the subaltern to concern themselves with the notion of what their texts cannot say. The spokesperson, Spivak proposes, must suspend as far as possible the "clamor of his or her own consciousness (or consciousness-effect,  - 92 -  as operated by disciplinary training), so that the elaboration of the insurgency, packaged with an insurgent-consciousness, does not freeze into an 'object of investigation,' or worse yet, a model for imitation" (28). I wonder if it is indeed possible for a spokesperson to suspend his/her consciousness. If s/he could, even to only a limited extent, what kind of text would she produce? Who is the speaking subject in the text? Who is the reader of the text? How can we guarantee that the reader reads it, concerning him/herself with the notion of what the text cannot say? Further, let us ask the following questions:  If Kang, who is at once an  intellectual and a subaltern woman, could suspend consciousness of her intellectual self, what kind of text would she produce? If she were able to let her own subaltern-ness speak for itself, what kind of narrative would she produce? What kind of language would Kang's subaltern self speak? What can and cannot be said through her narrative? My study of Kang's works began as an effort to find answers to at least some of these questions. The following discussion is based on my hypotheses. A s mentioned earlier; Kang was critical of the dominant position occupied by the intelligentsia in Korean socialist movement. Without an ideology that could emancipate Korean women subsubalterns  62  and without the  proletarian writers who attempted to represent these women's consciousness, she refused to approve of the spokesperson position that the intelligentsia took for granted. I argue that Kang endeavored to suspend her intellectual self so that her subaltern voice could prevail in her narratives by using three "downwardly mobile" methods. First, she avoided depicting women's social realities on a collective or archetypal level, but instead tried to depict individual subaltern women in various situations. Second, she depicted these women individuals using "the language of the body" in order to represent their realities on the  - 93 -  concrete level of interest, rather than the abstract level of desire. Finally, Kang cast the intellectual socialist leaders as implicated in the colonial and capitalist power structure and as upwardly mobile demagogues captured in the structure of desires that socialist ideology created. Critics like So Chong-ja and Kim Chong-hwa wonder why, after Human Problem, Kang abandoned the proletarian literary prescriptions of K A P F and concentrated on depicting people, mostly women, living horrible realities full of starvation, opium addiction, disease, death, and prostitution. These critics attribute this sudden change to the seriousness of her illness and her pessimistic outlook in the 1930s — the period of the most atrocious colonial persecution. However, I would like to demonstrate that she was determined to practice the proletarian literature in her own way using the three methods discussed above. I would also like to show that Human Problem does not mark the end of her proletarian literature, but is in line with her determination to establish a new leftist literary practice that could represent the realities of the most oppressed subaltern group in colonial Korea.  Human Problem This novel is set in a village in Hwanghae Province, in the central part of Korea. The story begins with a legend  63  surrounding the large lake in the  village. According to the legend, once upon a time, there was a rich, greedy man who would not feed the poor, even though grain lay rotting in his barn. After several years of drought, the villagers were on the verge of dying of hunger. They begged the rich man in vain. One day they gathered together to raid the rich man's stores. The rich man retaliated by reporting them to the magistrate. Those who had stolen from the rich man were arrested and brutally punished; many were banished or killed. The remaining family  -  94  -  members cried so hard that their tears submerged the rich man's house overnight. The lake thus formed was named Lake Grudge (Sffi, W6n~So). The lake is large and so deep that it is impossible to sound. The lake is believed to have the supernatural power to cure diseases, and the villagers are comforted by the sight of it. The protagonist, Son-bi, is a girl around fifteen living with her mother. Her father used to work for the richest man in the village, T6k-ho. One day, T6k-ho sends S6n~bi's father to collect a debt from a starving tenant farmer family. Instead of collecting the debt, her father gives the family some money. T6k-ho finds out what S6n~bi's father has done, becomes furious, and throws a heavy abacus at his head, seriously injuring him. Some days later, Son-bi's father dies of the head injury. He dies without telling- his wife how he was injured, as he worries about the remaining family who may be harmed by Tok-ho. Son-bi's mother hears what has happened to her husband from someone else, but decides not to tell her daughter, since she also worries about her daughter's future in the village over which Tok-ho holds full control. When Son-bi becomes fifteen, her mother dies. Tok-ho invites Son-bi to live in his house. Later, someone in the village tells Son-bi about what happened to her father, but she cannot believe that T6k-ho, a kind person who took her in upon her mother's death, could have done such a cruel thing. Although living in the room that used to belong to T6k-ho's only daughter, Ok-chom, Son-bi works as a servant for the family. Tok-ho's wife cannot produce a son, and he has been buying and raping village girls in order to have one. When Son-bi moves into T6k~ho's house, she finds that Kan-nan, her childhood friend, has become his concubine. When Kan-nan cannot conceive, Tok-ho chases her out of his house and moves on to Son-bi, promising her that he will send her to KyongsOng (Seoul) to study with his daughter. Several days later, he rapes her, saying  - 95 -  that everything he owns will be hers if she produces a son. Soon, Tok-ho's wife, suspecting the relationship between the protagonist and her husband, starts to persecute S6n~bi. The helpless girl decides to run away to Kyongsong where she hears that Kan-nan works in a factory and is able to support herself. Son-bi meets Kan-nan in Kyongsong; they decide to go to Inchon, a port city near KyongsQng. There they work in a newly built spinning mill. The two young women live in the dormitory connected to the mill. The working and living conditions are horrible. The workers are not allowed to go 63  outside for three years except for an annual visit to a Shinto Shrine.  Their  salaries are kept in a long-term deposit and paid in one sum when they leave the mill, after their three years' expenses for meals, medicine, and other basic necessities have been deducted. The girls are sexually harassed by the foremen who wield absolute power over them, using bonuses and longer breaks from work as bait to seduce them. When Kan-nan comes to KyongsSng, she meets a socialist activist and becomes exposed to socialist ideology through him. She involves herself in the activities organized by his socialist group. In fact, Kan-nan is responsible for the mysterious appearance of pamphlets under the girls' beds in the dormitory that reveal and criticize unfair management decisions and the foremen's unjust conduct. Through the sewage holes at the foot of the tall wall that surrounds the mill and the dormitory, Kan-nan has access to an unidentified outside contact who always brings the materials for her to distribute secretly. Kan-nan begins to awaken the protagonist to class consciousness and to the necessity of class struggle. Kan-nan tells Son-bi that there are many people like Tok-ho in the world and, behind them, the powerful colonialists. Although Son-bi understands to a certain extent what Kan-nan tells her, she does not fully grasp the concept of proletarian solidarity and struggle. She does not understand when Kan-nan tells her to flirt with the foremen in order - 96 -  to achieve the goals of the proletariat. Son-bi is terrified by the foremen's sexual advances. Remembering what Tok-ho has done to her, she does not want to let the same thing happen to her ever again. When Kan-nan is suspected of subversive activity in the mill by the foremen, she decides to escape and leaves the protagonist in charge of the secret tasks she carried out. Left alone in the mill, Son-bi feels helpless and frightened. The foremen, realizing that she is not responding to their sexual advances, begin to treat her harshly, giving her little time to rest. Soon, she contracts tuberculosis. One day, she collapses, vomiting blood. S6n-bi is immediately fired and taken to Kan-nan's place only to die some days later. The ring leader (Shin-ch'61) of Kan-nan's group comes to her place with a labourer activist when Son-bi dies. The labourer activist happens to be a boy named Ch'ot-tchae who grew up with the protagonist in the same village and who has always been in love with her. It turns out that Kan-nan's contact outside the mill was Ch'ot-tchae. His family used to be one of the poorest in the village. When the Japanese police with Tok-ho as collaborator intensified their exploitation of the farmers, he started to steal food just to survive. Fearing the police, he fled his village and came to Inchon. He worked as a labourer on the waterfront. In Inch'Qn, Ch'ot-tchae met a socialist leader, Shin-ch'61, an intellectual from Ky6ngs6ng, and became involved in labour strikes and other activities under his direction. Shin-ch'61 is the son of a teacher at the school that Ok-chom, Tok-ho's daughter, used to attend. One summer, while Son-bi still lived in Tok-ho's house, Ok-chom came home with Shin-ch'61 during the vacation. Ok-chom fell in love with Shin-ch'61, a student in Kyongsong University, but Shin-ch'61 was secretly interested in S6n~bi. After graduation, Shin-ch'61's father tried to force him to marry Ok-chom, but he refused and left home. He went to see his socialist activist friend whom he had met when  - 97 -  he became interested in socialism at the university. The friend recruited Shin-ch'61 as an intellectual activist and sent him to Inch'6n. A few months before the protagonist's death, the strike Shin-ch'61 organized failed and he was arrested. On the day of S6n~bi's death, Ch'ot-tchae learns that Shin-ch'61 renounced his ideology (A'Q),  was released  65  from jail, married the daughter of a rich man (0k-ch6m), and obtained a good job in the Manchurian government. Ch'ot-tchae realizes that intellectuals like Shin-ch'61, although they work together with the labourers, are able to enter a compromise with the bourgeois class whenever the circumstances warrant i f Yes, he surrendered. No, not surrendered, he compromised. Shin-ch'61 already has in his background the potential to compromise his political ideology. He belongs to the bourgeois class. What about me? I could not and cannot survive without pushing forwards, overcoming one barrier after another. But, Shin-ch'61 has many options to choose from. That is the fundamental difference between him and me!  (412)  66  ^A\ f f § 1 2 4 ! AA A^AKAl =J-^ AA ^ A AW * r AA*- 5a&4! Ay] ^ 4 r # A A 3. 919XAI ^ A *R1£ ° H $ 7 r ? AAA =LZ\3. SrSH AAA^ 3 € 4 £°1 ^A°\] ^3^1 A ^ ^A 4L£°lfe o\± z j o j ^ j 9X%A. 4 ! l ° l . * r AA  T-nioj  A^  AA% - S - l AB « t ^ Slfe  A°]A  ^A  9X^A\  AAA\  ^  9H1  <m  nelM2^3- ¥ ° H  (412)  When Ch'ot-tchae recognizes that the person who has just died is Son-bi, he is overwhelmed by anger. He feels as if Son-bi's body represents the human problem that the human race has attempted to solve throughout history." But this problem is still unresolved. It can only be solved through solidarity among the people like Ch'ot-tchae himself who had no other choice but to fearlessly engage themselves in uphill battles.  - 98 -  (413)  HEI4  c,}^  o)  9J-o.  Sfl7JS]xl  S  6]  go]  (413)  From //a/7 to Class Solidarity through the Process of Individualization S6 Chong-ja, in The Korean Women's Novel and Criticism (2001), contends that Kang in Human Problem aimed to write a "female bildungsroman" but failed to create a protagonist with fully developed self-awareness (32-3). S6n~bi experiences many difficulties including the deaths of her parents during her childhood, deception and rape by Tok-ho, hard labour and sexual harassment in the spinning mill, and so forth. However, her experiences do not help her develop self-awareness in that she does not show any sincere effort to protest against her abusers and exploiters, and eventually dies of a disease. S6 finds it difficult to understand the author's intention in creating a protagonist like Son-bi in a proletarian novel. So observes that one can almost perceive Ch'6t-tchae or Kan-nan as the protagonist. However, I wonder if there is another way of understanding the protagonist's short life. I would like to suggest that, by reading the novel from the perspective of the subaltern consciousness and han, we may be able to see that the protagonist comes to possess self-awareness, not simply as a proletarian, but as a subaltern woman under the traditional neo-Confucian, imperial, and socialist patriarchy. The author wanted the reader to hear Son-bi's "silent voice" through the narrative of her (Kang's) subaltern consciousness. In order to read the novel from the perspective of han, it is crucial to notice the significance of the motif of the lake that opens the novel. The name of the lake is "Grudge" (TS, S , won). It therefore signals one aspect of the  - 99 -  emotion of han, that is, the original, raw stage of han before it is dissolved, sublimated, or aestheticized. A s discussed in the first chapter, han contains both meanings: han and won. In this section, I will distinguish han from won in order to demonstrate the process of transformation from han to won. Henceforth, han signifies the dissolved or sublimated state of han, while won the raw, violent state of han. What defeats the rich, greedy man in the legend is the raw emotion of won purged. Although tears may not seem much of a threat to their oppressors, when the villagers come together and express their won in solidarity, the accumulated wdn in the form of tears can drown the powerful man. Perhaps Kang felt the necessity to emphasize the raw state of won, rather than the dissolved or sublimated state of han, to raise class consciousness and encourage the spirit of class strife among the doubly oppressed and exploited proletariat in colonial capitalist Korea. In order to do transform han to won, the protagonist needs to be isolated from the community where women like herself are able to dissolve their won as explained earlier. A s part of the process of isolating Son-bi, the author develops the plot in which her father dies when she is a child, her mother dies when she is in her teens, and her friends, Ch'6t-tchae and Kan-nan, leave her for the city. Through this isolation process, her won loses its chance to be dissolved, and instead, accumulates in her. In addition to the loss of her protectors, the persecution she suffers at the hands of Tok-ho and his family intensifies her won. Despite the loss of her parents and other protectors, Son-bi still has the community, which provides her with a circle of han sharing. For example, the old servant who shares the room with the protagonist after Tok-ho's daughter comes back from Kyongsong for the summer vacation, cries with and for Son-bi, and helps her in various ways. The old male servant, Yu-sobang,  - 100 -  who also sympathizes with her, weaves a pair of straw shoes (^-il) for Son-bi. Other older women in the village are always ready to comfort her and share han with her whenever she visits them. Even the dog in Tok-ho's house becomes the source of comfort. These various helpers seem like the various helpers so frequent in fairy tales (both Asian and Western). Given that the novel starts with a legend, perhaps the author intended to create a fairy tale-like atmosphere to suggest that the protagonist's consciousness still remains within the dynamics of 77a/?