Breaking Boundaries in Literature : The Nobel Prize and Korea's Untold Stories E-Book

Yeong Hwan Choi

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 248

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

"Breaking Boundaries in Literature: The Nobel Prize and Korea's Untold Stories" is a journey that transcends the familiar boundaries of literary critique. In this bold narrative, I delve into the heart of a question that has long troubled me: why does a prestigious award like the Nobel Prize often recognize works that fail to capture the full spectrum of the human experience, let alone the complex cultural sentiments of nations like Korea? At first glance, it may seem as though this is a book about literary criticism—a questioning of how one-sided perspectives come to dominate global recognition. But at its core, this work is much more than a critique of literary bias. It is an exploration of the multiverse itself, a challenge to the idea that the Nobel Prize, or any human-made institution, can truly grasp the depth of experience that exists beyond anthropocentric narratives. In a world defined by quantum uncertainty and the principles of relativity, why do we still cling to the notion that a singular "truth" or "universal" story can represent all of us? I ask this as someone who has spent years observing the increasing polarization in literature—where binary thinking, political ideologies, and human-centered concerns dominate. But the natural world, the cosmos in which we exist, operates on principles far beyond our limited comprehension. Could it be that in seeking to capture a singular "universal human experience," we are ignoring the more profound and chaotic truths that surround us?

Leseprobe

Breaking Boundaries in Literature

[The Nobel Prize and Korea’s Untold Stories]

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

BREAKING BOUNDARIES IN LITERATURE : THE NOBEL PRIZE AND KOREA’S UNTOLD STORIES

First edition. October 21, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Yeong Hwan Choi.

Written by Yeong Hwan Choi.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Breaking Boundaries | in Literature

<Prologue: Not River, but Han>

Chapter 1. The Hidden Story: The Bias of the Nobel Prize in Literature

Chapter 1.1 Encountering the World | : The Allure of Literature

Chapter 1.2 The World Through the Lens of Parallel Universes

Chapter 2. Truth is an Illusion. | History is Only Open to Interpretation

Chapter 2.1 History and Literature from Nietzsche's Perspective

Chapter 2.2 The Clash of Ideology and Reality

Chapter 3. Overlapping Universes: One Event from Diverse Perspectives

Chapter 3.1 Overlapping Universes: One Event from Diverse Perspectives

Chapter 3.2 A Crossroad in History

Chapter 3.3 Interpretation Through | Culture and Time

Chapter 4. The Birth of a Global Government

Chapter 4.1 Human Nature

Chapter 4.2 The Dawn of Civil War

Chapter 5. The Duet of Creation and Destruction

Chapter 5.1 The Cold War Era

Chapter 5.2 Multiverse and Parallel Universes

<Epilogue: The Principle of Contradiction | and Duality in the World>

Author's Note

Breaking Boundaries

in Literature

The Nobel Prize and Korea’s Untold Stories

Yeong Hwan Choi

––––––––

<Prologue: Not River, but Han>

Autumn in Seoul, like always, quietly wrapped up the day. Beyond the apartment windows, the streets of Gangbuk shimmered under the falling crimson leaves, as the darkness slowly crept in. In my small eighth-floor apartment, I had been holding a cup of coffee for what felt like hours, though I had no intention of drinking it. My hands trembled as I stared at the newspaper spread out on the table.

"Korean Writer Wins Nobel Prize for Literature."

The headline blared in bold print, accompanied by a black-and-white photograph on the front page. Beneath it, praises for the writer and their work stretched across the page. The article hailed this as "a historic moment for Korean literature." I slowly closed the paper and gazed out the window. Even as night settled in, Seoul glowed under a thousand city lights.

"Sure, the writer created something remarkable. As a fellow writer, I respect the voice she's given to the world. After all, this is a prize of global significance." But I couldn't shake the feeling that this award wasn't solely about literary merit. I wondered if there was something more behind it, something less visible. "What does literature mean, anyway?"

Moving closer to the window, I looked down at the quiet neighborhood below. In the distance, the faint glow of Namsan Tower punctuated the night.

Picking up the newspaper again, I skimmed through the analysis of the prize-winning work. Critics praised it as a "masterpiece that speaks to the universal human condition."

Standing there in the vastness of this enormous city, I felt utterly insignificant. "Why did a work so entrenched in one-sided ideology get this supposed 'greatest' literary award?"

"Universal...," I muttered, shaking my head. Could something truly universal be understood so easily? The country I grew up in, the Korea I call home, isn't a place you can boil down to a single sentiment. A land, already small, divided in two—north and south—where political and social conflicts endlessly stir. Could that writer, or anyone really, understand such a place and dare call their narrative universal?

