While other comics featuring Japanese military comfort women tend to focus on visualizing the abuse and pain they suffered to help readers sympathize with them, Grass takes a more challenging approach that breaks away from the pattern of sensationalizing abuse. Abuse is displayed in an abstract way, leaving it up to the readers to picture the pain. In a scene where Ok-sun confesses the sexual abuse she’d suffered one night, the actions are described in text and paired with a drawing of what the mountain looked like that night. Another scene closes up on the wrinkles on Ok-sun’s face and hands. And some pages show nothing but black boxes to convey the horror she felt. Through its delicate approach to abuse, Grass delves deeper into the comfort woman’s story. I, the narrator, actively take part in the interview by asking questions or harboring doubts as I listen to Ok-sun’s accounts. When she was fifteen, Ok-sun’s parents gave her up for adoption to a couple running an udon shop, but she eventually ended up in a comfort station. Now an old woman, Ok-sun says, “My mother was tricked too.” Yet, I can’t help but wonder whether her mother was really tricked. These thoughts running through the narrator’s mind are presented in black bubbles, allowing a chance for readers to sincerely consider the comfort woman’s testimonies. Grass thereby contemplates such testimonies from various angles instead of objectifying or romanticizing the life of a girl forced into sexual slavery under Japanese colonial rule. The freedom each character is given to express their own thoughts suggests how, as a form of storytelling, graphic novels can contribute to forming a community open to diverse voices that interact and clash regardless of age or gender. Polyphony can help turn survivor testimonies into cultural memory and this is how Grass seeks to the remember the life of a Japanese military comfort woman. (by Heo Yoon, Literary Critic, tr. Youngjae Josephine Bae)

Yet this hybrid ‘dictionary-poetry collection’ is also a dictionary and poetry collection created by the readers themselves. This book, in which white space takes up more room on the page than letters, invites readers to fill in those gaps with their own thoughts and words. By writing less, Kim—who defines “less” as “the best state of being” and similarly defines “empty” as “the best state of being so long as one is not hollow”—gifts readers with a poetry collection in its best possible state of being. While reading and using this One-Letter Dictionary, readers will come to experience firsthand the definition of “poetry” as provided by Kim, meaning “to keep what was already beautiful from becoming a thing of even greater beauty, and to make what cannot be a thing of beauty into a thing of beauty at long last,” or “to stow away in sentences the truths that cannot be salvaged with rough words and the secrets that would crumble if spoken aloud.” (Yeonjung Cho, Literary Critic, tr. Paige Morris)

Yet, once you start reading Diary of a Murderer, you realize that those keywords are more of a medium to pose complex, layered questions about sin and redemption, life and philosophy, and truth and humor. The protagonist who calls himself a “gifted murderer” has never paid the price for his killings over the past three decades and is now preparing for his final murder. He relies solely on his own memorization method to tell his account, but the fact that he is losing his memory to Alzheimer’s soon turns the account into a story dictated not by his memory but its disappearance. His method thus causes him to forget his killings and his own records of his memory (or lack of memory) keep him from remembering his killings.

What can life be? A person would likely have a self, a world, a purpose, a process, a perception, an object . . . Most writers would agree that a life in the presence of such things merely constitutes of words to prove that presence and a well-crafted story that makes sense. Still, few will be able to express their agreement through a story like Diary of a Murderer, an extraordinary tale that involves getting rid of people (murder), eliminating lives (memory loss), confusion that denies a person’s life, and the paradox of ignorance. (by Ji Eun Baik, Literary Critic, tr. Youngjae Josephine Bae)

The poem “No Apology” presents a situation that everyone is likely to have encountered at least once in their lives: you get noodles with seafood black bean sauce instead of the plain black bean sauce you’d ordered. The narrator wonders, “Should I get the owner?” but hesitates out of concern that the waiter might be “bitched at.” I’m prepared to just eat what I’ve been served if the waiter apologizes but no apology comes. I’m still not ready to ask for the owner though, fearing worse things that could happen to the waiter. I remain stuck in the dilemma of neither being able to eat the noodles or send it back. The narrator’s obsession over an apology almost seems unreasonable until she confesses her own experience of having been “expelled” and “deleted” for taking the blame and apologizing instead of “putting forth the effort to argue.” The frequent blame games in reality where no one admits their fault or apologizes gives the poem an allegorical effect. The poem “Hysteria” portrays a narrator suffering in a packed subway. I want the woman preaching “the truth” to shut up and I desperately “need a new route, need to get out,” but instead, I’m surrounded by gropers and men falling asleep against me. The narrator’s hysterical rant as she feels like she’s about to be torn apart is a great example of the poet’s signature tone that can only be heard in her work. (by Lee Kyungsoo, Literary Critic, tr. Youngjae Josephine Bae)

