The Vegetarian

Boundaries demarcate limits imposed externally or internally. The wilful transgression of boundaries is a species of violence. Whether one crosses into another country or out of the norms of society, violence ensues. Yeong-hye initiates us into this transgressive territory through her decision to become vegetarian. It is an act of will but also defiance. She will not be limited to the (mis)construed norms of her family or society. But is it an expression of freedom or self-constraint? Yeong-hye is desperate to avoid the bloody violence of her dreams. She seeks not merely abstinence from meat, but perhaps from her own animal nature. So, not so much a desire to become a vegetarian as to become vegetal.

Yeong-hye’s brother-in-law is a show more video artist, only moderately successful. He is shy and pliant, almost weedy. Some time after Yeong-hye’s declaration of vegetarianism, he becomes obsessed with two things: a floral pattern on the naked bodies of a man and a woman engaged in coitus that he draws incessantly in his sketch book, and a small birthmark that may or may not persist on the buttock of Yeong-hye. The artist obsesses. Although Yeong-hye is clearly still emotionally and mentally fragile (her husband and parents have abandoned her), he convinces her to become his female model for the artwork. He takes on the male role in a sexual fantasy facilitated by art. The results are not perhaps unpredictable.

Yeong-hye’s older sister, In-hye, becomes the focus of the third act of this story. She has cut ties with her artist husband. Yeong-hye is now incarcerated in a mental institution but continues to reject both meat and eventually all food. She is dying. In-hye is her only visitor. Yeong-hye’s death may be inevitable but it is not going to be easy. Transgressing the boundary of life rarely is. In-hye appears stoical in the face of wilful death, but she may be hiding an equal longing that she can just barely restrain.

The visceral nature of this novel may catch the unsuspecting reader unawares. But once it grabs hold of you, its grip is unshakeable. Horrific images. Sadly damaged characters. A story that is at once very particular and yet plays at many other levels as well.

Highly recommended. show less

Thematically dense with no easy answers, this compelling short novel gazes at its central character from three different perspectives without ever managing to see her clearly. Yeong-Hye's turn to vegetarianism accompanies a liberation from social convention and oppressive family structures, while the other individuals in her life are preoccupied with the meanings they've created for her in their own lives. She herself remains elusive, and seems entirely content to dissolve through their fingers - even at the cost of her own sanity and life. A ruminative, poetic volume punctured by startling moments of violence.

He was becoming divided against himself. Was he a normal human being? More than that, a moral human being? A strong human being, able to control his own impulses? In the end, he found himself unable to claim with any certainty that he knew the answers to these questions, though he'd been so sure before.

Han Kang burst onto the international literary scene with her first novel, The Vegetarian, winning the International Booker Prize in 2016, the first Korean novel to do so, and eight years later, Han won the Nobel Prize for Literature, the first Asian woman and first Korean to do so. The Vegetarian is written in three parts, and the second part, "The Mongolian Mark," was published first and was awarded the Yi Sang Literary Award.

The novel show more is about Yeong-hye, a seemingly unremarkable woman, who one day becomes an ardent vegetarian and from that point ceases to obey society's mores. We are only given snippets of her thoughts, however, as the book is told from the point of view of three people around her. In the first part, "The Vegetarian," her husband, a self-centered and callous yet pathetic man, describes the sudden and, to him, inexplicable changes in his wife after a violent dream prompts her to stop eating meat. In "The Mongolian Mark," Young-hye's brother-in-law describes his obsession, both artistic and sexual, with the mark on her backside. The final section, "Flaming Trees," reflects the conflicted feelings of her sister, In-hye. As Young-hye's mental health deteriorates, In-hye is confused and repelled by Young-hye's behavior, and yet admires her freedom from society's expectations and wonders how she herself has been able to endure in the face of historic, national, and personal violence.

Han has said that the inspiration for the novel came from a line of poetry by Yi Sang: "I believe that humans should be plants." According to Wikipedia, she understood that to imply "a defensive stance against the violence of Korea's colonial history under Japanese occupation." Han was also deeply influenced by the Gwangju Uprising, in which the military killed thousands of pro-democracy protesters. Violence permeates the novel, from Young-hye's dreams to rape and emotional trauma. Another theme is the position of women in society. One sister is treated as a canvas for men to write on and referred to at one point as a "comfort woman", a reference to the treatment of women during the Japanese occupation, while the other is the provider for her family, expected to endure and care for the needs of others to the exclusion of her own self. Also running through the novel are images of nature as both savage and healing, a force outside human understanding that observes humans with detached scorn.

The Vegetarian is not an easy or enjoyable read, and there is much to unpack. Although I found it imaginative and competently written, it was so strange that I had a hard time emotionally connecting with it. My appreciation for the novel could only be felt once I finished it; while reading I was too shocked by the imagery to do more than continue turning pages. show less

Winner of the Man Booker prize in 2016, this is a tough, but rewarding read.
It may not have been the central purpose of the book, but the aspect that I found to be most compelling was the depiction of gender and marital roles in modern Korea. South Korea has gone from poverty to powerhouse in a couple of generations, but as this book makes clear, social issues have not matched the pace of economic change.