The wind howled fiercely against the window. I returned to my chair and leaned back. I didn't blame the writer. People are different, and their convictions are their strength. It's vital for everyone to have a voice. But the problem lay in how that voice was now being packaged as "the truth" under the banner of the Nobel Prize. A narrow perspective was being hailed as the representation of Korea—worse, as if it spoke for all of humanity. And that, I found unsettling.

"What exactly is the Nobel Prize?" I wondered. And did those Swedish judges really understand the layered complexity of Korea's emotions?

It felt like trusting a few lines typed into ChatGPT and believing the AI had understood everything. That's probably how the Nobel committee approached Korean literature, I thought.

Once again, I glanced outside. Seoul still gleamed bright. Is this how the world will continue to see Korean literature—through these distorted lenses? Where, in all this, was Korea's genuine voice?

I didn't know. All I hoped was that this story I'm writing would, at the very least, resonate with someone.

Note:

Gangbuk: In the original text, "Gangbuk" refers to the northern part of Seoul. Since Western readers might be less familiar with Seoul's geography, I kept the reference to "Gangbuk" but highlighted it as part of the overall city of Seoul to make it more accessible. Refers to the northern part of Seoul, historically more residential and traditional. It contrasts sharply with Gangnam, the affluent southern district famously highlighted in PSY's global hit Gangnam Style. Gangnam is known for its wealth, luxury high-rises, and association with Seoul's upper class and commercial life. In contrast, Gangbuk has a more subdued and historical atmosphere, characterized by older neighborhoods and a closer connection to traditional Korean culture.

Namsan Tower: This is an iconic landmark in Seoul. I left it unchanged, as many international readers are likely to be familiar with it or understand its symbolism in relation to the city.

The title "Not River, but Han" is a wordplay that may carry layered meanings for readers familiar with Korean culture. On the surface, it seems to reference the Han River—a major river running through Seoul, South Korea. However, the title goes deeper, connecting to two key aspects of Korean identity. Firstly, "Han" refers to the Han in the name of author Han Kang, a Nobel Prize-winning Korean writer in this story. More significantly, "Han" in Korean culture also embodies a complex emotional concept that reflects sorrow, unresolved pain, and a collective sense of historical suffering. This emotional nuance gives the title a dual meaning: it is not just about a river or a person's name, but also about a deeper Korean sentiment that resists easy translation, which is central to the themes of the novel.

Chapter 1. The Hidden Story: The Bias of the Nobel Prize in Literature

AS DARKNESS SLOWLY settled over the apartment complex, the old neighborhood of Gangbuk outside my window fell into a hushed stillness. I moved into the living room, sinking into the sofa, my eyes glued to the television screen. The news endlessly repeated the announcement of the Nobel Prize in Literature awarded to a Korean writer. This achievement was hailed as a national glory, creating a cacophony of excitement across various media outlets—our second such triumph, following the Nobel Peace Prize.

South Korea, often overshadowed by its more powerful Eastern neighbors, China and Japan, is not widely recognized on the global stage. Even though our nation ranks among the top ten in GDP, it doesn't share the same prominence as Japan, which once thrived in the 1980s amidst the bubble economy and vibrant coral reefs. While K-POP phenomena like BTS and BLACKPINK have sparked a global interest, South Korea remains a relatively obscure country.

In this context, the Nobel Prize felt like a momentous celebration. Yet, I was reluctant to accept this work as the embodiment of Korean literature. Our land is not only geographically divided but also socially fragmented. Although South Korea and North Korea maintain distinct political systems, the increasing socio-political divides within our own society were becoming hard to ignore. Under the guise of ideology—or perhaps more accurately, as a struggle for survival—conflicts persisted daily. “Can a skewed narrative truly be deemed representative of ‘universal human experience’ in such a nation?”

Gender conflicts, generational divides, and ideological clashes between the left and right had become pervasive. The struggle between men and women stemmed from traditional Confucian values, but it had morphed into an intense confrontation, fueled by Western feminist ideals. Feminism itself has been distorted, and online communities are rife with hostility that surpasses mere criticism.

In Europe, rankings hold little significance. However, in Eastern nations, there’s a keen interest in social hierarchies and status. People often focus on GDP rankings, happiness indices, class divisions, and educational backgrounds, taking comfort in understanding their position relative to others. This preoccupation with status is deeply ingrained in our culture.

