into abject submission, reducing them to cringing, fawning pawns. He beats them, takes their money, uses them to cheat on exams, collects ‘dues’, sells preferment and in general insists on being treated as a king. The story is told from the point of view of a transfer student from Seoul who challenges Sŏkdae’s dictatorship. A long, lonely struggle ensues, which ends in the capitulation of the Seoul boy. However, in capitulation, the Seoul boy discovers a new side to Sŏkdae’s corrupt regime: he begins to taste the sweets of special favour and power. The Seoul boy becomes Sŏkdae’s reluctant lieutenant.
A new teacher takes over the class and is suspicious of Sŏkdae. An investigation reveals that Sŏkdae has been cheating on his exams. The teacher gives him a severe beating, humiliating him in front of the class. The boys who had supported Sŏkdae so loyally now turn on him like snakes. The Seoul boy is the only exception.
After Sŏkdae’s departure, the long process of restoring democratic procedures in the class begins. Boys are elected to positions of responsibility and just as quickly deposed; some groups act recklessly, some groups do not act at all. In the end, after much pain and soul searching dignity is restored to all.
Our Twisted Hero shows the boys under extreme pressure: how they react to power and against power, and how their parents and teachers react. Everything here is grist to the mill. The story is extremely well constructed, expertly told, and the characterization is excellent. The only weakness in the story is a rather debatable ending, which sees the hero carted off in handcuffs many years after the main action has concluded. The truth is that in Korea Sŏkdae types succeed. The end was probably dictated by concern over critical reaction to the moral implications of the theme. Despite this flaw, Our Twisted Hero is a considerable achievement. Published first by Mineumsa in Seoul in 1988 just before the Olympics, subsequently Hyperion brought it out in New York in 2001. You will read it in a couple of hours and be rewarded by an enhanced understanding of the power systems that operate in government, business, schools, hospitals, church and elsewhere.
And read Richard Rutt’s Virtuous Women. It’s a rotten title but a great book. Virtuous Women will introduce you not only to the delights of classical Korean literature but also to the intricacies of the search for inner illumination, which in Korea is the distinguishing mark of the cultivated man. The heart of the book is Rutt’s reworking of Gale’s translation of The Nine Cloud Dream, the only great novel in Korean classical literature. A symbolic narrative, it gives you an early entry into the world of personal cultivation and Korean Zen, two ideas that are sides of a coin. I use the term Zen here in the broad sense of inner illumination and insight, what the Koreans call yoyu or largess of spirit. Without yoyu and insight you won’t understand much of what happens to you in Korea. As a bonus, the volume carries a lyrical translation of a p’ansori (folk opera) version of Chosŏn’s great love story Ch’unhyang ka (Song of Ch’unhyang), guaranteed to change your feelings about the stolidness of Confucian culture.
Hŏsaeng’s Tale by Pak Chiwŏn (1737–1805), a noted Shirhak (Practical Learning) scholar and the finest prose stylist of his age, is another must read, especially if you belong to the business world. Hŏsaeng’s Tale maps out the basic strategies for making money in Korea. Copyright considerations prevent me from giving you the texts of Our Twisted Hero and The Nine Cloud Dream, but Hŏsaeng’s Tale is not burdened by such restrictions. Saengwŏn was the Mr title given to someone who passed the minor civil service examination. Mr Hŏ sounded unbelievably stuffy and Hŏ Saengwŏn unbelievably awkward. I avoided the problem by calling the hero Hŏsaeng.
HŎSAENG’S TALE
Hŏsaeng lived in Mukchok Village. The village well was at the top of Namsan valley where an ancient ginko pointed at the sky; the wicker gate of Hŏsaeng’s house, invariably open, faced the gingko. The house was more hut than anything else, a two-room straw affair that had virtually been blown away by wind and rain. Hŏsaeng blithely ignored the ravishes of wind and rain; all he ever wanted was to recite the classics. Meanwhile, his wife, courtesy of her needlework, managed – with great difficulty – to keep food in their mouths. Today she was very hungry.
‘What use is all your reading?’ she cried tearfully. ‘You’re never going to take the state examination.’
‘I haven’t completed my studies yet,’ Hŏsaeng said with a laugh.
‘Can’t you work at a trade?’ she asked.
‘How can I?’ he replied. ‘I never learned a trade.’
‘Can’t you start a business?’
‘How can I?’ he said. ‘I don’t have the capital to start a business.’
She was really angry now. ‘How can I, how can I? Is that it? Words, words! Is that all you have from all your reading?’ she shouted. ‘How can I work at a trade? How can I start a business? Maybe my honourable husband could be a thief?’
Hŏsaeng closed his book and got abruptly to his feet. ‘Such a pity,’ he said. ‘I gave myself ten years to complete my reading; I’ve only had seven….’
Hŏsaeng disappeared out the door. He knew no one in the town, so he paraded up and down Chongno and eventually buttonholed a passerby.
‘Who’s the richest man in Hanyang?’ he asked. Hanyang was an old name for Seoul.
‘Mr Pyŏn!’ the passerby said.
Hŏsaeng quickly searched out Pyŏn’s house.
‘I’m a poor man,’ Hŏsaeng said, bowing politely to Pyŏn. ‘I have no money,’ he continued, getting straight to the point, ‘but I have an idea worth trying out. Will you lend me 10,000 nyang?’
‘Certainly,’ Pyŏn said, and he handed over the money on the spot.
Hŏsaeng left without even saying thanks. Tattered belt, missing tassel, crooked heels, shabby coat, battered hat, runny nose – to the eyes of Pyŏn’s sons and the hangers-on that filled the house the stranger looked like a beggar. They couldn’t make sense of what had happened.
‘Do you know that man?’ they asked when Hŏsaeng left the room.
‘No, not at all,’ Pyŏn said.
‘You throw 10,000 nyang to someone you’ve never seen in your life. You don’t even ask his name. What’s going on?’
‘You wouldn’t understand. A man coming to borrow usually wears his heart on his sleeve. He protests his reliability but has servility written across his face. And he keeps repeating himself. This man’s appearance was shabby, but he spoke simply. He had pride in his eyes, no trace of shame in his face; he was obviously a man who would be content without material possessions. A man like that who says he has a plan wouldn’t be contemplating something small. And anyway I wanted to test him. If I wasn’t going to give him the money, I might ask his name, but I didn’t see much point in asking when I’d already decided to give him the money.’
Hŏsaeng did not go home. Cash in hand he headed straight for Ansŏng. Ansŏng is the crossroads between Kyŏnggi and Ch’ungch’ŏng, the town where the three southern provinces come together. He got himself a place to stay and began buying all the fruit in the locality: dates, chestnuts, persimmons, pears, apricots, tangerines, citrons, everything. To those willing to sell he paid the going price; to those not so willing to sell he paid double the going price. And he stored all his produce. Soon he had all the fruit in the countryside and the gentry discovered they could not hold a feast or offer a ritual sacrifice. So the merchants came back to Hŏsaeng, and