Receiving recognitions bestowed upon authors and works from outside the Chinese-speaking world, Kim Choyeop made history as the first recipient to sweep both of China’s major science fiction literature awards in the same year. The Galaxy Awards committee lauded If We Can’t Go at the Speed of Light for its profound scientific and humanistic inquiries, as well as the author’s endeavor to resurrect forgotten women from history.

The titular story If We Can’t Go at the Speed of Light unfolds the narrative of Anna, a woman who willingly chooses to remain aboard a decommissioned space station, while “About My Space Hero” delves into the enigmatic choices made by Choi Jae-kyeong, who joined the first modified astronaut project but faced derision and disdain as a woman, Asian, and a single mother in a predominantly white male-centric milieu of astronauts. Kim Choyeop’s exploration of technology and humanity does not focus on the realm of future technology but instead on narratives concerning minorities and marginalized individuals, probing the chasm between technology and humanity, and the facets of human existence overshadowed by technological advancements. Her keen interest in women, minorities, and marginalized groups always intersects with an emphasis on coexistence and symbiosis. In “Symbiosis Theory,” the narrative navigates coexistence and symbiosis with beings outside our realm by revealing that what we have long perceived as quintessentially human was, in fact, alien. The underlying concern about co-evolution found throughout the seven short stories in If We Can’t Go at the Speed of Light continues to reverberate in her subsequent works, such as The World We Just Left Behind (2021), Planet Language Bookstore (2021), The Greenhouse at the End of the Earth (2021), and Ground Explorers (2023), expanding into issues pertaining to climate, disabilities, and ecology, thereby paving the way for the burgeoning potential of eco-science fiction. (by So Young-Hyun, Literary Critic, tr. Stella Kim)

In her author’s note, Kim says, “When one writes poetry in a country of so many deaths, it’s inevitable that the voice that emerges is the voice of someone who is preoccupied with death.” It would be correct to say that while writing this collection, she did not ruminate on death as a concept but experienced it as an embodied reality. This collection, written mostly in the second person, offers condolences to the deceased “you” while at the same time consoling all of us who, without exception, will one day confront our own deaths.

Kim’s death sequence, which aims to actualize death as a reality and not an idea, reads as poetry that foreshadows the fact that “I,” like “you,” will someday have an encounter with death more so than poetry meant to reassure “me,” who, unlike “you,” lives on. In “a country of so many deaths,” in the helpless situation of having the hardest time choosing the words to explain death, Kim’s poems persist in doing the intense work of alleviating the unspeakable pain of the dead by drawing a direct connection between “your death” and “my death” without the meddling of abstraction. Autobiography of Death is the effort to actualize “your death” as “my death,” the refusal to cease in the attempt despite its near-impossibility, and the commitment to not allowing us to forget that this is the bare minimum we must do for those who cannot speak. (by Yeonjung Cho, Literary Critic, tr. Paige Morris)

Phantom Pain Wings is a collection about a father’s death. However, rather than mourning her father’s death as a completed event, the speaker of these poems is creating death herself. If we believe that death is a completely Other phenomenon that living human beings can never experience for ourselves, then this speaker transcends that impossibility with “I-do-bird.” “This book is not really a book / It’s an I-do-bird sequence / a record of the sequence,” Phantom Pain Wings declares. This collection is at once a “Bird-cries-out-from-me-day record,” an “I-do-bird-day record,” and a “Translation-of-a-certain-bird’s-chirping record” by an “I-do-bird-woman” (from “Bird’s Poetry Book”).