Among these concerns, the rift between men and women in their 20s and 30s has emerged as one of the most significant conflicts. It’s worth noting that South Korea has a higher female population. While I can empathize with women raising their voices against the patriarchal norms of the past, I feel a sense of frustration whenever the term "Han-nam", a derogatory term for Korean men, is thrown around. Feminism began with the noble goal of advocating for women's rights, but over time, it has morphed into more extreme manifestations. For instance, online communities often use "Han-nam" to demean Korean men, even belittling their own fathers. Some take it further, mocking men’s bodies with gestures implying their inadequacy compared to Western men, leading to a barrage of sexual insults. This animosity has led men to label women as "Han-nyeo" and a growing number of men have started opting for international marriages.

This intensifying conflict is rooted in a complex web of social and political factors that extend beyond gender strife. Politically, these divisions are exploited for electoral gain, with women typically aligning with the left and men with the right. Politicians have secured their support by taking sides in this battle, and the resulting friction has contributed to the country’s declining birth rate. While similar conflicts are emerging in the West, the severity of the gender divide in Korea is alarming.

“How did it come to this?” I often wonder. Surely, this wasn’t the original intent of feminism.

The conflict between the youth and the older generations runs deep. Stuck in the values of Confucianism, the older generations find themselves at odds with a younger crowd that embodies an entirely different ethos.

The 2030 generation has endured a myriad of internal and external struggles, resulting in the rise of a new era that prioritizes individual rights and freedoms. This shift manifests itself even in material matters, such as pensions. The younger generation is expected to contribute more to the state, while it becomes increasingly apparent that they may never see a return on their investment. The older generations, unable to comprehend this reality, cling to their hierarchical views, rooted in Confucian values, seeing the youth’s dissent as mere rebellion.

Fueling this discord are the top elite, often termed "Gangnam leftists," who exploit the schism among the middle class to serve their own interests. The burden of high inheritance taxes does not affect them, as many have their children acquiring Canadian or American citizenship. This trend is escalating; even children with Korean nationality are increasingly seeking to leave for Canada.

In this environment, politics has devolved into a spectacle akin to Rome’s Colosseum, capturing the public’s attention while platforms like YouTube, Instagram, and Facebook overflow with hatred and ideology. In the midst of this chaos, one must wonder if Sweden has a true understanding of the intricate social emotions of Korea.

South Korea is a nation in a precarious truce, facing its stark ideological opposite, a communist state, across the 38th parallel. Recently, North Korea has engaged in bizarre antics, like launching waste balloons, yet the most pressing concern remains the asymmetric nuclear threat. Unlike the current era in France, Europeans are familiar with the discussions that took place during de Gaulle's time regarding nuclear capabilities with the United States.

[Within the Shackles of Cooperation and Independence]

After World War II, nuclear arms became a last resort, paradoxically playing a critical role in deterring human conflict. France’s de Gaulle never wavered in pursuing nuclear development despite severe economic sanctions from major powers.

De Gaulle: “Please tell me, at what point will the Soviets invade Europe, prompting the B-52s of the United States to share their nuclear arsenal?”

U.S.: “There is no precise plan.”

De Gaulle: “Our nation was the first to suffer invasion due to its geographic location in both world wars. We appreciate America’s assistance in reclaiming our territory. However, it took months for America to intervene, merely observing the state of war.”

U.S.: “We will station nuclear submarines in French waters to deter Soviet aggression.”

De Gaulle: “Merely sharing nuclear weapons cannot guarantee our nation’s defense. The costs of these submarines will ultimately be passed onto us. Should the Soviets launch nuclear strikes on Paris, it’s likely that by the time America retaliates against the Soviets, France will be irrevocably devastated. And if the Soviets threaten to unleash numerous nuclear weapons on American soil, can we truly expect the U.S. to retaliate in kind?”

The Russia-Ukraine conflict illustrates that the West and the U.S. have merely been spectators, providing weaponry as circumstances dictate. De Gaulle’s predictions resonate still.

Yet as the global trend shifts left, the voices of the left grow louder in Korea. Even if the U.S. refrains from imposing sanctions on Korea’s nuclear development, a significant portion of the populace would still oppose it.

I gazed at the face of the award-winning author reflected on the television screen, a bittersweet smile crossing my lips. This author, unwavering in their commitment, consistently projects their voice into the world. Even when their perspective diverges from the mainstream or is deemed controversial, they persist in sharing their truth, embodying an intrinsic duty to communicate with society. Within this intricate tapestry of human thought, a multitude of opinions and ideas coexist.