"Yeong-hye lives an ordinary, controlled life. But the dreams—invasive images of blood and brutality- drive her to purge her mind and renounce eating meat altogether. This small act of independence sets into motion an increasingly grotesque chain of events...

As the story unfolds, we learn that Yeong-hye experienced violence from her father throughout childhood and her husband treats her no better than a maid. She also has what is called a Mongolian mark. It's a natural birth mark of sorts that fades as a child matures, yet Yeong-hye carries hers into adulthood. As the myth goes, it's a "bruise" left behind by the deity of childbirth, who gently slaps a baby to rush it from the womb. But for Yeong-hye, the pushing never stopped, show more therefore the mark is a permanent sign of her abuse.

Yeong-hye's dreams could be a warning, a sign of behavior that was slowly emerging from inside of her, due to a specific childhood trauma or violent memory that had intensified over time. Her brother-in-law almost suspects this: "... perhaps things were happening inside her, terrible things, which no one else could even guess at..." Yet her brother-in-law also takes advantage of her, in this case, treating her not as a person but something forbidden to be captured and utilized. Dwelling on her dreams, at first I wondered if Yeong-hye had a secret miscarriage, or disposed of a child borne of a non-consensual act. For Yeong-hye, her body is the only thing left that is still hers to control and she will go out on her own terms. Anyone could've reached Yeong-hye had they only chosen to listen rather than tell. Her sister asks herself, far too late, "could I have prevented it?" But Yeong-hye's suffering also exposes the cracks in her sister In-hye's carefully constructed life.

I hesitate to call it body horror, because of the voyeuristic expectations of that genre, but what happens to Yeong-hye is indeed shocking. It's very much psychological as it is physical, and meant to be turned over in your mind. show less

Eloquent, evocative and quietly elegant are the words that came to mind when I finished reading this refreshingly unique storyline that held me spellbound as it often pushed me out of my comfort zone.

When I read the first line, “Before my wife turned vegetarian, I’ve always thought of her as completely unremarkable in every way.”, my first thought was what an ungrateful husband and wondered why this statement made his wife “remarkable”. The wife, Yeong-hye, is the center of this story, and while there are three narrators, the husband, the brother-inn-law, and the sister, the reader only knows Yeong-hye through the clouded lens of the narrators.

When Yeong-hye makes the statement she is no longer going to eat meat (or even show more allow it in her home) because of a violent dream, no one is understanding and thinks nothing of using violence and threats to change her mind. As this “trauma” reverberates through the family, the author uses the narrators and graceful prose to contrast the brutality of violence and contrast it against beauty of will and is not afraid when necessary to provide disturbing imagery to ensure we are paying attention.

I liked how the three narrators, each with their own agenda, illustrated how we often do not know ourselves or each other. Disquieting at time, but this both an intimate and a universal story regarding humanity.

Before this book became a novel, it was a short story that begged the author to say more, and then was published as each narrator having their own novella. I thought the format of a novel worked very well for the storyline as it is multilayered in its nuances and tones.

Kudos to the author for being such a tantalizing storyteller and the translator for providing such a capable translation. I am anxiously waiting for more of Han Kang’s work being translated into English. show less

The Vegetarian, by celebrated author Han Kang, begins with a seemingly ordinary premise: Yeong-hye, a dutiful and unassuming South Korean wife, decides to stop eating meat after a series of vivid, grotesque nightmares. Yet this simple decision serves as a catalyst for her rebellion against social norms and the oppressive structures in her life. The novel is told in three interconnected sections, respectively narrated by her traditionalist husband, her artist brother-in-law, and her older sister, each offering a fragmented but increasingly haunting view of Yeong-hye’s descent into psychological and physical decline. As her vegetarianism morphs into an obsession with transcendence—symbolized by her desire to transform into a show more tree—Yeong-hye’s body becomes a virtual battleground, a site of defiance and disintegration that culminates in her withdrawal from the human world altogether.

At its core, this novel is as much an exploration of mental illness as it is an indictment of societal restrictions and the rigid limitations placed on women. The decision Yeong-hye makes to renounce meat, though apparently personal, is rooted in a fraught psyche that bears the scars of childhood abuse and a stifling marriage. Her father’s physical violence and her husband’s emotional neglect form the foundation of her impoverished sense of self, exacerbated by a culture that prizes conformity above individual expression. As Yeong-hye’s behavior becomes increasingly erratic, those around her fail to offer compassion, instead reacting with self-interest, humiliation, and contempt. The narrative skillfully portrays the devastating interplay between trauma, mental health, and societal judgment, forcing the reader to grapple with the cost of silence and complicity.

Overall, I found this to be a superbly written novel, although certainly a challenging one to read due to its disturbing themes, multiple perspectives, use of symbolism, and constantly shifting time frames. Kang’s prose is both lyrical and unsettling, capturing the visceral horror of the main character’s inner turmoil and the cold indifference of many in her inner circle. It is also a story told with elegance and insight and its exploration of individual autonomy, social oppression, and the desire for personal transformation is profoundly affecting and thought-provoking. Without question, The Vegetarian is a book that pushes the boundaries of conventional storytelling, but it is also one that merits the myriad honors it has received, including, of course, a Nobel Prize in Literature for its author. show less