It’s A Lonely World

It cannot be denied that Korean literature is currently enjoying a surge. While it has always been a prominent voice, Korean literature has largely been obscured by its neighboring Japanese and Chinese literature. However, driven perhaps by the surge of popularity of Korean drama and K-Pop, Korean literature has piqued the interest of readers across the world. This renewed interest is palpable in the volume of Korean works being translated into English. Further, several translated works are gaining recognition from prestigious literary prize across the world. In 2016, Han Kang’s The Vegetarian won the International Booker Prize, making Han the first Korean writer to earn the prestigious prize. This opened opportunities for Korean writers. More translated Korean works would be nominated for the literary prize, such as Cheon Myeong-kwan’s Whale, Bora Chung’s Cursed Bunny, and Hwang Sok-yong’s Mater 2-10.

Further underscoring the momentum gained by and the growing global interest in Korean literature, Han Kang was recognized by the Swedish Academy with the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2024. Han is the first Korean and the first female Asian writer to be recognized with one of the most, if not the most prestigious literary prizes in the world. Equally as successful and as highly-heralded as Han Kang is her contemporary, Kyung-Sook Shin. Making her literary debut in 1985 with the short story 겨울우화 (Gyeouruhwa; trans. A Winter Fable), she has since become a household name in her native South Korea, winning literary prizes such as the Yi Sang Literary Award, the Dongin Prize, the Hyundae Munhak Award. Global recognition, however, did take time. In 2012, her novel 엄마를 부탁해 (Eommareul butakae), translated as Please Look After Mom, was awarded the Man Asian Literary Prize. This catapulted her to global recognition.

The growing interest in Shin’s body of work also prompted an examination of her older works. In 2022, her 2001 novel 바이올렛 was made available for Anglophone readers as Violets with a translation by Anton Hur. Chiefly set in 1970s South Korea, the novel started with the birth of an unwanted baby girl named Oh San in the Korean countryside; the novel charted her fortunes. She was raised in abject poverty by a beautiful but frustrated mother. Her father abandoned the family, but her paternal grandmother stayed living with them. San’s childhood was defined by the constant berating of her grandmother of her mother. San’s grandmother blamed her mother for the failure of their marriage. This animosity between daughter-in-law and mother-in-law soon escalated into physical violence, prompting the young San to retreat to the fields surrounding the village or sit on the dyke near the minari field separating the village from the rest of the world.

Violets are very small plants. So small, they’re easily overlooked as weeds. That’s why I decided on the title Violets. There are women all around us who exist in silence, anonymous and without anything special about them; she could be me and she could be you. To amplify the voices of those women, whom no one could hear unless one was listening very carefully, to let them speak through my words—this is Violets.

Kyung-Sook Shin, Violets

San’s longing for peace and her suppressed rage turn inward, pushing her toward self-destructive impulses. Redemption from her traumatic childhood briefly arrives in the form of her friend Namae, who also comes from a broken home. Namae’s mother is deceased, and her alcoholic father often locks himself inside an earthenware jar, singing drunkenly for hours. However, their friendship ends abruptly after an unexpected moment of intimacy, which Namae vehemently rejects in shame. San cannot understand the rejection, and it breaks her, compounding her emotional wounds. Her mother’s eventual abandonment further deepens her isolation. Ostracized by her community for failing to conform to traditional expectations, San leaves the community in her early twenties.

San eventually settles in Seoul, where independence is nothing new—she has always fended for herself. Her story takes a turn when she stumbles upon a flower shop with a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. To her surprise, she is offered the job on the spot. Though unplanned, it becomes a significant detour from the path she had envisioned for herself: San had taken computer courses hoping to land an office job in word processing, a practical stand-in for her true aspiration—to become a writer. However, repeated failures and an abusive experience at a hair salon lead her to the flower shop near Gwanghwamun Gate. Despite having no experience, she embraces the challenge. This new phase of her life becomes the novel’s focus.

Along with San, the flower shop employed Su-ae, who also happens to be the shop owner’s niece. Su-ae was the antithesis of the San. While San often retreated into herself and is more reserved, Su-ae was more outgoing and free-spirited. San prefers her solitude, going on long, lonely walks and simply observing the rest of the world go about its business. The two young women, who were of the same age, soon managed to establish a connection; they unexpectedly complemented each other. They quickly became best friends and even moved in together. In a way, it was a fresh start for San, who found affinity with the flowers she was looking after, from the expensive roses and lilies, the lucky-bamboo plants, the fussy orchids, the papaya palms, and the bonsai ficus trees, to the carnivorous Venus fly-traps. She even compared her life with the flowers: whenever she wipes the window or sprinkles the plants exposed out on the street, it’s her own fragile inner self that she’s watering

As diverse as the plants she was taking care of are the customers and people she encountered in the discharge of her work. With her line of work, it was inevitable that she would encounter a diverse set of customers, some of whom would leave an impression on her. Her friendship with Su-ae provided a relief from the rigors of her job. Still, some of Shin’s strongest writing captured the minutiae of life in the work shop. One can feel the satisfaction derived from along day’s work, riddled by the companionship found in breaks as well as shared meals and drinks with friends. Despite San’s woes, these brief and mundane moments provide glimpses of happiness. The flowers, their physical attributes and even their vulnerabilities, were vividly and lovingly captured by Shin: Satiny white gardenia flowers unfurl between luscious green leaves, and the queen-of-the-night cactus bursts into spectacular fuchsia blossoms.

The flower shop in the early summer is verdant and radiant. The windows, even the outer shutters, are opened to the street. The sidewalk in front of the shop is wet, as if someone has just sprinkled a hose there. Pots of ficus trees, rubber figs, and lady palms populate the sidewalk. When annoyed pedestrians walk by, their frowns melt into contented sighs at the sight of lush green plants, purple balloon flowers, and buckets filled with China pinks and irises.