Yet, the situation shifts dramatically when this voice is transmitted through the prism of an award. Such accolades do not merely acknowledge individual achievement; they elevate the recipient to the status of a national representative.

Literature has long served as a crucial conduit for expressing societal and temporal realities. However, when Korean literary works are interpreted through a singular lens, this bias can become an insurmountable burden. As Korean literature takes its initial steps onto the global stage, one must question how well the world comprehends our emotions and how these sentiments are reflected in the criteria for such honors.

Is it akin to an AI sifting through data, reaching a conclusion with a mere, “Ah, so this society is like that”? Genuine emotion and sentiment elude such simplistic data analysis, for no matter how advanced artificial intelligence becomes, it cannot grasp the complexities of human creativity and feeling.

Might it not be a matter of indifference toward our nation? In truth, why should it matter to them how things unfold here? Even among compatriots, we often display a remarkable lack of interest in one another.

“People simply do not care about others,” I pondered. Instead, they relish the spectacle of issues, finding amusement in the drama rather than genuine engagement.

NOTE:

Han-nam and Han-nyeo: "한남" (Han-nam) is a derogatory term for Korean men, while "한녀" (Han-nyeo) refers to Korean women. These terms encapsulate the increasing hostility and polarization in gender relations in South Korea.

Confucian Values: Confucianism has profoundly influenced Korean culture, emphasizing hierarchy and familial loyalty. This background plays a significant role in understanding gender dynamics and social conflicts within contemporary Korean society.

Feminism in Korea: The rise of feminism in South Korea has been marked by complex interactions between traditional values and modern gender issues. The backlash against feminist movements online highlights the cultural tensions between progressive and conservative viewpoints.

Social Hierarchies: The obsession with social status in South Korea can be traced to Confucianism, which emphasizes hierarchy and respect for authority. This cultural framework heavily influences interpersonal relationships and societal dynamics.

Political Exploitation: The division between men and women is often politicized, with politicians appealing to gender-based grievances to garner support. This tactic can exacerbate societal tensions and divert attention from pressing issues like declining birth rates.

Gangnam Leftists: This term refers to a perceived elite class in the affluent Gangnam district of Seoul, who are accused of exploiting class divisions for personal gain while advocating leftist policies.

Asymmetric Nuclear Threat: This term describes the imbalance in military capabilities, particularly regarding nuclear arms, between North Korea and South Korea, highlighting the security concerns for the latter.

I found myself lost in thought, pondering why world literature is evaluated in such a manner. The emotions and experiences felt here in Seoul could scarcely reach the hallowed halls of the Swedish Academy. “The Swedes do not understand Korean sentiment,” I mused. They appraised literature through their own criteria, shaped by a European leftist tide. The unique emotional landscape of Koreans, intertwined with the peculiarities of our armistice, is anything but simple. Moreover, I found the Western perspective on the East’s past bewildering.

Conversely, I considered Sweden. Is it fair to judge that nation through a lens clouded by misconceptions, failing to grasp its historical context or the very concept of the Nobel Prize? “Sweden has never been under Soviet influence,” I reflected, relying on mere snippets of information gleaned from the internet. “Unlike the Baltic states or Eastern European countries that were subjected to Soviet control, Sweden maintained its neutrality after World War II and has cultivated democratic values.”

If I were to assess Sweden through such a simplistic viewpoint, wouldn’t they have every right to criticize my narrow-mindedness? What folly it is for me, as a Korean, to pass judgment on a culture I hardly comprehend.

This is literature that has received international acclaim...

The shadow of Bukhansan loomed over my apartment complex, mingling with my thoughts. Here, the divides of gender, left and right, Confucian authority, and the pursuit of freedom collide, overshadowed by the constant, looming threat of North Korea.

“First in suicide rates, first in low birth rates, and the least happy among OECD countries.”

Whose history is it anyway? “Facts do not exist. Only interpretations remain.” These were the words of the European master, Nietzsche. Regardless of the truth surrounding any historical event, we must keep open the door for interpretation, engaging in ongoing discourse that reflects the nuances of time and culture. Yet, in South Korea, the democratic movement has been relegated to a completed chapter, with no room for further discussion. The very act of distorting or defaming events like the Gwangju Uprising can lead to legal repercussions. Is this law merely a safeguard for past wounds, or does it serve to impose a particular ideology? Can such coercive measures truly be justified in a democratic society? Do Europeans grasp this sentiment? While the identities of those who fought for the cause remain undisclosed under the pretext of protecting their safety, the number of these heroes continues to rise, while the public’s right to know is increasingly curtailed. “We interpret it this way, so you must accept this narrative.”

