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Imperial Romance: Fictions of Colonial Intimacy in Korea, 1905 1945 Hardcover – 15 November 2020
by Su Yun Kim (Author)
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Publisher : Cornell University Press; 1st edition (15 November 2020)
Language : English
Hardcover : 210 pages
Su Yun Kim makes a welcome contribution to the understanding of 'intermarriage' during Japanese colonial rule in Korea, tracing the imagination and representation of colonial intimacy and pointing to the crucial role of affect in figuring the politics of assimilatory empire."
Christopher P. Hanscom, University of California, Los Angeles, author of The Real Modern
"Imperial Romance tackles an intriguing subject of both historical importance and contemporary political relevance. Kim's thorough knowledge of the subject highlights the complex experience of the colonized."
Youngju Ryu, University of Michigan, author of Writers of the Winter Republic
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Su Yun Kim, Assistant Professor, Korean Studies Program, School of Modern Languages and Cultures, the University of Hong Kong; HYI Visiting Scholar, 2019-20
Su Yun Kim is an Assistant Professor in the Korean Studies Program at the School of Modern Languages and Cultures of the University of Hong Kong, specializing in modern Korean literature and culture. She received a Ph.D. in Literature from the University of California, San Diego, and a B.A. and M.A. from Yonsei University. Prior to joining the University of Hong Kong, Dr. Kim taught at Hamilton College and was a JSPS postdoctoral fellow at Doshisha University in Kyoto. Her first monograph, forthcoming from Cornell University Press, Imperial Romance: Fictions of Colonial Intimacy in Korea, 1905–1945, examines discourses and literary representations of Korean-Japanese intermarriage in colonial-era Korea. Other recent publications include her co-edited volume East Asian Transwar Popular Culture: Literature and Film from Taiwan and Korea (Palgrave Macmillan, 2019) as well as book chapters and articles in peer-reviewed journals such as The Journal of Korean Studies and Acta Koreana. At Harvard, Dr. Kim will be working on her new book-length project on Korean popular fiction and cinema of the transwar period (1930s–1960s), with a focus on romance and affect
Abstract
This presentation explores Korean cinema in the 1960s with a focus on films about Korean-Japanese intimacy. Because of the promotion of Korean-Japanese intermarriage by the Japanese colonial government, a number of films produced during the colonial period portrayed intimate Korean-Japanese relationships, including marriages, friendships, and supportive communities. Although representations of Korean-Japanese intimacy disappeared immediately after the liberation, they resurged in the 1960s. Owing to the shift in the Park Chung Hee government’s attitude toward Japan, movies shot in Japan or featuring Japanese culture passed censorship and were released in theatres. Among these Japan-themed movies, colonial intimacy was a popular topic, particularly romance between Korean men and Japanese women. This presentation highlights transwar continuities and differences in the representation of colonial intimacy in Korean cinema that were informed by colonialism, the civil war, and the Cold War.
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The Politics of Romance in Colonial Korea: An Investigation of a Korean Translation of the Japanese Romance Novel, The Gold Demon
April 2015Sungkyun Journal of East Asian Studies 15(1):69-87
DOI: 10.21866/esjeas.2015.15.1.004
Authors:
Jooyeon Rhee
Pennsylvania State University
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Abstract
This essay explores cultural interactions between Korea and Japan by focusing on Korean translations of Japanese fiction in the early 1910s. It considers the translation of Japanese texts in colonial Korea as a contested field of culture where Japanese assimilationist ideologies were promoted and challenged. The translation of Japanese romance novels in the 1910s in the colonial newspaper, Maeil sinbo (The Daily News) is a striking example of the ideological function that imperial literature played in colonial Korea, demonstrating the uneven cultural exchange between the colony and the metropole. However, the ways native translators appropriated the original texts, while negotiating the colonial forces around them, deserve our attention for the embodiment of their political agency, reflecting native interests and cultural sentiments in the translations. I contextualize the cultural significance of the translation of romance novels and analyze a Korean translation of a Japanese novel, The Gold Demon, as a case study. In this work, the translator, Cho Chunghwan, negotiates colonial power through the notion of collective suffering and salvation, and by employing a Christian and patriarchal rhetoric of love.
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The Politics of Romance in Colonial Korea: An Investigation of a Korean Translation of the Japanese Romance Novel, The Gold Demon
Article in Sungkyun Journal of East Asian Studies · April 2015
DOI: 10.21866/esjeas.2015.15.1.004
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Pennsylvania State University
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Sungkyun Journal of East Asian Studies Vol.15 No.1
© 2015 Academy of East Asian Studies. 69-87
The Politics of Romance in Colonial Korea:
An Investigation of a Korean Translation of the Japanese Romance Novel, The Gold Demon*
Jooyeon RHEE
The Hebrew University of Jerusalem
ABSTRACT
This essay explores cultural interactions between Korea and Japan by focusing on Korean translations of Japanese fiction in the early 1910s. It considers the translation of Japanese texts in colonial Korea as a contested field of culture where Japanese assimilationist ideologies were promoted and challenged. The translation of Japanese romance novels in the 1910s in the colonial newspaper, Maeil sinbo (The Daily News) is a striking example of the ideological function that imperial literature played in colonial Korea, demonstrating the uneven cultural exchange between the colony and the metropole. However, the ways native translators appropriated the original texts, while negotiating the colonial forces around them, deserve our attention for the embodiment of their political agency, reflecting native interests and cultural sentiments in the translations. I contextualize the cultural significance of the translation of romance novels and analyze a Korean translation of a Japanese novel, The Gold Demon, as a case study. In this work, the translator, Cho Chunghwan, negotiates colonial power through the notion of collective suffering and salvation, and by employing a Christian and patriarchal rhetoric of love.