Kyung-Sook Shin, Violets

Through San’s story, Shin resplendently in captured the landscape of female isolation, including an examination of the factors that contributed to it. The tentacles of the past continue to loom and dictate San’s life. Her past traumas continue to resurface, threatening to disrupt the harmony that San has tried to create for herself. Moving on from a trauma is easier said than done. They pull you back when you least expect it. For San, it came in the form of a nagging insecurity that held her back. Her past experiences, particularly the abandonment of the people she once loved, have left a deep mark on her. These experiences made San feel like she was undeserving of a happy life. For her, happiness is nothing but a relative concept. Once happiness arrives, it is purely ephemeral, making her hesitate to embrace it. She fears it will disappear as quickly as it came.

Her childhood experiences have left deep and indelible scars on San, shaping a pessimistic view of life. The novel probes into the questions of rootlessness and identity left by a childhood trauma. Nevertheless, there are unexpected and surprising antidotes to the isolation that seized San. This came in the form of authentic connections. The only redeeming factor during San’s childhood was Namae. Unfortunately, their friendship prematurely ended, further contributing to San’s detachment from the rest of the world. In Su-ae, however, San found the perfect companion. Despite starkly different personalities, they managed to cultivate domestic comfort. They went on early morning swims and enjoyed  mint chocolate chip ice creams for breakfast. All the while, they enjoyed each other’s company at the flower shop.

As much as good people are out there, there are people with malicious intentions, even evil ones. The letters from her mother are vestiges of her past, of the betrayal of abandonment that dictated San’s life. They are reminders of her inability to attain happiness. Happiness became even more elusive with the arrival of a photographer sent to the shop to take pictures of flowers for a magazine. Taking a break from taking the pictures of flowers – an endeavor the photographer found tedious – the photographer took a picture of San, to her surprise, horror even. Her inclusion in the picture was meant to enhance the picture of violets he took. He would confess: I’m not the kind of guy who says things like this but if I’m being honest, do you have any idea how fast my heart was beating when I saw you for the first time with those damn violets? For San, it was the promise of change and an even fresher start. The photographer would even waken in her the promise of sexual desire and intimacy.

Yet the photographer becomes another harbinger of pain. His presence reinforces two of the novel’s central themes: patriarchy and misogyny. The influences of the patriarchy on San’s – and by extension, all women – was palpable at the onset, when San’s birth brought not happiness but disappointment to her parents. While this is generally a reflection of the attitude of the period, it is emblematic of a societal preference for sons that remains prevalent in many cultures. The events that shaped San’s childhood are all rooted in these dynamics. Having a daughter eventually prompted San’s father to abandon them, making San’s mother the first divorced woman in the village. With this mark on her head, the community ostracized San’s family. Misogyny, however, did not escape San in Seoul, shrouded by the facade of development.

One day, on a walk in an attempt to alleviate the pain, I sat down on a park bench in the middle of the city and saw two young women playing badminton in a nearby empty lot.  Behind them was a construction site with a looming excavator, an enormous heap of earth in its claw.  It looked ready to swallow the two women whole.  This sight unsettled me.  By the time I came home, I had an idea for a novel.  One about a “little girl” who eventually finds work in the middle of the city, at a flower shop

Kyung-Sook Shin, Violets

The symbolism of the title becomes more resonant as the story unfolds. Violets are small plants which are often mistaken for weeds. It does not help that they are ubiquitous. Like the titular plant, San, is easily overlooked. When she looks up “violet” in an English-Korean dictionary, she discovers it also refers to an “oversensitive person, a shy person” – a description that perfectly fits her. Even more ominously, the word “violet” is preceded by “violence” and “violators,” hinting at the darker undercurrents that reverberate across the novel. The book’s fragmented structure reflects San’s fragmented sense of self. Readers are offered glimpses rather than a complete picture – just as San experiences happiness only in fleeting moments.

Overall, Violets is an evocative portrait of a young woman’s isolation in an increasingly busy and fast-changing world. It offers an extensive exploration of how childhood trauma can adversely shape our lives and our perception of the world around us. Abandonment from the people she loved made San apprehensive of the concept of happiness, even when it comes knocking on her door. She is the first one to repel it, having realized that happiness is ephemeral. All the while, she grapples with classism, misogyny, and violence. Still, she yearns for independence and connection. Authentic connection creates slivers of hope in a claustrophobic world complicated by society’s strictures and expectations. In a book rife with tender moments, the bleakness was disrupted by bright spots although a full redemption arc never materializes. Nevertheless, Violets is an insightful and atmospheric novel about women cast off by society.

Book Specs

Author: Kyung-Sook Shin
Translator (from Korean): Anton Hur
Publisher: The Feminist Press
Publishing Date: 2022 (2021)
Number of Pages: 212
Genre: Historical, Literary

Synopsis

San is twenty-two and alone when she happens upon a job at a flower shop in Seoul’s bustling city center. Haunted by childhood rejection, she stumbles through life – painfully vulnerable stifled, and unsure. She barely registers to others, especially by the ruthless standards of 1990s South Korea.

Over the course of one hazy, volatile summer, San meets a curious cast of characters: the nonspeaking shop owner, a brash coworker, kind farmers, and aggressive customers. Fueled by a quiet desperation to jump-start her life, she plunges headfirst into obsession with a passing magazine photographer.

In Violets, best-selling author Kyung-Sook Shin explores misogyny, erasure, and repressed desire, as San desperately searches for both autonomy and attachment in the unforgiving reality of contemporary Korean society.

About the Author

To learn more about the highly-heralded South Korean writer, Kyung-Sook Shin, click here.