Literature naturally intertwines with politics and ideology. Whether in novels, poetry, or plays, works inevitably reflect the spirit of their time. Yet, why must a Nobel Prize-winning work lean towards a singular perspective? Why must it depend on a simplistic binary thinking that overlooks the complexities of Korea's historical context? This is a source of my discontent. Were all those who fought in Gwangju inherently virtuous? Are all soldiers inherently evil?

In the years to come, our nation will see an intensifying struggle between the left and the right—a clash that mirrors the very image you envisioned. They will attack each other, sowing a myriad of social conflicts, fostering mutual hatred. Just because Europe leans left doesn’t mean we, in this armistice-bound country, must follow suit.

Yet, why does the call to overcome this binary thinking persist, echoing louder than ever? With every decision made, my trust and disappointment in global organizations only grow. Beyond the Nobel Prize for Literature and Peace, it seems these institutions have long been puppets dancing to the tune of great powers.

The UN has lost its original neutral role, morphing into a mouthpiece for the interests of the powerful. The IMF, during the 1997 financial crisis in Korea, forced us into restructuring while prioritizing its own economic gains. Similarly, the WTO, under the guise of trade liberalization, weakened the economic sovereignty of developing nations, reinforcing the dominion of wealthier states. Somewhere along the line, these global organizations strayed far from their original ideals and goals.

When did this transformation begin? What triggered it? The Nobel Prize, which once celebrated pure literary merit, has shifted towards emphasizing particular ideologies and political messages, marking a significant change in its purpose.

I struggled to comprehend the perspective of those who view the Korean War merely as a proxy conflict for the great powers. Even if the war was a complex web of international interests, it cannot overshadow the individual tragedies and sufferings endured.

The UN and the US military pointed their weapons on a land they neither heard nor saw. Beyond ideology, how can one fail to recognize the pain experienced by the soldiers who fought and their families? Shouldn’t we feel a sense of gratitude instead?

To view the war solely through the lens of proxy conflict is to grasp only a fragment of the truth. Ignoring the voices of every individual involved, allowing one belief to harden in isolation, is detrimental. The world comprises men and women, leftists and rightists. For concepts to exist, there must always be opposing ideas. Just as destruction intertwines with creation, conflict dances with peace.

Language and numbers are but abstract concepts, mere labels humans have crafted for communication. We must not forget that where there is opposition, there also lies the potential for coexistence. What defines good and evil is merely a human construct. This reminds me of the Goryeo Dynasty, where the practice of abandoning aging parents in the mountains was not uncommon. Did this make all Goryeo people inherently evil? The meanings of such actions can shift dramatically depending on the era and culture in which they occur. Therefore, we should never cease our endless discussions about specific events. The notion that one side is entirely evil while the other is wholly justified is not only simplistic but inherently flawed.

It matters not whether something is distorted; history is often written by the victors. As Nietzsche noted, the interpretation of events can vary widely. If this is true, shouldn’t we strive to understand one another, engage in dialogue, and seek paths to coexist? The recognition of each other’s existence is vital, just as harmony in this world requires awareness of both the masculine and the feminine.

This dichotomy parallels the divine creation of humanity as male and female; without this duality, life cannot persist. Conflict must exist for peace to have meaning, and destruction is a precursor to creation. Everything interacts, weaving the fabric of our world. If a literary work that only represents one side garners international acclaim, does it not suggest that the award itself is ideologically biased?

It is not jealousy I feel toward her; as an independent author, our paths are divergent. Jealousy requires a certain level of equivalence, which I do not possess regarding her stature. I bear no intent to criticize her or belittle her accomplishments. Yet, I cannot fathom why works imbued with specific political messages, rather than those embodying pure artistic merit, seem to claim the spotlight. In a nation like Korea, already engulfed in flames of hatred and conflict, this merely fuels the fire.

Gazing out the window, I pondered: is it the intention of the Nobel Prize to see South Korea further divided? Do they wish for the threat from the North to grow ever more ominous? I find myself concerned that, amid this reality, the presence of the Nobel Prize might act as a catalyst for greater societal rifts.

Now, I must raise my voice. Who, and by what standards, determines the selection of these works? In a world literary scene dominated by leftist ideologies, what vital perspectives are we, as a nation, losing?

NOTE:

The Impact of Ideology on History: The text underscores how historical narratives can be manipulated or simplified, especially in post-colonial contexts. This reflects a tension between preserving collective memory and the imposition of dominant ideologies.