-sharing in a traditional community. In order to allow S6n~bi to become an individual ready to face society alone outside the han-sharing  community, the author creates an opportunity for  her to leave the village. That opportunity is the jealousy of Tok-ho's wife which eventually drives Son-bi out of the house. Only when Sonbi is ready to leave is the truth of the story she had heard about her father's death at the hands of Tok-ho confirmed. This revelation is an essential part of her maturation. Having no place to go, the orphan girl decides to go to Kyongsong to find Kan-nan. Kan-nan attempts to take Son-bi back into a community. This time, it is a community of socialist activists where solidarity among the members is more important than the individual's well-being. Within this community, the violent, raw state of won is valued and encouraged in the effort to develop a spirit of revolution and class struggle. In other words, class solidarity and revolutionary forces are formed through the collective, violent energy of won. Kan-nan brings up the subject of Tok-ho's sexual exploitation even when the protagonist herself does not want to think about it. She tells Son-bi that there are many men like Tok-ho in the world, in order to encourage Son-bi's fighting spirit against the existing social structure that produces and protects men like Tok-ho. Kan-nan tells her how the girls in the mill are exploited by the bourgeois capitalists (361). Most crucial of all, Kan-nan tells  -  101  -  the protagonist to sacrifice her personal well-being for the cause of class struggle and to flirt with the foremen. Kan-nan feels frustrated with Son-bi: Kan-nan thought that if S6n~bi possessed full consciousness of class, she could get away with anything while having the foremen wrapped around her finger. Then, she [Kan-nan] could escape the mill in case she was exposed, leaving S5n-bi in charge of the important tasks. (382)  A°i  3H3*i  ?}AA <£A^A 2-^  ^tflAfl-  S>]°^}51  ^%AA ^A * A^A ^ji § AA sa^r A°]A. <&A^A Q^-AA A AA$= A£ ¥ 3 1 ol -7]- 015:^ fe°i  # 5 r £  -S«HX|' sj^CMg  5! £Sbt4. (382)  As enthusiastic about the socialist cause as Kan-nan may be, she does not think about what it means to Son-bi to sacrifice her body for the socialist cause. For the protagonist, nothing has changed, as far as sacrificing her body is concerned; the only difference is that now she sacrifices it to the foremen instead of to T6k-ho. Kan-nan's advice to flirt with the foremen must come as a shock to the protagonist, who has relied on Kan-nan for protection against the sexual advances of the foremen: Son-bi [lying in her bed] was surprised to hear the foreman's cough. She held her breath to hear. The second time, she realized that the cough was coming from the foreman's room. She felt unpleasant thinking that the foreman lay facing her on the other side of the wall that separated her room from his. She remembered the story about Yong-ny6 [anther girl who was sexually abused by the foreman] that she heard from Kan-nan. She thought that perhaps that was why the foreman moved her to the present room. "But I am neither Yong-nyo nor the Son-bi that I used to be. If he tries to sexually abuse me, I will expose everything and fight to the end."... She wanted to meet Kan-nan to discuss how to ward off the foreman's advances.  - 102 -  (376)  #4  Zt°]5i  l-ojt)..  7l^i5l7f  1-1  nfl H f e =L  3 3 - s | * r l : 3 l | S r S 4 . ^ f e 44°1]7lH #7l7fl  4 5 3 ^ 4 , 4fe  ^^•af^ji H7  SU^S  4 ^ 3 ^al7>  ojc^ll-  4 ^  ^1  #H  3-sLsk2 4 f l J i e l 4 4 ^ 4 . . . .  r  7}^±?]7}  1?1  6  44°14  °^-14 ^-g- S r ° H € 4 4 7 1 3  44°1#  ^ ^ t e 4  ^  *l«Sr>fl sfl^te- 3 M & 4 . =L$= t f l ^ tfl^^r ^ « l i ^ $ 4 . (376)  Although So and other critics complain that, by accepting abuse passively, the protagonist shows she has not developed her  self-awareness,  her determination to protect her body and dignity seems to demonstrate a full awareness of herself as an individual. Son-bi eventually sacrifices her life to protect herself from sexual predators. Had she given in to the foreman's demand, she might have avoided the heavy workload that causes her tuberculosis and death. The author removes the protagonist from her traditional community to draw out of her the violent emotion of won. Through the process of individualization, the protagonist accumulates wdn. A t the same time, and through the same process, Son-bi also develops respect for her own body and refuses to sacrifice it to an ideological cause. If Hirabayashi's protagonists see their bodies as the site where an individual perspective can form, Kang's protagonist acquires respect for her body through the process of individuation. Unlike Hirabayashi and her protagonists, S6n-bi tries to avoid living directly through her body as much as possible. However, as a subaltern woman living under colonial, capitalist patriarchy, she does not have options available to her other than to live through her body. It seems that for S6n~bi, her body does not represent, but is her whole self, her dignity, her individuality. Hence, she can not allow her body to be used for intellectual causes.  - 103 -  Some may interpret Son-bi's protection of her body as unquestioning observance of the feudal code of conduct for women; therefore, she is not an individual in the modern sense. However, Son-bi's respect for the body is not the same as women's traditional obligation to maintain chastity. According to Confucian rules, once a woman loses her chastity, it is impossible to regain others' respect or her own for her body and person. However, Son-bi, although she has lost her chastity to T6k-ho, maintains her respect for her own body.  The Intellectual versus the Labouring Class One of the recurring themes in Kang's work is her doubt about the intelligentsia's commitment to the class struggle and the proletarian revolution. Human Problem is no exception. Intellectually, Shin-ch'61 appears to be fully committed to socialist causes. However, the jail scene vividly demonstrates how his physical weakness and his concern for his family affect his mental state. After his arrest, his father, who used to be a school teacher, is fired from his job, and he and his family eke out a meager existence. His father visits him in jail and pleads for him to renounce his ideology and avoid the long jail term. When he sees his father's emaciated body and shabby appearance, Shin-ch'61's firm socialist convictions fade. Soon it becomes apparent, however, that Shin-ch'61's physical weakness affects his ideological commitment more than do his worries about his family. He does not think he can endure physical pain and hardship: "What should I do?" he asked himself. His family needed him, but most of all, his weak body wouldn't withstand the life in jail. The memory of his torture in the police station sent a chill up his spine. He did not think he could go through it a second time. Ignorance made him endure the first time, but it would not the second time, when he would be fully aware of the degree of pain. He'd rather die than put himself through  - 104 -  the ordeal once more. He was not quite sure, but it might take as long as a year for his case to go to trial. If he were convicted, the sentence could be ten or fifteen years.... He might have to spend his entire life in jail. Even thinking about it made him lose all hope in life. He kept thinking about what Byong-shik [his university friend who is now his preliminary trial judge] had said [Byong-shik advised him to convert and avoid any jail term for his family and for his future]. The advice that Byong-shik gave him the previous day had disgusted him then. But, only a day later, his words began to make sense.  (402)  A^TW n£\ 3 Shi: #o}iLoMfe AAA ^ AAA « r 2 U , $-A^ All A A ^ : ^ M l i - JSLoMfe A?}A AAAA %^-A A A A A&A. ^fe A^A^A S L ^ J L A  *8A^r sku ±WA AW:  AA  ±%AA  A ^ A  A ° ]  =L  A%A. 3-8-  f- A£ A ^ A ^  *  A^  AA  ^ S L A  ±%°]9W. ^SIA  =L  AAA  ^ A A9kA. S L ^ - A AA°\}A A ^ -&AAA A A ^ A ° M £ A A % A%A. AA AAA ^ ° H f e AAA AA? A £A°] AA? ... A ^ A A^r°\]A 2-^A %°-A A A A ASIA. *8AA °AA A^n$A. ^ ^A^r *$AA%A. 3 H ] J I ZLA AA A^r - g ^ i £|# J*r$ii=r. AAl ^AA S M M f e =L£\ A A =?-^A A^ ^A £ UA^, 1-4 A ^ A A £ ^ 4 1 ZL igo} nA^AA *8AA%A. (402) 0  Eventually, Shin-ch'61 agrees to the conversion and is released from jail. He commits himself fully to the colonial capitalist economy, marries Tok-ho's daughter, gets a job in the colonial government in Manchuria, and so forth. Although Shin-ch'61 himself sees his weak physical condition as the most pressing reason for his conversion, the author does not trust his intellectual commitment to begin with. Earlier in the story, when they first met on the train, Shin-ch'61 accepts Ok~ch6m's invitation to visit her family in the Yongy6n Village during the summer vacation. During his stay, he falls in love with Son-bi for her beautiful face, docile manner, and industriousness. He waits for a chance to reveal his heart to her. One day, he sees a hand that picks a zucchini from the vine, but he can not see whose it is. The hand is a labourer's hand with large knuckles and split nails. Although he knows that it is  - 105 -  most likely the protagonist's hand, he denies it: '"Whose is it? It is the old maid's hand. It cannot possibly be S6n-bi's. No matter how hard she has worked all her life, she is still young  It is not hers, no!' He shook his  head from side to side in denial" G f ^ 4 ? ^ 3 T^r  &£*r?  ^431  1%5L  4<>l7f  SlfeBfl  ^o|rf?  *\a\s]  n^xlfe  #6\.\  ^jo) #o}\  ztf}  ^4^1ZL^  D  ]  ^  a H - S - £ # $ 4 , 222). From then on, whenever Shin-ch'61 thinks about the protagonist, he remembers the hand and shakes his head in denial. This denial signifies much more than an aesthetic shudder. It makes one doubt the seriousness of Shin-ch'61's intellectual commitment to socialism. Some days before he sees the hand, Shin-ch'61 hides himself behind a tree and watches the protagonist hard at work, washing clothes by a stream. Smitten by her beauty, he thinks: "Perhaps people can find truth and beauty only in industriousness" ( 9 J 4 £ ^ K r -2-of )4, 0  ^ ° 1 H 4 ^ [ M K 1 4 -^1 [ « § ! ] ! •  ^  202). This thought seems in accord with the socialist intellectual's  effort to understand and identify with the life of the working class people. However, his disapproval of the working woman's hand clearly demonstrates that Shin-ch'61's commitment lies with bourgeois aesthetics and the world view it represents. The author wants the reader to see the whimsical nature of his "socialist activism." The fact that he "spies" on a working woman from the side-lines, especially when he is not working himself at the time, nicely illustrates the situation. In the final scene, Ch'ot-tchae thinks about the difference between Shin-ch'61, who so easily abandons his political ideology, and workers like himself. The only difference, he concludes, is that one has many options to choose from, while the other has none. Kang's skeptical view of the intellectual as well as her own call to solidarity among workers is reflected in this remark. But, it may have another dimension. Could Kang be suggesting that, for the proletariat, it is impossible to separate mind from body? In other words, does  -  106 -  the proletariat have a choice between the mind and the body? In order to shed light on these questions, we need to examine the scene in which Ch'ot-tchae tries to find the link between hunger and law. When he begins to steal food, Ch'ot-tchae asks Y i , a middle-aged, crippled beggar living with him and his mother: "What is the thing called 'law' that can put people in jail?" ("S<>1  4°14? ... sfl ^°1] ^IB14  4*)4*1&-T-, 257). Y i does not know what the law is, either: He [Ch'6t-tchae] also did it [stealing food] because he was too hungry. But it was still against the law. A t the time, he could not think of anything other than finding food. Having eaten, he realized that he had done one more thing against the law. Yi finally understood his question, but did not know the answer. "Law is law, it's been there from the beginning," said Y i . "It's been there from the beginning?" "Yes, of course. Law is law." Yi thought the law was not man-made but had been there since before man appeared on the earth. Hearing Yi's answer, Ch'ot-tchae felt sadness beyond description for a long while. The law that was absolutely unavoidable! Why was it that he alone, no, Yi and his mother as well, who suffered right before his eyes, why did they alone see no other choice but to break the law? Such thoughts made his head swim. (258) 74-7151 HflTr JLI^  4  ^5S4. ^ 4  ^  ^lfe  1H4.  ^ ° H ¥  ^ 4 4 f e % 8 H ^1 # # § ] q-Bc ^ ^ 4 , °l$7H *M: ^ 4 4 , * t t ! £ ^o\) 4%. t f t Hi 44*1 «t°43 3 M 4 . o H 4 £ n * i l 4 44fe t - 5 ^ 4 , ? f 4 ^ - M ^ 4 ^ ^ ^ £ 4 . "tfo) rto]x] ^ 4 , ^ ^ o ] 4 %o] o | - ^ 4 . " aflji^  44  4 ^ 5 1 H  fe  "=LZ\  °J,¥ >II4?"  ^$*l! ^ ^ N4." oHtf^r °] %°] ^ *\%°] 'Wife °] ^o}# $ l $ i = . $£6\ 0  4 4 c] 451 ^ - g - ^ ^  ^  ? H 4 4 4 , 4 t ° l 471 4 ^ 0 ^ ^jol4. o] ^ ^  « H «^&4.  -  107 -  ^^4*1  o]  1 3 ° J . °1  A^A AAAA, A ^ A &Jife  AA ^-A AAA A^A^* AAA? (258)  AAA,  AAAAA  AAA  Although he has never learned the concept of equity, Ch'ot-tchae knows through his body and its suffering that something is not right about the application of the thing called the "law." For him, his mind is deeply rooted in his body and its lived experiences! his body informs his mind and perhaps his mind in turn reinforces his body. There is no room for a division between mind and body.  Can the Intellectual Speak for the Proletariat? In the ending, Ch'ot-tchae sees Son-bi's body as representing the problem that the human race has attempted to solve throughout history. Although the author does not specify what this problem is, the context indicates that it is the problem of inequality. Through Ch'ot-tchae, the author declares that working class solidarity and struggle are the only solution to the problem-' But, this problem is still unresolved. It can only be solved through solidarity among people like Ch'ot-tchae himself who have no other choice but to constantly brave the uphill battles.  (413)  It is crucial to notice the deliberate juxtaposition of two thoughts Ch'Ot-tchae has in the final scene. A s soon as he recognizes the woman who just died is Son-bi, he curiously thinks of Shin-ch'61's conversion and the difference between the intellectual (Shin-ch'61) and himself. This thought is immediately followed by the thought about the "human problem" and class solidarity as its solution. It seems unnatural for Ch'ot-tchae to think about the difference between the intellectual and the proletariat when he sees the dead body of his beloved.  -  108 -  However, the author chooses to put the two thoughts together in Ch'ot-tchae's head at that moment. Ch'ot-tchae's pledge to the workers' struggle seems forced at that moment, as if the author's intellectual self is trying to speak through a character who is not an intellectual. Perhaps, the author asks herself here: "Can I (the author herself), an intellectual after all, speak for people like Ch'ot-tchae and S6n-bi? If I cannot speak for them, should I stop writing about them?" Kang might have concluded that she should indeed keep writing about characters such as Son-bi and Ch'ot-tchae, but with a minimum intervention of the writer's consciousness in the narrative. Indeed, Kang did minimize her intervention when she wrote SaltSalt was published in installments in New Home (AA^,  a leftist journal)  from May to October in 1934, while Human Problem was in Tonga Daily Newspaper from August to December in 1934. The publication dates do not necessarily indicate which work was written first. However, it is highly likely that the two works were written around the same time. Critics like So Chong-ja and Kim Chong-hwa wonder why Kang was writing two diametrically different novels at the same time. However, as I argued earlier, the two novels are not so very different in that both are the result of the author's effort to allow room for women subaltern protagonists' consciousness to prevail even when the protagonists cannot articulate their thoughts. Only then, the intellectual reader realizes what the text cannot say and how much his/her own consciousness intervenes in his/her hearing of the subaltern consciousness. The only difference between the two novels is that Salt points out much more emphatically than Human Problem that the traditional passive han sensibility is the first and foremost barrier for the Korean subaltern to overcome. Kang seems to have greatly concerned herself with what would happen, realistically, to women like her heroines who have undergone the process of individualization and were outside the passive han circle of their old  - 109 -  community. Would they be willing to join another collective like the socialist patriarchal collective that demands the sacrifice of all individuals, especially female ones, to the common good? Or would they be attracted to modern capitalism which, at least on the surface, allows individuality to flourish? Were there any terms available on which they would be interested in joining the collective again? Focusing on these issues, I will examine Salt-  Salt This story is set in Yongjong  in Manchuria where many Korean  farmers migrated after losing their farm land or tenancy under Japanese colonial rule. The protagonist is a mother of two children, a teenage boy and a girl in elementary school. She and her family migrated to the farming village near YongjSng City more than ten years ago and since then have been tenant farmers of land owned by a rich Chinese man named Pangdung. Often the Korean farmers there are harassed and sometimes killed by the Powidan (the Chinese Army), or the Chawidan. Chawidan is an armed vigilante corps consisting of the sons of Korean farmers, organized by the colonial government in order to counter the anti-colonial Korean communist guerrillas that were active in the region. One day, the protagonist's husband is shot to death by the communist guerrillas. He and Pangdung may have collaborated with the Japanese Army. Immediately after the funeral, the protagonist's son leaves home and does not return for many months. The protagonist, tired of waiting, leaves home with her daughter in search of her son. She goes to Yongjong City, but, unable to find him, she decides to ask Pangdung for help. Pangdung, a clever man, takes advantage of the mother and daughter, making them work as servants in return  -  110 -  for a room and meals in his house. One night, when his wife is out, he rapes the protagonist. She becomes pregnant. After the rape, Pangdung treats the protagonist coldly and avoids any contact with her. She tries to tell him about her pregnancy, but cannot bring herself to do so. Almost nine months go by, during which time she tries to hide her swelling belly. One day, Pangdung comes back from a long trip and tells her to leave his house. He has seen her son's execution; he was beheaded as a captured communist guerrilla. He does not want to be involved in any way with the family members of a communist. He literally kicks her and her daughter out. She thinks that Pangdung and his wife made up the story about her son being a communist in order to drive her out. Her son, a smart boy, she tells herself, could never have joined the communist guerrilla group when his own father was killed by them. Having no place to go, the protagonist thinks about killing herself and her daughter after killing Pangdung's family. But in the next moment, she rejects this plan because she wants to find out about her son first. That night, she works for a Chinese family who allow the mother and daughter to stay in a hut by the river. Over night, she gives birth to a baby girl. It is a long, painful delivery that the author depicts in vivid detail. A t first, she plans to strangle the baby as soon as she is born and throw her in the river. However, when she puts her hands around the baby's neck, her maternal instinct prevents her from hurting the baby. After the birth, the protagonist is on the verge of starving to death. Holding the baby in her arms, she promises that she will survive for her children. She used to wish to die, but "after the near-death experience of the delivery, she didn't want to die for some reason. She even felt the joy of life" (ztejq^JL  ^ 3 1 # ° 1 H o}*} < W & 5L*}9 ^7}JL  nfe  AAA  & & 4 . $-AA &A 3 r 5 | » ^ $ 4 , 515). She eats a stalk of green onion  -  111  -  she finds in the hut to ease her hunger. Her daughter, while washing her mother's blood-soaked clothes in the public washing area, meets their old neighbour from their village, Yong-ae's mother. Yong-ae's mother puts them up in her home for several days and introduces the protagonist to a woman looking for a wet-nurse for her baby boy. The protagonist has to lie that she does not have a baby in order to get the job, since the woman who hires her does not want a wet-nurse who has her own infant to feed, despite the fact that she would need a baby of her own to be a wet-nurse. Her greedy employer does not want her son to share milk with the protagonist's baby. The job pays well enough for the protagonist to rent a room where her two daughters stay. She waits for the night to visit her daughters secretly and feed her own baby, only a couple of nights a week. The older daughter, only a child herself, takes care of the infant who often cries through the night. A year passes. One day, the older daughter falls ill and dies. The baby, while her sister is too ill to take care of her, crawls out of the room and drinks the dirty water in the yard. She dies a few days after her sister's death. The protagonist's employer does not allow the protagonist to come back to her job, saying that she is afraid that her baby may catch the same disease as the protagonist's daughters. The landlady of the house where she rented the room for her daughters asks her to move out for the same reason. However, the protagonist shows the landlady that she has no intention of moving out even if she is dragged out: She was surprised at herself, not knowing where her fearlessness came from.... If the landlady had continued with her berating, she could have confronted her with a knife. Fortunately, the landlady retreated to her quarters, as if she read her violent thought. "Humph, whom are you trying to kick out. I won't budge, no matter what," she mumbled to herself, staring at the door of her room. She wanted to continue to fight with the woman [landlady]; something in her was not satisfied.  -  112 -  Her anger reached such a degree that it would take the digging of tens of fathoms into the ground to make it subside. *1^4  =L  (522).  ¥ 4 44?44.... 4 ° i 4 ° J  oj^-g. ^ 4 4 zife- 4 4 4 5 1 7|.^j7 4 4 1 - J I 4 0 ) 4 4 4 ¥ n ¥ * ] » *fl°i-§-?j>l 4 ^ 4 4 444:2 444.  ^ 4 4^9sj "4! ¥ 4 * 4 4 C  4 4 4 4 44 4  4 4 ^ ,  #4  4-^1  ^  ^efl¥." 4 ^ 1  414BH  4 J I #ol7 fe 4 ° J 4 ¥ 4 4 r  44451 ^  ^ 4^4  ^  4#*1  tsjiioj-^ ^ajj, 444  44SI4. ^ ¥  4 ^ £°1 4 * i 4 * ! ^ 4 # 4  244.  4^-  (522)  The protagonist feels that she herself killed her daughters: "Does it make sense to kill my own children to raise someone else's child? Don't leave me alone, take me with you, my daughters" ( 4 3 114 714—4 *H 1141r 4 ° J 4 A  4 4 4  A  4 4 4 5L¥ 7f4 4 4*14 4 4 4 - 4 4 4 31444, 523). The bereft  mother tries to resist the memory of her sick daughters, but to no avail. She even misses Myongsu, the baby she has nursed: "I wonder if he is crying...," she said, without realizing. Then, she tried to fool herself, saying to the image of the baby boy in her mind's eye, "Myong-su, because of you, my Pong-hui and Pong-yom died. Go away!" But his face came closer towards her; she felt as if she could almost touch him. She bit her hand hard. She missed him as much as her pain.... "Hum, you stupid bitch! You killed your children and now miss someone else's child? Why are you still alive? Why don't you kill yourself? Why keep on living? If you had killed yourself when your husband died, you could have avoided all this misery." (524) " ^ 4 4*14  " 4 ^ ¥ 4  SLa7fl 4 ^ 1  4 < £ 4 4 ^ ¥ =L±= 4 4 ^ - ^ 4 4  #el3U 4°11 & ¥ 4 4 4 4 ^ 5 2 4 . "°)H 4 4 4 4*1, 4 " f l ^ l 421 £-3 4 < g 4 ¥ 4534. # 4 4 4 ! " ^ 4 4 ^ 4 4 ^  4 4  '*! A] 4^1 01 o ] JSLJ!  ?  4  <£-^4  44£4.  =L^= £ - § 4 : ^ #524. 4 4 4 °\€ Am ^-%A 4 ^ xfl^l £LJi Qo\ 4 ^ o l 0 ^ 4 ^ ^ 7  ^O]JL  sfl 40]-, sfl ^ O K 4 4 4 4 4 ?  4£....  453-^3 4 J i ^ 3 4 4*1 (524)  - 113 -  & 4 - ' 44  4 4 4 4 <S ^  4 ^  ^4.... ^  # € 4 4 £  Aj-ol-  2#  The protagonist feels that the communists who killed her husband are at the origin of her misery. She wants to find her son, but she wants to see Myongsu first before her search. Her desire to hold the baby is unbearable; she grabs her nipples hard. She can almost see his bright eyes looking up at her while suckling at her breast, his hand playing with it. Then, the tearful eyes of her daughters appear in her mind. She goes to the cemetery, but runs out, fearful of death. She misses Myong-su so much that tears stream down her cheeks. She thinks, "Love is a dirty emotion" (A°] & *l*Hr A°]Ar, 526). 7  She wants to die, but at the same time she fears death. She decides to live as long as possible. She wants to see her son and witness the downfall of the communists. At this moment, Yong-ae's mother visits her. After feeding the starved protagonist with the food she has brought with her, Yong-ae's mother tells her about an illegal, but lucrative business opportunity: buying salt in Korea at a cheap price and selling it in Yongjong where the price of salt is high. The protagonist feels that making money is meaningless when her children are dead. However, she also knows that starving is more dreadful than dying. She goes on a salt-buying trip to Korea with five other men and a guide, and almost kills herself walking for many days and crossing the chin-deep river border, carrying a heavy salt bag on her head. Immediately after crossing the river, the smugglers are caught by a group of communist guerrillas. The leader of the group gives them a propaganda speech which the author summarizes in one sentence: "Everybody! Do you know what forced you to miss your sleep to carry the loads of salt at night?"  M 5 | £ !  ^ ^ o l  2fl  °1 I H ^ I  *  *TJI  °1 i-g-^-l- *I>H  ^i4?f!, 534) He then lets the smugglers go free. The voice of the leader sounds like that of her daughter's teacher of a long time ago. The next moment, the protagonist derides herself for her inability to say anything to the communists who killed her husband, her inability even to remember her hatred  - 114 -  towards them. She feels that she is ridiculous: "The more stupid one is, the stronger her desire to live" ( n a j j i £Vr ^ASkA,  A^A^=  4 nckn  535). At the same time, she wonders why the communists did not take  their salt away. Once back in Yongjong, the protagonist keeps her salt in her room, too tired to sell it immediately. Massaging her aching feet and head, she misses all her children, Pong-yom, Pong-hui, Myong-su, Pong-shik. She likens her life alone to food without salt-" it has no taste, nothing to look forward to. After crying for a while, she falls asleep and is later awakened by two policemen who arrest her. The last passage in the manuscript was censored by the colonial government and no other copies of the manuscript before the censorship is available. The story remains without the ending. Some of the remaining fragmented words seem to suggest that the protagonist remembers what she heard the previous night from the communist leader. His words somehow made sense to her, despite her fear of and hatred for the communists. Seeing the policemen arresting her, she suddenly feels her body "burn with anger" (%AA n s j •§-£ ZLik2\  ^  ty¥  ^  o\$A  6\]x\  xxx  x  x  o}^  x  xxxx, 537; the x's are erased words). Three more fragments and the final short sentence remain intact. The  first two fragments read "in the pitch dark" (AAA: Av  and "might be  fighting along with" (S.A ^}-§: A AA) (537). Perhaps the author describes the protagonist imagining her oldest son, who is said to have joined the communist guerrillas, "fighting" against the Japanese "in the dark" like the group she met in the previous night on her way back from Korea. The last sentence, "She bolted up on her feet" (nfe AA  AAA:A,  537-8), seems to indicate a resolution of some sort. The last three characters from the second last sentence also survived the censor's ink •'  r  # S t 4 j (537).  This fragment can mean many things, but one possible conjecture based on the  -  115 -  context is that it is part of  r  ^ - ° l -Hr^^fJ , meaning "She felt herself full of  venom," which reads smoothly with the final sentence describing a resolution in her action.  From Chdng (Compassionate Attachment) to Won (Venomous Grudge) The protagonist, called Pong-yom's mother, has three characteristics. As her name represents, she is first and foremost a mother who gives unconditional love not only to her children with her husband, but also to the child born from a rape by a Chinese landowner and to someone else's baby whom she raises as a wet-nurse. Regardless of race, blood-relation, or other circumstances, all the children who have been nurtured by and through her body are precious to her and beyond the reach of her  han-turned-vengeful  spirit. In this sense, the protagonist is diametrically different from Hirabayashi's protagonist in "Charity Ward," whose vengeance against an unjust society is misdirected towards her baby. Second, Pong-yom's mother lives in the world of sublimated han that she calls chdng (fit) in the first part of the story. Han and chdng cannot be thought of separately. The final product out of the process of sharing and dissolving the potentially violent and intense won emotion is chdng. Won is sublimated and the intensity of the emotion turns into a tenacious bond among the han-sharing  members. As explained in the Introduction, chdng consists of  feelings of endearment, the warm-heartedness, compassionate attachment, and an intense longing for somebody. Because she has been living immersed in chdng, the protagonist does not know how to live life otherwise. She can be easily manipulated and taken advantage of by the people outside the /?a/7-sharing community, especially by the self-serving people like Pangdung often found in urban capitalist societies. At first, too trusting, she is deceived  -  116 -  by Pangdung. However, she does not remain unaware of the fact that she has been deceived. Indeed, the problem is that she is aware of it, but cannot control her chdng. A good example of her inability to control her chong would be her feelings towards Pangdung. After she becomes pregnant, she says nothing to Pangdung's wife about the rape, and nothing about the pregnancy to him. At the same time, she considers telling Pangdung about the pregnancy and asking Pangdung to rent a room somewhere for her behind his wife's back (506). This thought turns the rape to an illicit relationship or something similar to the feudal practice of keeping concubines. Further, the protagonist's curious behaviour after the rape merits our attention: Since that night [when she was raped], Pangdung had been cold towards her, no matter how she interpreted his behaviour. At first, she thought that it was because he had his dignity to maintain and a difficult wife to deal with. However, as time passed, she became resentful. At the same time, ironically, she felt an invisible bond between Pangdung and herself, and chdng endlessly welling up in her heart went out to him. She let out a sigh, while wiping the sweat off her forehead. "When can I freely talk to him and receive his love?" Just the thought of it made her body tremble with joy. But realizing her situation, she felt like crying and became envious of Pangdung's wife. (507)  n 4 4 4^fe 4 4 4  4 4 4 ^Tii  4 4 4 qu] 4 4 ^ 4  4^4  444  4 & 4 . 4-§-4¥ $UA4 4 4 4 - T - 4  £4^4-§-4 4 4 4 4 4 4 ° i 4 . 4 4 i  43^4  ^ ° i 4 *J4 i L 4 4  4 4 4^1 4 ^ - 4 ^ 4 4 4 4 2 # ^ ¥ ^ £ 4 . ^ ¥ 4 4 i - 4 4 4 444<H1 *<3fe 4-1- ^ ° i 4 . £*114 4451 f f f tnan 4 7 . ^ 4 ! r 5 i 4 4 J I 4 4 - i 4 4 1 - 4 ? ^ 4 4 4 4 5 1 nfe * ! 4 4 4 4514 # & 4 . ^ 4 4 4 4 ^ 4 4 4 4 4 ^  9lk= 514 4 ^  ?H44 ^fe £3. ^ $ 4 . ^ 4 3 i 4 ^ 4 4 4 4 # & 4 ¥ 4 ^ 4 .  (507)  - 117 -  It is hard to understand her feelings for Pangdung, who is cold to her, and her unrealistic expectation of a happy future with him. Taking all her knowledge about Pangdung into consideration, we find it even more difficult to understand. She was aware of the kind of man Pangdung was, even before her husband's death: one year, he took the entire harvest, leaving nothing for her family to live on for the rest of the year. When she is close to delivery, she and her daughter are driven out of Pangdung's house. She realizes how "dreadful" (nr^l-cr,  512) a man Pangdung is. But even then she keeps looking back,  anticipating that Pangdung will come after her to take her back (512). Either the protagonist is deluded or she cannot control her emotions despite her awareness of the situation that she is in. Whichever is the case, one thing is clear: she tries to make sense of the pitfalls in the capitalist world to which she has fallen a victim. The problem is that she does it using the old world view. Her maternal instinct adds to the complexity of the situation and intensifies her confusion. Her chong seems stronger when the chong relationship involves babies such as the one that is growing in her womb and later, the baby boy who suckles at her breast. Her remark, "Love [fra, chong] is a dirty emotion," should be understood in this context. Finally, the protagonist is a woman who has been forced by her circumstances into the world of capitalist economy. She joins the capitalist labour market with neither particular skills nor much knowledge about the workings of capitalism. Her situation is similar to that in which countless Korean peasants found themselves during the period of transition from the premodern to the modern capitalist economic order under colonial rule. The exploitation of the peasant class by the colonial ruler was systematically carried out through the maintenance of semi-feudal structures in rural areas. At the same time, the farmers whose lands were taken away had no other alternative but to enter the rural, mining, or urban cheap labour markets. Their  -  118 -  lack of skills other than farming and the absence o f labour l a w s made them vulnerable to capitalist exploitation. Equally disadvantageous to them w a s their confusion between the o l d and the n e w world view. K a n g depicts the protagonist i n Salt, e x c e p t i n the ending, as one of these confused p e a s a n t - t u r n e d - c i t y labourers. She suffers more because the fatalistic w o r l d v i e w of han hinders h e r recognition of the numerous dangers i n the capitalist economy. A t the beginning of the story, the protagonist is a peasant woman who is aware, albeit v e r y vaguely, of the n e w capitalist order of the outside w o r l d . Before her husband's murder, she l o o k s at her o w n field that she has finally. managed to purchase after more than ten years of hard work i n a foreign land. She remembers h o w h e r land i n K o r e a was taken away from her b y a r i c h man of the yangban caste (the high class in the traditional K o r e a n caste system) i n h e r village. H e r family had no other choice but to emigrate to Manchuria. She says: "We have to do better. W e have to be able to show off to that bastard some day" O ^ H H r ) % AAA, 0  ^ofo>  «h AAA  ' AA,  ^  =L  ^  %°] - f  4 9 4 ) . She begins to understand that the o l d caste  s y s t e m is obsolete now; money has replaced it and determines the n e w social order. H o w e v e r , the protagonist interprets the new capitalist w o r l d order in terms of the o l d w o r l d v i e w of han, especially its fatalistic aspects. She believes that it i s luck that determines the distribution of wealth. She is poor because "God i s not kind to me. H e b l e s s e s some people with all the luck i n the w o r l d , and c u r s e s me with hardship" ( s l - i ^ - E . ^AAA. n^p-fe °}A -H^-S: AA^L  fe^fe  ^-A  ^JL  , 494). One wonders i f the concept of luck creates  the illusion i n capitalist society that the s o c i o - e c o n o m i c structure itself is harmless and neutral. W o r k i n g hard is not enough to support oneself and one's family, because one needs to have luck as w e l l . If a p e r s o n w o r k s hard and  -  119 -  makes money, then she is lucky. If she fails despite her hard work, then it is her bad luck. She cannot blame the system since the system welcomes and treats everybody equally. The idea of luck seems to conceal the problem of the social structure that creates and perpetuates the unfair distribution of wealth. Hirabayashi's protagonist in "Charity Ward" complains that the medical report on her baby's death will not say anything about the sick mother who cannot afford food for her baby. For her, science and capitalism work hand in hand in creating inequality in society. For Pong-yom's mother, luck can explain away everything and does not allow her to obtain a critical view of the capitalist system, as Hirabayashi's heroine does. She does not ask why she is not given her fair share even after her hard work. She simply attributes it to her bad luck. Both the concept of luck and the element of fatalism in han inhibit recognition that the capitalist claim of equal opportunity and free, fair competition for all is a fallacy. The protagonist's fatalistic outlook changes after her experience as a wet-nurse. The protagonist's second attempt to survive with her children in the capitalist society is to become a wet-nurse. Once again, the protagonist sells her body as a commodity. The problem is not that she uses her body as a commodity to earn money; rather, it is that her own children die while she raises someone else's child. In an ideal situation, working as a wet nurse would not have to result in her daughters' deaths. There would be no need to lie about her own baby, to live separately from her daughters, and to visit them secretly at night. There are other possible arrangements for the well-being of the children in both families. The author emphasizes that the protagonist's problem is not a personal one, but a socio-economic one. Pong-yom's mother's body is her own means of production: it produces milk. She is the owner. Her employer is entitled to  - 120 -  only the protagonist's product. However, her employer (the capital) appropriates the protagonist's means of production by taking possession of the protagonist's body, that is, by preventing her from visiting her own children. So Chong-ja may be right in her contention that this novel depicts the conflict between motherhood and labour as part of the feminist agenda (35). However, this particular case seems to imply more than the conflict between motherhood and labour. The protagonist's job as a wet-nurse could have been a perfect opportunity for her to do both mothering and working at the same time. The cause of the protagonist's failure to do so seems to be the greed of the boy's mother to keep the means of production under her control. This greed is the ultimate cause of the deaths of the protagonist's daughters. After the deaths of her children, the venom of won raises its head in Pong-y6m's mother. She is fearless, even audacious, and she wants to give full expression to her violent emotions. Her chdng fades away and her vengeful spirit reveals itself. She used to say to herself that she would survive for her children; now she wants to live as long as she can (526). The disappearance of chong, the appearance of grudges, her awareness of herself as an individual in the form of her will to survive even after her children's deaths, all come at the same time. With these changes comes the protagonist's daring engagement in an illegal, but lucrative, form of capitalist enterprise: smuggling. Her violent won has yet to transform itself into her pledge to the communist cause.  Traces of the Intellectual: A Disembodied Voice As in Human Problem, there is an intellectual in Salt. However, the intellectual in Salt is different from Shin-ch'ol in Human Problem in several ways. First of all, he is not represented by any name or physical presence; he is just a voice heard by the protagonist after the smugglers are captured by  -  121  -  the group of communist guerrillas. Here, we notice the author's deliberate contrast between the intellectual's disembodied, abstract voice and the protagonist's body: Once the flash lights were turned off, the smugglers were not able to see anything. Thinking that the guerrillas might be pointing knives or guns at them, she was terrified. Then, in the dark, a voice began to speak. "Everybody, do you know why you have to miss your sleep and carry these loads of salt at night?" A strong, resonant male voice was heard sometimes loudly and other times softly through the wind. The smugglers thought, "Good, they are communists. They won't take our salt away. How should we plead with them?" The voice continued. Hearing the long speech, all they wanted was to be let go free. They kept worrying about the possibility that they were watched by some guards at the foot of the mountain or on the other side. The voice reminded Pong-yom's mother of the time when she followed Pong-y6m to her school in Ssand6g6u to listen to her teacher's speech. She thought that the man's voice sounded just like the teacher's. She suddenly lifted her head to see more clearly. But she could only hear the voice through the pitch dark of the night. nf-4  44  u  n  4 4 0 ) ±^0]  ^ . 