Death as the absolute Other is always a future occurrence. Thus, whether someone else’s or our own, death can never be a completed event for the living. In other words, human beings can only experience death on the condition that we are “in training” for it. Kim reveals the process of moving forward, taking “a step toward where I don’t exist,” in the phrase “I-do-bird.” Phantom Pain Wings is a record of this training in the art of “I-do-bird” as well as a record of the translation of a bird’s chirping. The book also suggests that neither the training nor the translation can ever be completed. The fact that death is an incompletable act implies that it is not a forward movement from here to some other place but rather an experience of time that goes on forever. If that is true, Phantom Pain Wings can be described as a collection that tells us living human beings how to face the deaths of others and our own imminent ends in the most tender way possible. (by Yeonjung Cho, Literary Critic, tr. Paige Morris)

“hold her hand in bed” after just three days of dating, offering a window into what the life of a girl raised in an impoverished household is like. Driven by her ambitions, Lee Soyeon starts asserting her made-up name as her true identity following the birth of her youngest child, and after divorcing her husband over his gambling debts, takes on the role of breadwinner for her family by working as a janitor. Moms aims to defy conventional notions about Korean women, who are often thought of as devoted wives and mothers, by portraying them as women with varied desires. The comic features mothers as they truly are, depicting them engaging in romantic relationships, getting into street fights with their partners’ girlfriends, and going dancing at discotheques for seniors.

Jongseok, Soyeon’s boyfriend of ten years who works as a waiter at a nightclub, often asks her to come to his workplace to help boost sales while comparing her unfavorably to his other girlfriends by telling her how much they spend on him. Their relationship, though far from being all sunshine and rainbows, is drearily realistic. The constant breaking up and getting back together resembles something out of a soap opera, complete with fights and love triangles, although their tumultuous lives feel more realistic than any scripted drama. Soyeon’s friends also date, cheat, and grapple with their pasts as they navigate through life. Being wealthy or maintaining a stable marriage is no guarantee of peace and quiet as each of them is faced with their own struggles. Soyeon and her friends ultimately get fired after a failed attempt to stand up against the verbal abuse and sexual harassment of company executives by forming a labor union, but nevertheless quickly find new jobs. In Moms, the realms of romance and work seamlessly overlap. Whether it’s a mother pursuing a romantic relationship or one toiling away at work, this comic serves to remind us that all mothers are simply human. Each one of them carries on with their life despite all its ups and downs, and that’s ultimately what makes them “moms.” (by Heo Yoon , Literary Critic, tr. Leo-Thomas Brylowski)

It received the 2020 Japanese Booksellers’ Award in the translated fiction category and was also selected as an Amazon Best Book of the Month in May of the same year. The Japanese Booksellers’ Award is determined through voting by Japanese bookstore employees themselves, who choose the book they most want to sell, making this accolade all the more special given that Japanese bookstore employees are particularly attuned to the preferences of readers. Most notably, Almond was the first Asian book to win the award since its inception.

The protagonist, Yunjae, was born with an exceptionally small amygdala, which prevents him from feeling emotions. Unable to experience joy, sadness, fear, or anxiety, he is labeled as a “monster.” Almond tells the story of this young boy, who, unable to feel emotions, finds himself having to grow up alone after losing his mother and grandmother in an accident. In a journey of growth, Yunjae learns to love and empathize with others, and develops the courage to confront his fears. The novel’s premise prompts a profound reflection on the nature of love, courage, and understanding, challenging readers to reconsider these fundamental aspects of human experience. In a captivating story that illustrates the difficulties of understanding others and summoning the courage to love, the author reveals the inherent human beauty found in such pursuits. This is what has allowed Almond to strike a chord with so many readers all around the world. The book conveys the message that we can still love each other even if we are unable to feel emotions, and also demonstrates through its many translations that language barriers can be overcome to bring us closer. (by Seo Youngin, Literary Critic, tr. Leo-Thomas Brylowski)