Gwangju Uprising: The mention of the Gwangju Uprising serves as a critical point of reference in Korean history, illustrating how personal and collective narratives shape national identity. The complexities surrounding this event often escape international understanding, complicating the dialogue on democracy and representation.

Censorship and Freedom of Expression: The discussion around the legal implications of distorting historical facts emphasizes ongoing tensions regarding freedom of speech in South Korea, contrasting with Western norms where such discussions are often more open.

Cultural and Historical Context: The text alludes to the ongoing ideological struggle in Korea, rooted in its historical context of the Korean War and its aftermath. This context is crucial for understanding the complexity of political identities in Korea, where divisions are deeply felt in the collective psyche.

The Role of Global Institutions: The mention of the UN, IMF, and WTO illustrates the skepticism surrounding global institutions, especially in how their policies can disproportionately affect smaller nations, reflecting a broader critique of neoliberal globalization.

Korean War as a Proxy Conflict: The interpretation of the Korean War as a proxy battle between superpowers simplifies a multi-layered event that was experienced intensely by individuals, highlighting the need for empathy and recognition of personal narratives amidst geopolitical discourse. The Korean War, also known as the Korean Conflict or 6.25 , began on June 25, 1950, when North Korean forces invaded South Korea. This aggressive action was fueled by ideological tensions stemming from the aftermath of World War II, which had left Korea divided along the 38th parallel into two separate entities: the communist North and the capitalist South.

The war escalated into a large-scale conflict involving significant international participation. North Korea, supported by China and the Soviet Union, faced off against South Korea, which was backed by the United States and a coalition of United Nations (UN) forces from various countries, including the UK, Canada, Australia, and Turkey, among others. The war saw extensive battles, massive troop deployments, and significant civilian suffering.

This conflict was marked by its scale and intensity, representing a crucial episode in the Cold War era and a battle of ideologies between communism and democracy. The fighting continued until an armistice was signed on July 27, 1953, but no formal peace treaty was ever established, leaving the Korean Peninsula technically still at war.

For a deeper understanding of the Korean War, including detailed exhibits and historical artifacts, visiting the War Memorial of Korea in Yongsan, Seoul, is highly recommended. The museum offers comprehensive insights into the war's impact and significance. Total UN Troops: Approximately 1.95 million soldiers from various countries participated in the Korean War. Major Contributing Nations and Troop Numbers: United States: Around 1.79 million troops, making up the vast majority of the UN forces. South Korea:  pproximately 590,000 troops contributed. United Kingdom: About 63,000 troops. Canada: Around 26,000 troops. Australia: Approximately 17,000 troops.Turkey: Around 5,000 troops. France: Contributed about 3,300 troops. Other countries included New Zealand, the Netherlands, Greece, Belgium, South Africa, and several more, with varying troop contributions ranging from a few hundred to several thousand. Casualties: U.S. Military Casualties: Approximately 36,574 U.S. servicemen lost their lives during the conflict. Overall, it is estimated that about 1 million South Korean soldiers and 600,000 North Korean soldiers died, alongside significant civilian casualties.

Chapter 1.1 Encountering the World

: The Allure of Literature

AS SOON AS I OPENED my eyes, sunlight poured through the window, blanketing me in its warmth. I checked my phone—it was 8:30 in the morning. Yet my mind was still spinning with thoughts about yesterday’s news of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Quickly, I got out of bed and headed to the kitchen, flicking the switch on the coffee pot. A warm cup of Americano—my morning ritual.

With coffee in hand, I made my way to the bookstore. The morning air felt crisp against my skin. It must have been around 9:10, the streets were still sparsely populated. But my mind was filled with a single thought—Why doesn’t Korean literature receive global attention? Could it really be because of its so-called “leftist” tendencies? The question gnawed at me as I walked.

The bookstore came into view, and even before stepping inside, the bestsellers display greeted me, as always. Western classics lined the shelves: Orwell’s 1984, Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, Martin’s Game of Thrones. Each one an undeniable force in literature. I paused, taking in their presence, pondering, “Why can’t we achieve this kind of depth?”

Though I couldn’t deny their brilliance, I knew deep down that our stories—Korean stories—weren’t inferior. They were just different. I began thinking about the divide between philosophy and literature. In the past, Western thinkers like Nietzsche and Kant were not only philosophers but physicists, poets, and even musicians. Their thoughts transcended the boundaries of science and art. Why hadn’t Eastern literature flourished in the same way?