4  ^ 4 1 - 0 ] 4 4 rtfloj ^ ^ 7 \  (535) 44  44211- 4¥53fe4 44 44 £ 4 444^4. ^ 4 w ^ 4 4 4 "44£! 444#4 n 4 44*11 44-1: 4 *kn 4 ^ 4 ^ ^ 44 453¥4 4^44!" 35^4 4 £ £ 4 4 -8-^4 4 t 4 # 431 4 4 4 4444. '£4! ^ 4 4 4 3 . 4 4 ! i 4 4 «mi444 &3J44. 44<>M1 4 4 4 4 ^ 4 4 44.' 4^ ¥ 4 ^44534. 4 £ 4 - § 4 ) £ 444 444&4. ^44 4 4 ¥ 444 4 4 4 4 44 ^4^1 * 4 i ^ A 4 4534. 4 4 4 4 4 4 £ 4 4 444 ^ 4 4 4  ^4 5U4 ¥41:4 ^444 444 4 s safe 24 1-^4 4 4 4 4fe 1:44 4 4 4444.  4 4 4 ¥ 444 £4-^ 4fe 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 °fl 4°J414 4 4Hoi) / H 4^4 44-^ 4 4 24 4^ ^4444 4 4 4 5 1 n 4^84 ^ 444. ^fe 44# 44 44 44-1- 4 4 ^ 4 4 . 4 4 4 4 44 4 # 4 4 # < § 4  7k3.44 =L  4 ^ 4 4 1 ^44. (535)  - 122 -  Second, the reader can detect the existence of the intellectual through the traces he has left on the protagonist's children. Once again, we can detect the author's depiction of the intellectual as an abstract force rather than a person. At the beginning of the story, her daughter one day returns home from school and asks her to buy a pair of runners. She responds harshly, saying that her daughter should be grateful for being able to go to school and should not ask for anything so luxurious as runners: "If we had money to buy you a pair of runners, we would rather use that money to send your brother to high school." Pong-yom kept eating wild onions, hardly enduring the pungent taste. Her eyes seemed moist with tears. "Why don't you have money! Why can't you send Brother to school!" Suddenly she remembered what her teacher had said, and realized that she should not lash out at her mother out of her troubled heart full of complaints. Nonetheless, she felt frustrated with her mother who knew nothing and only scolded her daughter. Dumb-founded, Pong-yom's mother looked at her daughter speechlessly. She thought, "Being poor means being insulted by one's own children, let alone others." She felt anger and complaints about the poverty she had stifled rise in her heart, making her eyes burn. "How would I know why we have no money? Why did you have to be born to us, the paupers. Why weren't you born to rich parents? Children! What's the point of having them?" Looking at-her angry mother, Pong-yom remembered what had happened at last year's harvest. Her mother had the same expression on her face as she and her father did when Pangdung took every single grain they harvested! Her parents who did not protest! Her mother looked pathetic and even servile. "Mother, you need to know why you don't have money, why you can't buy me a pair of runners, why you can't send Brother to school!" Talking to her mother, she realized that it was not her fault that she wanted to have a pair of runners. She finally began to realize the meaning of what she heard from her teacher. ( 4 9 7 - 8 )  - 123 -  "  ...  £ f e 4 4 # feo) 01 o , ^  A  -g-^lfe 44^1  ^ 4  4 ¥  0  A ^ A A  ^ J f ! - u] A] 7] 3140).»  4 ^ 5 1  rt-nV  °H4fe  *)-£. ° H 4  ^ 4 = 4 4 5 1 ^4°1 ^  JHTII  X| 4 - o  4^°14.  feoflfe  *W4*1. * H ! * oHqsj  o^j.  4.£-&4. ^  A A & - ! "  ^ Z j - S k j i ojHlfe  S  A  A  A  7 $Ai4.  A  1-igo] ^ = o |  4 ^ ° I -4  H^jJEJf- a l ^ o j ^ - £ 4 .  ffl^-  < H ^ £ ^ 4  -g-^lfe 4 4  ^ * ^  £5*4. ^ J I  9144  4-t-°ll  4-?- ^AA  4 ^ * 1 ! 1 - ^ 4 ° 1 4 4 * 1 * 1 al#*r>B J i l f e sfl fe & f e  ^  Al-^oJlTl]  34!" 4 4 ^  s ] r f e  4fe  4fe  # t  #JfH4  ^  r  4 ^ ^ A j V B ) 1 4 4 4 5 L ^ 4 J2.3~gr ! P f 4 . '  0  "°H°l\  ^S]  O H . -T-3 ^ " f e 7 i ^ # o , l 7 f l Sfl E f l o l ^ q . £  ^#M1  °H4£l  *  44iL&4. * * H , '§1^4 4 4 \ H  AA ^ A A  "SU fe & f e * l 4 4  4  *  ^ A A  *r#°l «1^4.  "211 fe &<>]JS.. 2fl ,2-ml- ^ 4  A^  -g-Ai j  4444°1 ^ n A  O>JJL 4-SJ-%V #  o\W.  A A ^ \ s a  f  e  c^n]q4  A A A \ 211 *  *fe4fe  4-3-8.. ^ 4 f e  *fl  4  g%o]  oH4fe  44  ¥ ^ ¥ ^  *  3 jar  ^fe  o l ^ T f l 4*11 7>fe A f o l o f l ^  ^A9kA. ^4>i:4.  0 . ^ 3 .  ^ A A A  4 ^  #<Hfe534 4 ^ 4  AA  A  $0} AA  fe  (487-8)  Her daughter's teacher whose speech the protagonist hears later in the dark has already left his mark on her daughter. The communist leader's speech ("Everybody, do you know why you have to miss your sleep and carry these loads of salt at night?") and her daughter's angry words ("Mother, you need to know why you don't have money, why you can't buy me a pair of runners, why you can't send Brother to school!") have the same message, although her daughter is too young to explain it well to her mother. Pong-yom's mother takes her daughter's remarks as an insult and thinks that it is her daughter's bad luck that she was born to poor parents.  -  124 -  The protagonist's son is also influenced by the teacher. Sitting beside his father's blood-soaked body, Pong-shik thinks: He was always worried about his father's being friendly with Pangdung and the vigilante army. It was a dangerous thing to do; his father's murder was the consequence that he had been worried about. He and his father used to argue about this matter, but his father insisted on his opinion. Perhaps the circumstances forced his father to be friendly with Pangdung and the vigilante army. He always thought that his father was wrong. But when he heard from Yong-ae's father that his father had been shot and went to the place to find him lying there, he thought, "What on earth are they doing!" He couldn't figure out who was right and who was wrong; he felt confused. The day following the funeral, Pong-shik went out for some fresh air, never to return.  (500-1)  4 4 4444 4 4 4 4X4^1:44 ^44 4 4 24 444 44444 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 £ 4 ^ 4 4 ^ 4 4 4 4 4 4554. 4 4 4 ^ 4 4 4 4 4 4 7 M J 1 4 4 4 4 ^ £ ^ 4 4 51 4 U 4 SI $-2-4 ^#4 4 4 4 ¥ 4 4 4 4 4 4 ^ 4 . iL45i ^ 4 ^ 4 4 ^ 4 4 4 ^ 4 4 4 &sfe 4 4 4 4 4 4 4554 444. 4 4 4 ^44fe 44451 4 4 4 4 «A $ 4 4 M 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 #4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 #s 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 ^ 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 ' 4 4 4 44!' 4fe 4 i i 4 4 4 4 4 ^ = 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 SI4 4 4 4 4 ^ 4 4 4 4554- (500-1) J±5]JI  The vigilante army is there to fight the communist guerrillas, and this paragraph suggests that Pong-shik is on the side of the communists, although he is angry that his father was killed by them. Pong-shik, who has graduated from the same school as his sister, may have been influenced by the same teacher. "Knowing nothing" (4-T"251 51^4,  488), as her daughter complains,  the protagonist cannot believe that her son joined the group who killed his father. Finally, the intellectual in Salt moves into a rural area, while in Human  - 125 -  Problem, the protagonist and other characters move into the cities where they meet socialist intellectuals. It is more difficult to raise class consciousness among people like Pong-y6m's mother, who live in tightly knit han-based  rural  communities than among young individuals who have left their communities for modern urban centres. The author seems to challenge the intelligentsia, especially socialist writers who mandate that writers be the ideological educators and reformers of the working class. She points to the countless people in Korea who, like Pong-yom's mother, live oblivious to socialist ideas even while being surrounded by young children who have been exposed to leftist ideology through their teachers. The teacher's or the communist leader's speech she hears does not mean much to the protagonist of Salt. How can the intellectual's dogmatic message bring home class consciousness and a socialist revolutionary spirit to mothers who live entrenched in their  han-based  socio-cultural environment? These mothers must be ready to accept such socialist ideas and causes and first and foremost, their han must be transformed into won through the process of individualization. The protagonist's willingness to accept communist causes comes only in the ending. While she listens to the teacher/communist leader's speech in the dark, she seems to hear only his voice, while the message is lost to her. The author devises the dark night to keep the communist leader's body hidden. A s explained earlier, this disembodied voice is contrasted with the protagonist's body carrying a heavy load. His voice fails to transmit his message. Although the communist leader and his men are invisible in the dark, their flashlight is directed towards the smugglers. We notice another device to point out the one-way communication: from the communist intellectual to grassroots. A s far as his understanding of the subaltern consciousness is concerned, the intellectual is kept in the dark despite the bright "ideological" light he sheds on the subaltern. How can he speak of the subaltern consciousness and for the  -  126 -  subaltern interests when his bright flashlight only blinds the subaltern?  The communists' presence does not stimulate the protagonist's thought to go beyond her personal concerns. For example, she worries about the salt that they may take away from her, wonders if her son is in the group, and hates herself for saying nothing to her husband's murderers. However, once she is caught by the police for possessing the illegal salt, she is transformed into a completely different person. Because of the censored part, it is impossible to know exactly what goes on in the protagonist's mind at the moment of her arrest. Nevertheless, relying on my conjectures made earlier about the content of the erased part and my interpretation of the story, we may speculate as follows. The penultimate paragraph reads: "Where is your salt licence?" The official salt should be licensed. She felt choked and hopeless. She strained every nerve as she did the other night standing in the Tuman River, trying not to drop the salt sack in the water. At the time, she was saved by the guide's hand. Now, who will dare these men who carry guns and swords to save me? (537) 44?"  4°J(4^)4 ^ I f  «lf  n 4 3 i 4-E- 4 4 4 4 4  244.  ^fe w 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 44*11 # 4 .  ^4444 4^44  °114 4 4 4 4 si n 4 4 ^ 4  4 4 ^ 4 4 2 4  4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 44! 4 4 4  4 4 ^4 444 ^ 4 -  £ 4 n  4 4 4 4 44  4^4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 44  ^4  444^1  4 4 4 4 3 1 4 4 ? (537)  The author contrasts the protagonist's effort to save her salt in the river with her effort to find a way to save herself or her life in the face of the police arrest and probable torture and death. Unlike when she was rescued by her fellow smuggler in the river, she is all alone, now, in the fight for her life. She  -  127 -  realizes that the capitalist economic system is not neutral; its neutrality is only an illusion created by the system itself. She tries to earn money in legal ways, and is exploited in return. Having no other way to survive, she turns to illegal means, only to be crushed by the law. The protagonist realizes now that what is at the core of her misery is not her luck, but the system that protects only the rich and powerful like Pangdung. Pong-yom's mother also understands now why her son joined the communist resistance. She remembers what the teacher/communist leader said; this time, she remembers the message, not the voice. The message makes sense now. It is only at this moment that her won (not chong or han) connects itself with the concept of class strife and solidarity. Her won, her realization of the won harboured by other exploited people like herself, her spirit to fight for the rights of these people, and her recognition of the necessity of class solidarity all come together to form her class consciousness. The intellectual's messages come through to her consciousness only when she is ready and willing to accept them, that is, only when she completes the process of her individualization. So far, I have compared Hirabayashi's and Kang's works that deal with the theme of woman's body as a political site from which the protagonist speaks. Both writers subscribe to leftist ideology and are keenly aware of the patriarchal attitudes embedded in an emancipatory ideology such as socialism. Hirabayashi's characters suffer from the phallogocentric dichotomy between mind and body. Eventually, the protagonist in "Self-Mockery" returns her attention to her body and repossesses agency for it. By reconnecting with her body, the protagonist/author gains her truly individual perspective on life and the world around her. Kang emphasizes that the underprivileged and silenced people of the lowest class do not have a choice between mind and body, but must live their  - 128 -  lives through their bodies. Instead of narrating what individualism means to the intellectual, Kang attempts to let the oppressed women express their own understanding of being an individual. To Son-bi, being an individual means respecting her body and protecting it from abuse by any ideology, whether it be neo-Confucian, colonial capitalist, or socialist. The violent energy of the protagonist's urami is directly applied to heightening the revolutionary spirit in "Charity Ward"; this ura/n/'-turned-revolutionary spirit develops into self-loathing in "Self-Mockery." This self-mockery is, in turn, overcome through the apotropaic ritual of miscarriage. Yoshiko's urami eventually turns into a spirit of independence. The protagonist in Salt moves away from traditional, passive han-sharing,  and  allows won to surface. Then, wdn is applied to developing a revolutionary spirit. On the one hand, both Hirabayashi's and Kang's protagonists take advantage of the explosive energy of pent-up uramilhan for the socialist cause or/and to gain agency. On the other, Yoshiko's urami is overcome within her individual self in the end, while Pong-yom's mother's han builds up to become part of a potentially violent collective emotion. Although the expressions of urami and han change, the fundamental difference between urami as an individual emotion and han/ won as a collective emotion remains.  -  129 -  Chapter Three: Kono Taeko and O Chong-hui  Kono Taeko Kono Taeko was born in Osaka, Japan. When she was thirteen, Japan began its full-scale military expansion on the Asian mainland. During the last part of the war, she worked as a student labourer in a factory manufacturing military supplies. The intense fear of death she experienced at the time, knowing that her factory could be bombed at any moment, became a recurring motif in her narratives, for example, in "An Unexpected V o i c e "  67  and The  Bizarre Tale of the Mummy-Hunter (1990). Her wartime experiences, combined with the type of literature she read during her early years, became the source of the fantasy present throughout her oeuvre: When she was working in the factory, faced with the prospect of imminent death during the bombings, she remembered the mysterious forces described in the poetry by Emily Bronte that she had read in her classes and came to the conclusion that human souls were immortal. The inspiration she got from reading Wuthering Heights right after the war came together with the mystery and fantasy contained in the works of Tanizaki Jun'ichiro and Izumi Kyoka that she had read in school. (Gendai josei bungaku jiten, 125; my translation)  mit^-1 % <r)ffi%& t xl«141 1> i.  ( H f t M 4 4 1 2  ti tz $ E $ t t f l t  5  ix X <D t <n tf ofct \»  5)  A large number of her works, especially those written during the early stage of her career in the 1960s, proved especially controversial in postwar Japan, still relatively conservative towards "sensitive"  - 130 -  68  subject matters such as  violence against children and "deviant" sexuality, including sadomasochism. Her debut story "Toddler-Hunting," which received the Shinchosha Prize, "An Unexpected Voice," and The Bizzare Tale of the Mummy-Hunter are excellent examples of such works.  69  Several critics have touched upon masochism as one of Kono's thematic characteristics, but there have been only a few thorough analyses of this theme in Kono's work. Gretchen Irene Jones's doctoral dissertation, "Deviant Strategies: The Masochistic Aesthetic of Tanizaki Jun'ichiro and Kono Taeko" (1999) is an example. Jones uses Gilles Deleuze's theory of masochism in order to overcome Sigmund Freud's essentialist assignment of masochism to the feminine and passive, and sadism to the masculine and the active. For the same purpose, I shall also use the Deleuzean theories of sadism and masochism. Unlike the view of Kono as a writer who deals with masochistic sexuality, however, my focus will be on sadism rather than masochism. Kono's narrative reflects her views of female sexuality and subjectivity and proposes to overcome gender hierarchy altogether.  Freud versus Deleuze Freud sees masochism as a deviance or abnormality, and attributes masochism to passivity and femininity while attributing sadism to activity and masculinity.  70  Unlike Freud, Deleuze, in "Le Froid et le Cruel" ("Coldness and  Cruelty," 1967; tr. 1989), contends that masochism and sadism are based on widely diverging ideas of beauty and attitudes towards life. He complains that "classical" and popularized Freudian interpretations have created common but false beliefs that sadism and masochism are complementary and that one person can be a sadomasochist. According to the Deleuzean view, there is no essential correlation between masochism and attributes such as passivity and  -  131 -  femininity, or between sadism and masculinity. Neither sadism nor masochism has anything to do with the gender of the partners involved. Deleuze argues that both sadists and masochists strive for control and power over their victim(s) or partners. One characteristic difference between them is the persuasion and agreement involved in the masochistic relationship as opposed to the absence of them in the sadist-victim relationship. In other words, a sadist does not seek his/her victim's consent, while a masochist persuades, trains, educates his/her partner, and draws up a contract or a script which dictates with exacting precision their masochistic performance, as if it were to be played out on a theatrical stage. Although the masochist seems to be the one who is being tortured, s/he is the one who holds absolute control over the entire performance, including his/her partner's speech and actions. Analysed from the perspective of Deleuzean definitions of sadism and masochism, sadism explicates, more effectively than masochism, the violent way in which the emotion of urami is expressed in many of Kono's works. Sadism also serves as a useful strategy in shedding light on Kono's struggle to deal with the paradox of dismantling the existing morality with the help of that same morality. Among Kono's works involving the theme of sadism, "Voice" is the one in which urami is most readily recognizable. In my discussion of "Voice," emphasis will be placed on the protagonist's search for a way to purge urami and "negate" the system that gives rise to it in the first place.  Kono's Understanding of Sadism and Masochism In  ^-m^<^^mJjj  r  ("The Prophetic Power in Tanizaki's Fiction,"  1999), Kono briefly touches on her understanding of sadism and masochism. She complains that masochism is fundamentally misunderstood in Japan: "We are often told that masochism and sadism are two sides of the same coin  -  132 -  ( S J I ^ i i f ^ ) ; however, I do not agree with this view. There is absolutely no relationship between them" (177; my translation). Kono rejects the view that masochism is complementary to or derived from sadism, as Freud proposed in his "Instincts and Their Vicissitudes" (1915): The turning round of an instinct upon the subject's own self is made plausible by the reflection that masochism [directed inwards] is actually sadism [directed outwards] turned round upon the subject's own ego .... ("Instincts," 124) In "The Prophetic Power," Kono summarizes some of the characteristics of sadism and masochism in ways that resemble those articulated by Deleuze. First, they are simply "sexual tendencies"  (tt&ffcSfp])  and should not be  considered illnesses to be cured. Second, there is no such thing as an unfaithful masochistic relationship, because this type of relationship is possible only through a conscious effort made by the parties involved to make themselves believe that their love will continue forever. In other words, if either party becomes unfaithful or stops believing in the couple's continuing love, it is no longer a masochistic relationship. Third, masochists are much more suspicious than sadists; that is why masochists are obliged to draw up contracts with their partners. Last, the popular belief that "You are so cute that I could eat you up" is a sadistic expression is not correct. In Kono's mind, there is a clear distinction between "Because you are so cute, I want to eat you up" (hL £ 0frh\/*\,>fr^ A ^ f L £ v>fe v->), which she considers a sadistic expression), and "You are so cute that I could almost eat you up" ( t ^ t L ^ i d fz < i J B i ' A ' h K i . ;  177-9).  This distinction is crucial in understanding the protagonists' psychology in some of Kono's works. For example, the juxtaposition of the image of a sweet, innocent boy and the heroine's sadistic desire is repeated in "Voice" (147) and "Toddler-Hunting" (52). The illogic or contradiction in the sadistic  -  133  -  expression appears in other variations as well in "Voice." The absurdity of the heroine's expressions echoes the sadist's solipsistic state of mind, called "a delusion of reason" by Deleuze: "the reasoning does not have to be shared by the person to whom it is addressed" as long as it is logical to "the solitary and omnipotent sadist" himself or herself (18-9). Perhaps this echo is only natural, given that Deleuze acknowledges in the principles of sadism a revolutionary force that can destroy the entirety of the existing system. I contend that Kono shares this position with Deleuze. Deleuze begins the discussion of sadism by signalling the ultimately political goal that might have been envisioned by Sade: "When Sade writes he refuses to cheat, but he attributes his own attitude to people who in real life could only have been silent and uses them to make self-contradictory statements to other people" (17). Deleuze continues that the final purpose of Sadian philosophy is not to invert the structure of power (the mere reversal of controller and controlled), but to completely dismantle  71  the existing moral  structure as well as its image, which has been so profoundly internalized that the self feels it as something primordial. As will be demonstrated later, Kono takes full advantage of this revolutionary force in Sadian philosophy. The sadistic aspects in Kono's works are not readily visible. On the one hand, she effectively utilizes the superficial structure of masochism. On the other, she taps into the very vulnerability of that structure. The structure is always already fragile due to the paradox embedded in it, that is, the combination of the two incompatible concepts of "trust" and "contract." Deleuze reasons that, in order to establish trust between partners, [t]hey must be regulated by contracts and formalize and verbalize the behaviour of the partners. Everything must be stated, promised, announced and carefully described before being accomplished.  (18)  The very emphasis on the precision and rigid formality of the contract points,  - 134 -  ironically, to the instability of such an agreement. Kono explores the tentativeness and unreliability of the contract itself, for the purpose of revealing the coercion and brainwashing behind the facade of contract and persuasion. Kono's heroines, who already suffer from urami induced by Japan's oppressive patriarchal society, are forced into aestheticized masochist relationships either as masochists themselves in the Freudian definition of the term, or as partners in masochism in the Deleuzean sense. Whichever role she plays, the heroine is bound to be placed under the cruel and absolute control of her male partner. Seen in this light, it is not difficult to imagine why Kono's Akiko in "Toddler-Hunting" (1962), Ukiko in "Voice," and Hinako in Mummy-Hunter become awakened to their sadistic desire while struggling to gain control over their lives.  Transcendence Through Negation According to Deleuze, "negation" is the founding principle of Sadism. It comes in two varieties: "negation (or the negative)" as a "partial process," and "pure negation" as a "totalizing Idea." These two levels correspond to two "natures," "secondary" and "primary." "Secondary nature" makes up "the world of experience," while "primary nature" is only "the object of an Idea" and as such cannot be experienced (Deleuze 27): Secondary nature is bound by its own rules and its own laws; it is pervaded by the negative, but not everything in it is negation. Destruction is merely the reverse of creation and change, disorder is another form of order, and the decomposition of death is equally the composition of life. The negative is all-pervasive, but the process of death and destruction that it represents is only a partial process. Hence the disappointment of the sadistic hero, faced with a nature  -  135 -  which seems to prove to him that the perfect crime is impossible: "Yes, I abhor Nature." Even the thought that other people's pain gives him pleasure does not comfort him, for this ego-satisfaction merely means that the negative can be achieved only as the reverse of positivity.  Individuation, no less than the preservation of a reign  or a species are processes that testify to the narrow limits of secondary nature.  (Deleuze 27; emphasis added)  The "sadistic hero" wants to transcend the negative-versus-positive binary. Unlike partial negation that only perpetuates the binary, pure negation succeeds in transcending it: In opposition to this we find the notion of primary nature and pure negation that override all reigns and all laws, free even from the necessity to create, preserve or individuate. Pure negation needs no foundation and is beyond all foundations, a primary delirium, an original and timeless chaos solely composed of wild and lacerating molecules.... But in point of fact this original nature cannot be given ... is necessarily the object of an Idea, and pure negation is a delusion of reason itself. Rationalism is not grafted onto the work of Sade. (Deleuze 27; emphasis added) Deleuze contends that reaching the anarchical, cold realm of the Idea through "a delusion of reason" is the way to completely dissolve the binary structure or to transcend it. "A delusion of reason" will be explained in detail with a concrete example in "Voice." Deleuze goes on to explain "the pleasure of demonstrative reason," the core concept of Sadism. The idea of "the No" or of negation (pure negation) cannot be experienced; it must thus necessarily be demonstrated, "in the sense that a mathematical truth holds good even when we are asleep and even if it does not exist in nature" (28). Pure negation and the omnipotence of its reasoning could be demonstrated through two methods: acceleration and condensation. Acceleration is achieved by "multiplying the number of victims  - 136 -  and their suffering" (29). Condensation means that "violence must not be dissipated under the sway of inspiration or impulse" — it must be carried out in the absence of passion or enthusiasm, that is, in apathy and self-control, in "the coldness of demonstrative reason" (29): This apathy does produce intense pleasure ... but not the same  type of  pleasure of an ego participating in secondary nature (even of a criminal ego participating in a criminal nature), but on the contrary the pleasure of negating nature within the ego and outside the ego, and negating the ego itself.  (29; emphasis added)  One can deduce from this paragraph that the coldness has nothing to do with the pleasure of perpetrating crimes or taking revenge on the oppressive system outside. Rather, the apathy is a necessary condition in which one negates the external system and that external system internalized in oneself. Furthermore, true pleasure is gained only when the ego (the moral judgement that is at once implicated in and sustaining the system) itself is negated, in other words, when the binary hierarchy of morality (right or wrong, truth and false, etc.) that is often based on the equation between the powerful and the rightful/truthful is transcended altogether.  "An Unexpected Voice" "An Unexpected Voice" is about a woman in her early thirties named Ukiko who suffers in an abusive marriage. Her husband not only beats her, but he also repeatedly orders her to leave him and the house in which they have been living together. In the midst of her suffering, she sees her dead father appear before her. Even before her marriage, while still on his deathbed, he appeared to Ukiko, smiling and nodding approvingly to her, saying, "I see. You'll come to see me, won't you?" (* i ^  - 137 -  5f$T < ti&<?)fr, 23)  72  Sometimes, she  consciously calls him forth, but on other occasions, he visits her unexpectedly. Each time, she feels comforted by his reassuring smile, kind words, and approving nods. All the same, Ukiko finds her father radically changed from the days before his death. Ukiko and her father had "an ordinary relationship." He never beat or scolded her, but was so reticent that he seldom spoke a word to her even when they had meals at the same table. As a child, she feared him while observing his patriarchal control over her older brother and mother. The reader is not told what the attitude of an ordinary girl towards her father is, but can imagine from the context that Ukiko was an obedient daughter. As she grew older, Ukiko's childhood fear of her father gradually disappeared. However, her attitude towards her mother was different. Ukiko as a child loved her mother. However, as she grew older, she began to fear her mother. She feels that her mother will always find something wrong with her, no matter how much she tries to please her. She thinks that if she becomes a mother herself, she will get along just fine with her mother; but she cannot have a baby due to a past illness. Her fear, she feels, will stop only when her mother dies. After Ukiko's marriage, her second (we are not told exactly what happened to her first, but it is implied that her first husband was also abusive and irresponsible), she and her husband look for a house to rent. One day, when they are looking around a rental house, her dead father appears and nods approvingly about the choice. While living in the house, her husband mistreats Ukiko and sometimes does not even give her money to buy food for them. Yet he complains about her inability to manage money. Ukiko's husband's abuse increases, but the reader is not told exactly how he comes to hate her so much. He never mentions her infertility. His unnatural silence about the subject gives the reader the impression that infertility may be the reason, or at  -  1 3 8  -  least a large part of it. The day that Ukiko is finally driven out of her house and has her key taken away by her husband, her father advises her to kill up to three people. This advice is not explicitly conveyed to her; instead, he holds up three fingers and asks her to "try to do it to three persons" ( ^ o 7v3t^fe*£  HA^tli  h A^v-.,,  , 81). First, she misunderstands, thinking that he is  asking her to go find another man, the third man in her life. But, Ukiko finally understands her father's message. This is a new development, as her dead father used to advise her to endure the abuse, calming her urge to explode in rebellion against her husband. She is now convinced that her father thinks murder is the only option left open to her. She obediently acts on his message. First, Ukiko kills her mother, since she wants to spare her from having to suffer the "surprise, sadness, and despair" of hearing that her daughter has committed murder. So, it is out of her filial love that Ukiko "lets her go" (ft/^-£-2>),  and she emphasizes this point to her unsuspecting mother before  suffocating her. Next, Ukiko kidnaps a little boy, son of her ex-partner and his wife, on his way back home from kindergarten and strangles him. Before killing him, Ukiko keeps saying to herself that he has to go, although he is adorable and dear to her. Finally, she stabs a man, a stranger of her husband's age, in the bathroom of her husband's house and puts his body in the refrigerator to be disposed of later. The reader is not told how the man and Ukiko have managed to get into the house without a key. While murdering the man, Ukiko remembers how her own blood was shed in the brutal abuse she received from her husband. She also remembers that as a young girl, she was injured by a piece of broken glass in the chest. She stabs the man in the same spot. Later, Ukiko notices how gentle her victim's profile looks in death. Ukiko then leaves the house for some unknown reason and soon realizes that she has locked herself out. The keys, both her husband's and  -  139 -  hers, are inside the house. She tries to get in through the windows and the balcony to no avail. She solicits a policeman's help, but he too fails. The policeman suggests she break one of the windows, but she decides to wait for her husband to come back home. The policeman agrees with her: "No matter how drunk he is, he'll do something [to get in] ( 4 {v!tfrLX<  tiii~£,  < t i o t ^ f c o t  "iA<  180). While waiting outside the house, Ukiko suddenly  remembers the sense of guilt that she suffered over the past few days for killing such a meek-looking man. Soon, her dead father appears again and asks her: "Well, how are you? Feeling better? Sleep well tonight" 4-£l±  < OftilfiH^,  180).  $zlz  She gives him a firm nod, "feeling  her impression of the past many nights, days, and mornings had completely lost its vividness"  (&&\,*& S>S: S'$I<7)WML&1' J  J  o  •) m^ir  3 £ 4 o X I £ o fc co £  £Dfc3il, 181). The final scene where the vividness of Ukiko's violence fades out alerts the reader that the murders may have taken place in Ukiko's imagination. Even before the final scene, the reader can find a clue to the possibly fantastic nature of Ukiko's horrific violence. Each of the first two murders is followed by exactly the same short fragment of text that describes Ukiko waiting for her husband outside the front door and following him inside when he arrives. As if he had never driven her out, he lets her in but treats her in the same abusive manner as always; the text fragment ends with him screaming at her when she tries to help him spread the bedding: "Stay put! What's the matter? You look as pale as a ghost" ( b o t L T g ^  0  fpjfcf,  d ' - x U t i ' i  I t ' I U ,  129; 163). There is no explanation provided either before or after this piece of text that may connect it to the rest of the story.  -  140 -  Borrowing the Father's Body In a postscript "From the Writer to the Reader" at the end of the novel, Kono emphasizes the paradox in the work: To the heroine in this novel, the world of fantasy is not at all different from but as vivid and real as everyday life. Her true reality consists of both worlds. Therefore, to her, both worlds are of the same nature and quality. However, because of their same nature and quality, the farther I let the heroine pursue the truths of her own reality, the more confused the reader becomes.  S o t , i»feo<7)ifr^-co U T  i-tiist&fct\ wzmhfaMtfrn-r.  >) f  (182-3; my translation)  i\m%<7) i) WTlcif  tiiftc  ( 1 8 2 - 3 )  Kono remarks that she tried to find a way to alleviate the reader's confusion, but ended up letting the heroine live in her reality to the fullest extent possible. Once a work is completed, Kono argues, it takes on a life of its own, resisting the writer's control (183). A s Kono's concern with the reader's confusion warns us, illogic and contradiction abound in this work. For example, there are the enigmatic reasons for the murders that the heroine provides and the discrepancy between her self-awareness at the beginning and her absolute obedience to her dead father's immoral suggestions later. Before discussing in detail the implied contradiction and illogic, we must examine how Ukiko achieves  self-awareness  in the first place. There are two clear turning points in the formation of Ukiko's world view before her father's death. The first came during the war when, like Kono herself, she worked as a student labourer in a military supply factory:  -  141 -  Every time the siren warning of an enemy air attack went off, she thought that it could be her factory that was bombed this time. In her fear, for the first time, she realized how she had been protected by and relied on her parents. Now, she found herself completely outside her parents' capacity to protect her. She felt that even her parents could not rescue her from there. Perhaps, they had never been reliable, she thought. (10)  -Cn£g#£j|fc. SftZMn^ttit^ tit. I f c * , ? i H l * i n w t * 4 . a^otSfgOtirfeiv^ff, i t i B g o f c . ( 1 0 ) The second time is when Ukiko took care of her father on his deathbed seven years earlier, about the same time she began her relationship with her present husband, Ki'ichi. Ukiko saw that her father's penis had shrunk to the size of an umeboshi (pickled plum): While watching his penis shrink, she did not feel that she was looking at her father's body. It was not the manifestation of his diminishing energy, but an indication of his soul leaving his body .... A s I watched his face at eye level ... I wondered what he was thinking. At that time, I felt I was being led to a revelatory determination, accompanied by feelings of warmth, plenitude, and openness. (38)  zh&mm<7>mzmt/\L-?fztzif,  < %^x«s><  «t - ? m i z i z & h t i  It. . . . X.<r>m&fc ££lfotb%Wh* ItLtgJSo-Cv>S; tXhhi £. fX^frtift^Z^i^X^ Z.tifl?zi)<7)XJb&, (3 8) 2  t.  f  In this scene, as her father's soul leaves his body, we witness a sense of liberation and self-assurance in Ukiko. The process of Ukiko's individuation and growing self-confidence is vividly depicted on these two occasions. Nonetheless, as evinced in Ukiko's cry  - 142 -  just before she murders the child, she seems to have completely forgotten about this process while obeying her dead father's order to murder: This child is the first one to make me conjure up the image of the child I might have had. Of all children in the world, this child is as close as I can get to one. But I will let him go [kill him]. I will make sure that I will. I cannot wait until I carry it out. Look at me, I am letting this child go — this child whom fate has brought so close to me, so cute and sweet. (147) btz infr  <£<, -et,  t  ltiic\,*?m<?)M&t:%)thXhti  hHlli&tr-*tit.  L<±,  i&-f£jl»*31\  L t f f i t f * t < tltz^-ttLX*  <  Xtzi  C^frCfrfc^fc Li^fc&iHir^-rtJ:.  o  UtA,.  htz  ( 1 4 7)  Ukiko's suspension of moral judgement and her complete obedience to her father's bidding seems absolute as if to a divine order. Thus, Ukiko leaves the reader wondering how her growing self-confidence has regressed into absolute obedience to her father. Judging from the fact that her dead father, by some unknown means, has now learned of her suffering in her marriage which she kept secret from her entire family, we may conjecture that Ukiko is projecting her soul and desires onto her father. On his deathbed, Ukiko saw her father's soul leave his body. While she experienced a "revelatory determination" accompanied by 73  feelings of "warmth, plenitude, and spaciousness," his body as the container of his soul was emptying so that Ukiko's soul and desires could enter and fill it. In this light, her seeming regression is in fact a rational decision to express her desires by deluding herself into seeing her dead father and blindly following his advice. Kono contrives the plot in such a way that Ukiko appears to be unconscious of her own rational decision to delude herself. This deliberate delusion corresponds to the sadist's "delusion of reason" as explicated by Deleuze. Furthermore, all the illogical reasons which Ukiko  - 143 -  provides for the murders she commits could also be interpreted as part of the "delusion of reason" necessary to transcend conventional moral assumptions. Based on Deleuze's theory of sadism, I will apply the two "demonstrative methods" of achieving "pure negation," that is, "acceleration" and "condensation," to Ukiko's violent behaviour. Since the method of acceleration entails repeated acts of violence, it is most readily demonstrated in Ukiko's repeated acts of murder. Therefore, I will focus on the method of "condensation" that is further divided into three negations: negating nature outside the ego, negating nature inside the ego, and negating the ego itself. I hypothesize that Ukiko's three murders correspond to the negation of nature inside the ego, and that her schema to destroy her husband's house, as a symbol of the structure of the patriarchal authority, corresponds to the negation of nature outside the ego. Finally, the delusion of reason, including illogical excuses for the murders, is in accordance with the "negation of the ego itself," the most essential requirement for the "sadistic solipsism" or "pure negation." Ukiko murders three people, her mother, a young son of a previous boyfriend, and a man, a complete stranger'to her, in that order. On the surface, or to the rational mind of the reader, there are no direct connections between Ukiko and her victims (other than her mother), nor are there any apparent reasons for the murders. For example, she has long forgotten about her previous boyfriend and only recently learned that his son goes to the kindergarten where her friend works as a teacher. Nonetheless, we notice that Ukiko deliberately tries to establish some sort of causal link with each one of her victims. Ironically, however, even while making these links explicit, she is confusing the reader by providing irrational motives for her choice of the three victims.  - 144 -  First, we learn that her mother has been a constant source of fear in Ukiko's heart. She feels that her mother's judgement will end when her mother dies. Her mother never makes a directly judgemental remark to Ukiko, but her disapproval of Ukiko is obvious in her "motherly" advice on Ukiko's married life and her insinuating remarks about Ukiko's infertility. When Ukiko complains about her husband's violence, her mother advises her to put up with the beatings because "[H]e is after all a man. Facing unpleasant things outside, he feels irritated every now and then" (^<r>K<nz. tti £>«D,  ATm& <  t &Jb-?X. &r)fgBr<r>b&\,>mb hhTl  i i I, 105). Moreover,  by comparing Ukiko to her sister who has two children, and praising the intimate relationship she has with this other daughter, she shows no regard for Ukiko's feelings. In short, her mother upholds patriarchal ideology, including the glorification of motherhood and woman's absolute sacrifice to the welfare of her husband and family. Ukiko's urami against her mother notwithstanding, Ukiko's apparent motive for matricide is ironically in line with her filial love for her mother: she wants to spare her mother from the disappointment of hearing about her daughter's murder spree. The correlations between her filial love, her fear of her mother's judgement of and disappointment in her, and her urami against her mother's insensitive attitude form complicated layers of emotions, all tinged with Ukiko's sympathy for her mother. Her mother is, after all, a woman herself who has silently endured the hardships of her life. These layers are entangled with one another; it is difficult to tease out any one strand of emotion. This complexity may be the reason for Ukiko's effort to distinguish the part of herself that needs to share her mother's death throes, from the part that absolutely refuses to share, all the while planning to kill her mother: She didn't want her mother to see her own blood. Yet, although not  -  145 -  entirely false, her previous thought that she didn't want to share the sensation [of dying] directly with her mother didn't seem genuine, now. Certainly, she didn't want to share it. But, it seemed that she Just hated the idea of sharing it with her entirely. As a matter of fact, she began to feel that she wanted to share at least some part of it.  (108)  %%ii<L\t tubX^tz. ( 1 0 8) Later, she feels (even shares) the sensation of her mother's jerking body while sitting on top of her and suffocating her with a piece of vinyl held over the face. That Ukiko's method of killing her mother is much more elaborate than the other two murders also proves her difficulty with her own entangled emotion's. She refuses to allow her mother to see her or to utter any sound or make any remarks to her. She first stuffs a towel into her mother's mouth, because she dreads to hear what her mother may say, and then covers her face with the rest of the towel. The specular and oral aspects that are being murdered in the mother are the parts that also exist within Ukiko herself and that she wants to let go. These are the voyeuristic surveillance and coercive speech of patriarchy that have been internalized by women, including Ukiko herself. Whether her mother's last reaction in her eyes or speech to Ukiko's act is surprise, a plea, or an accusation, Ukiko refuses to see or hear it. Her mother's reaction would only dissuade her from her deliberate delusion and her determination to kill. Ukiko wants to feel that internalized patriarchal ideologies are being purged from her mother and thus indirectly from herself. The process of "letting go" of the patriarchal imprint left within Ukiko continues through the murders of the boy and the man.  -  146 -  74  While asserting a  hypothetical blood connection between herself and the boy, using her past relationship with the boy's father and the possibility of her becoming a mother before her illness, Ukiko details the children's behaviour in class and in the playground at the kindergarten. A little girl who seems precocious and confident (unlike the self-imprisoned girls whom the heroine in "Toddler-Hunting" detests), comes to the front of the class and plays a musical instrument very well. Belittling her confidence, a boy makes a comment: "Today must be Women's Day!" ( * f t t ^ o ^ *»*-C ^ m i £ < 7 ) B j , 140). Ukiko r  immediately senses from the short remark that the little boy is already entrenched in male privilege: "She feels in the remark the old dansonjohi (respect for men, contempt for women) slur being nonchalantly spat out" ( H # * ^ 1 U S 6 5 J C S V ^ - C S , 140).  Moreover, these children are being educated into conformism even through their kindergarten songs and games. One song goes: Someone was scolded, everyone is sorry. Someone was hurt, everyone is sad. Someone was praised, everyone is happy. (130) fitifrtfLfrhtitz tzfLfrfrlifri:  L tz  A- Ltz-h^Z fr\^Tz tiiXfr-hmtbtitltz  HL*£b<±hZ.A,ii.  ( 1 3 0)  The song that seems to encourage empathy and harmony among the classmates can very well be a lesson to discourage individuality. In contrast to Ukiko's wish to individuate herself and shake free from the grip of internalized patriarchal social demands, this song teaches that society is a whole and individuals do not or should not exist. The male chauvinism and misogyny that have been internalized by the boy and herself must go.  - 147 -  Last, Ukiko makes a connection with the man by planning to plunge a knife into the left side of his chest in the bathroom while bathing him, the traditional duty of a wife for her husband. She remembers the blood shed when her husband brutally beat her in the same bathroom. She also remembers that, as a young girl, she suffered an injury on the same spot on her chest from a piece of broken glass. Perhaps, the memory of her injury refers to the emotional and physical injury to the heart — an injury that she has suffered from living under male oppression. By killing the man, Ukiko severs the husband-wife connection she has just established with him and with what he represents, the brutal abuse of women and the expectation of women's silent acceptance of it. Ukiko's accumulated urami finds an outlet as she watches the man's blood pour out from his heart. It seems strange that a stranger has to die in place of Ukiko's husband; perhaps the stranger represents all men abusive towards women including Ukiko's first and second husband. In my opinion, however, there is one more reason for Kono's decision to kill the stranger and keep the husband alive in her story. We will discuss this reason in the section that analyzes the final scene. Thus, the process of eliminating the imprint of patriarchal ideologies from within herself, that is, the "negation of nature inside the ego," has been completed. This negation, however, satisfies only one of the three negations of "condensation." Now, we turn to the "negation of nature outside of the ego." This nature refers to the secondary nature (the world of experience), where negating would amount to the destruction of the established moral institution, that is, the Japanese patriarchal moral system in "Voice." The story approaches its conclusion with a description of what takes place outside the house right after the last murder on a rainy night. After killing the man, Ukiko leaves the house, but soon realizes she has left the key  - 148 -  inside. Since the door locks automatically, there is no way to get back in. She waits for her husband to come back, but it starts to rain hard and Ukiko becomes wet and cold. She tries all the windows and doors around the house, but knows she made sure, before she left, that the house was completely secured. Ukiko decides to go to the police booth on the main road. She persuades a policeman to come with her and help her find a way to get in. The policeman examines the house meticulously with his flashlight, but to no avail. He even tries to take down a glass door, but it is impossible. Finally, he suggests that she wait until her husband returns. Ukiko tells him that she saw both of their keys inside and, even if her husband comes back, he will not have the key. The policeman asks if it is all right to break one of the windows, and she thinks that the policeman speaks like a burglar (179). She hesitates. She was aware from the beginning of the possibility of breaking the window to get in. Yet, she has never thought about actually doing it. Ironically, after all the merciless murders she has committed, Ukiko does not want to hear the sound of glass breaking or see the scattered pieces, especially their sharp and pointed edges. The policeman interprets her silence as a negative answer and, leaving her, says that her husband, once back, "will do something about the situation" (180). We now know that the house will soon be broken or broken into by none other than Ukiko's husband himself. There will be a breach in the structure which has denied Ukiko access, made by the man who has driven her out. She has accomplished a perfect crime. Her husband will have to break the window to get in. A s a result, Ukiko will be blamed neither by the law nor by her husband for the break-in or the murder. Her husband knows that he has taken her key away from her when he forced her out of the house; and the  - 149 -  law (the policeman) becomes witness to the fact that she had been kept out. If the husband gets in later and finds a body in the refrigerator, he will be the primary suspect. By succeeding in breaking the house, the symbol of patriarchal structure, Kono goes beyond the level of negating "nature inside the ego," and accomplishes the "negation of nature outside the ego." Now, one more step, "the negation of the ego itself," is required to bring the method of "condensation" to its completion. In our discussion of the negations of nature inside and outside the ego, the negation of the ego itself has become self-evident. A s Deleuze argues, "condensation" means an absolute "apathy" and "coldness" with respect to the sadistic act. Not even the criminal's satisfaction in his criminal behaviour is allowed. Ukiko should feel neither guilt nor satisfaction from her act of revenge. Indeed, she successfully executes the negation of the ego - - the ego as the moral police in her consciousness — through her illogical and delusional thoughts and behaviour throughout her murder spree. Illogic and delusion help suspend her faculty of reason and her capacity to feel satisfaction or compunction. However, the successful negation of her ego is reversed in the ending of the story.  Waking up from the Sadistic Fantasy Although Ukiko succeeds in arriving at the state of sadistic solipsism, she does not stay that way for long. Her guilt in the final scene makes it clear that her normal faculty of reason has returned after the final murder. Soon after the policeman leaves, her father appears again, asks her if she feels better now, and tells her to have a good night's sleep. The story ends with  -  150 -  Ukiko's thoughts: So many nights, days, mornings, Ukiko spent watching the profile of the man with his eyes closed grimly under the pale light inside the refrigerator. Telling herself: "Such a gentle person with such a meek face ... Why did I have to let him go?" She couldn't help finding comfort in the miserable state of her mind, driven by regrets and longing. Realizing that the vividness of all her impressions of those many nights, days, and mornings was no more, Ukiko gave her dead father a firm nod.  A OA  (180-1)  r  .LA.&lc£;t £L^A&<7)(-.  i ' U t a K t U o t c o f ^ i  Sr^Dfe^ii, D T # ^ l ± £ # K L o * » O M ^ T * - € f c „  (18  z.A%iz  0-1)  I interpret Ukiko's "regrets and longing" as her sense of guilt over the murders. She even finds comfort in the fact that she still has the capacity to feel guilt. Having had a chance to release her urami through her violent murders, she is now suffering from guilt. This breach of Sadian principles is limited not only to the heroine, Kono's way of ending the story is also problematic as far as the Deleuzean theory of sadism is concerned. When "the vividness" of her violence "during those days and nights" completely fades out, Ukiko realizes that all has taken place in her fantasy, not in reality. This revelation causes her moral anguish to disappear, as evinced in Ukiko's affirmative nod in response to her father's suggestion for peaceful sleep that night. Such moral redemption cannot be part of sadism. Ukiko's rational judgement in the end amounts to her failure to negate the ego itself. In hindsight, the perfect crime that Ukiko has committed is also problematic. According to Deleuze, a sadist never cheats or tricks his/her  - 151 -  victim as Ukiko tricks her husband into bearing responsibility for the crime that she has committed. If she is a true sadist, why would she concern herself with legal culpability? The ultimate goal of sadism is to transcend morality and legality. A sadist in his/her own solipsistic world takes pains neither to provide a logical explanation for his/her behaviour nor to perpetrate a perfect crime in the eye of the law. Moreover, Ukiko manipulates her husband into breaking the patriarchal structure for her, refusing to do the breaking herself. This timidity and indirectness point to the fact that Ukiko's sadistic attempt to transcend the world of experience and enter the realm of solipsism has not been as successful as the reader has been led to believe. What then did Kono try to accomplish in this failed attempt at sadistic revolution in "Voice"?  75  Is Ukiko's  violent fantasy only an imaginary and temporary purgation of urami, and as such, not able to bring about any real change in her life? Here, we need to think about the difference between Sadian transcendence into the realm of the Idea and what Kono tried to achieve through "Voice." As paradoxical as it may sound, the Sadian Idea as understood by Deleuze resembles the Platonic Idea (the Truth that inspires all imitations of it in the world of experience) in that the Idea may be the source of inspiration, but is never to be realized or experienced in our human reality. In contrast, Kono's intention is not to go beyond reality but to realize an actual reform in the patriarchal establishment of Japan. In order to do so, one must take into consideration not only legal culpability but also moral and ethical issues, essential foundations of any human community. In this light, the sadistic violence in the story may not aim to promote the realm of the Idea, but could instead be read as a serious warning against the patriarchal oppression of women, because, as the author insists in the afterword to the story, Ukiko's urami and her violent desire to release it is no  -  152 -  less than her inner reality, a corollary of her outer reality. The author does not attempt to wage total war on the existing moral system, but rather to persuade the system to initiate the necessary reforms to realize gender equality. For Kono and Ukiko, that the recognition of the need and the motivation to change comes from within the mainstream of the patriarchal system is as essential as the expression of Ukiko's felt need to change the oppressive system. It is in this sense that Ukiko's design to have the house broken into by her husband, and not by herself, should be understood. Kono seems to have used the cruel and violent Sadian methods of demonstration (acceleration and condensation) to demonstrate the horrific consequences of women's oppression and the accumulation of urami.  This is  Kono's way of awakening the reader to the reality of urami. A s quoted earlier, Deleuze states: "the idea of the evil ... the