The original title, ‘Ordinary Human,’ directly reflects the work’s overarching theme. Kim Ji-hye, a thirty-year-old woman born in 1988, leads an unremarkable and “ordinary” life as an intern at a cultural center run by a large Korean conglomerate. Kim Ji-hye’s life, characterized by an insufficient salary, a lack of purpose and fulfillment at work, and a hopeless future, mirrors the common reality of many young adults in Korea today. Despite giving their best and living diligently, such “ordinary” people constantly get the short end of the stick and are forced to cope with a perpetual sense of defeat. Counterattack at Thirty convincingly portrays the bitter reality of our world which fails to uphold what is ordinarily seen as common sense. Ji-hye, along with her colleague Gyu-ok, decide to shake things up one day by performing a small “counterattack” which ultimately appears to end in failure. However, through this act of resistance, Ji-hye undergoes personal growth and manages to find her own path and an escape out of her bleak reality. As a result, she begins to envision a world where everyone has a voice, built on a culture of solidarity and empathy rather than one dominated by the capital and superficial culture imposed by large corporations, which is enough to transform her life. The author extends a compassionate message to young readers in their thirties, encouraging them to seek solace and empathy within the pages of this compelling narrative. (by Seo Youngin, Literary Critic, tr. Leo-Thomas Brylowski)

Yun Ko-eun’s remarkably uninhibited imagination unfolds within The Disaster Tourist, which delves into the realm of dark tourism. Beneath the surface of dark tourism, which seeks lessons from disasters and historical events, we see the pervasive influence of capitalism that virtually commodifies everything. While the commercialization of disasters is not a recent phenomenon, the power of global capitalism portrayed in The Disaster Tourist proves to be immense and ruthless beyond imagination. Capitalism commodifies even climate crises and even instigates the planning of artificial disasters to revive local economies. Through the people who have come to the island of Mui for various reasons, the disasters that are to become tourism products are performed and showcased like conspiracies or projects. However, it become immediately evident that climate disasters are anything but easy prey for capitalism. Disasters are not theatrical products that can be meticulously scripted and flawlessly planned and executed. Instead, as if laughing at such an idea, disasters become uncontrollable, sweeping away and engulfing the shortsighted and selfish desires of the people hiding behind capitalism. The Disaster Tourist unfolds with an unpredictable narrative that defies expectations, showing how a tourism merchandising project in the era of climate crisis can turn into a horrifying thriller in the blink of an eye. Through literary imagination, this novel sends a sharp warning about the true crisis in the era of climate crisis. (by So Young-Hyun (Literary Critic, tr. Stella Kim)

In this poetry collection by Lee Young-ju, “doors” and “windows” frequently make appearances. Whether finding a door ajar, leaving open a window, or chipping away at walls, the narrator of Lee’s poems seeks to traverse or seep into alternative realms, and “finally succeeds in entering indoors like music” (“Into the Dream”), as music has the fluidity to seamlessly transition between realms. This is why the term “singer-songwriter” often finds its way into her poetry. She is a “Singer-Songwriter” who “begins in a puddle” while “singing”. In the proximity of death, which is the “furthest point from her birthplace, where the scent of decay gathers” (“Picnic”), Lee Young-ju’s verses strain to play the “music that feels like it would tear apart when flesh touches metal.” (by Lee Kyungsoo, Literary Critic, tr. Stella Kim)

The protagonist’s life is shattered by the time she is done depicting “the massacre in that city,” and she begins to suffer from such terrible headaches and stomach cramps that her existence turns into a living nightmare that ultimately compels to draft her own will. The novel depicts the journey of “I” as she grapples with the historical trauma stemming from the April 3 Jeju Uprising and the Bodo League Massacre, which are intertwined with the anguish of her friend In-seon, a documentary filmmaker, and the tragedies haunting her own family.

This novel is a narrative about suffering that aims to put an end to all the pain depicted within its pages, from the physical and psychological torment “I” experiences both before and after writing her novel about the May 18 Gwangju Uprising, to the agony endured by her friend In-seon who must be pricked by a needle every three minutes to revive the nerves in her severed finger, as well as the suffering inflicted upon the victims and survivors of the April 3 Jeju Uprising as a result of the massacres and torture they were subjected to. At its core, the novel explores the convergence and sharing of suffering between “I” and the other characters, which is depicted through the lens of historical trauma and the act of “rewriting” this collective trauma. Doing so, it offers a theatricalization of the suffering experienced by “I,” linking it to the pain of In-seon and the agony of both the deceased and the survivors, who all converge at the boundary between life and death. This work delves into the themes of painful memories, redemption, and the challenges of writing about these things. (by Kim Youngchan, Literary Critic, tr. Leo-Thomas Brylowski)