Keywords: colonialism, translation, Japanese romance novel, imperial literature, The Gold Demon (Konjiki yasha), A Dream of Long Suffering (Changhanmong)
Discovering the Nation through Translation
Korean translation around the turn of the twentieth century can be described as a site of cultural rupture that broke out as a response to the newly organizing international order. The weakening of China and the quick and decisive penetration of new imperial forces into East Asia prompted progressive, reform-driven intellectuals to rethink ways to improve Korea’s geopolitical position and construct the nation as a unifying cultural community. As the opinion that adopting Western knowledge would strengthen the Korean economy and culture gained significant support within intellectual circles, the translation of foreign texts became an inevitable path for nationalist intellectuals to actualize their goal.
Most public intellectuals at the time performed multiple roles as reporters, essayists, fiction writers, educators, and translators, all of which converged on their political visions for the nation. Their attitude towards fiction writing and translation was highly instrumental, as they regarded those activities as effective tools for educating the general populace on the importance of sustaining and developing cultural life to improve national wealth and health. Thus the selection of texts to be translated was made on the basis of their ideological stance on national progress, which often led them to adapt or even distort the original texts.
When Korea was annexed by Japan in 1910, translation took a significant turn. The marginalization of nationalist translators was the inevitable outcome of the publication channels coming under strict control of the colonial government. While the importation of Western and Japanese texts was becoming increasingly visible, the translation of Chinese nationalistic reformists’ writings, such as Liang Qichao’s, was subjected to censorship. Most Western texts, however, were in turn translated from Japanese translations, and as a consequence it was highly desirable for translators to possess a good command of the imperial language, an understanding of the Japanese, and familiarity with cultural and literary trends in Japan. Unlike the previous generation, who were Confucian-trained social elites, most translators from 1910 onwards were educated in the metropole, where they obtained a Western-inspired education. This ‘translation turn’ signified a “significant technology of colonial domination” (Niranjana 1992, 21), extending the imperial power on a fuller and a wider scale compared with the period before 1910.
However, it would be a mistake to view this next generation of translators’ activity in simplistic binary terms, thus reducing the value of the texts they translated as a product of subjugation. Translators, who worked from the center of colonial power, in fact became “all too involved in divergent ideologies, programs of change, or agendas of subversion that elude dominant control” (Tymoczko 2003, 201). Most translators between 1910 and 1917 were also newspaper journalists who were employed by a mouthpiece of the colonial government, The Daily News (Maeil sinbo), and their familiarity with colonial policies and worldly events made it easier for them to bypass censorship rather than support these policies.
Vicente L. Rafael provides a useful example of the way that translation can be employed by colonizers in discussing how the Spanish converted the Tagalog community to Christianity as a way of establishing colonial rule during the 17th18th centuries (1993). Although translation was the “basis for articulating the general outlines of subjugation” (Rafael 1993, 20), Rafael argues that the Tagalog natives’ conversion to Catholicism cannot be solely interpreted as a sign of submission to the colonial power; a more complicated dimension of translation unfolds in a colonial situation where the linguistic and political hierarchy between the colonized and the colonizer not only made communication between the two impossible at times, but also reshaped the natives’ conception of death through their linguistic contact with Christian doctrines embedded in Tagalog grammars, dictionaries, clerical guides, and devotional manuals that were produced by Spanish missionaries, which remained outside the colonial social order. In similar fashion, translation in colonial Korea was also a complex field of cultural interaction where
* This research was supported by The Daesan Foundation research grant for Korean literature studies overseas. The author would like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments and suggestions that greatly helped improve the final version of this paper.
translations produced unexpected outcomes that sometimes worked against the colonial power and transformed the native understanding of suffering in ways which served native interests rather than colonial ones. I am particularly interested in examining how translators used their historical agency to challenge colonial rule through appropriating the original texts. This essay is a microscopic view of the dynamic process of translation in the first few years of Japanese rule over Korea, as seen in the work of a particular translator who negotiated his social and political circumstances in order to express his political vision of Korean society.
Largely dismissed in the study of modern Korean literature for lacking Korean political consciousness and “originality,” the value of Cho Chunghwan’s (1884-1947) translation of Ozaki Koˉyoˉ’s (1868-1903) The Gold Demon (Konjiki yasha, 1903), lies in its strategic appropriation of the original text through incorporating the notion of collective suffering and its articulation of patriarchal and religious love as a way to negotiate social reality. In this article, I will provide the historical context in which Japanese romance novels were written and translated; discuss the cultural meaning of collective suffering; and explore the religious and patriarchal rhetoric of love embedded in the translation of The Gold Demon, as well as examine how the translator’s political agency is articulated.
Translating Love in the Colony
Ozaki Koˉyoˉ’s The Gold Demon belongs to a literary genre called katei shoˉsetsu (domestic novels). Mainly serialized in newspapers (Gluck 1985, 171), Japanese domestic novels appeared in vast quantities between the Sino-Japanese war of 18941895 and the Russo-Japanese war of 1904-1905. “Directly influenced by romance and marriage novels of the West” (Ragsdale 1998, 223), domestic novels primarily deal with troubled romantic relationships, familial conflicts, and marriage. In particular, the characters’ oscillation between material greed and love, shown as irreconcilable human desires, has been identified as one of the most salient features of Japanese melodrama (Torrance 1994, 37). Melodrama is not a term that was used for domestic novels during the Meiji period, yet the genre bears some resemblance to French melodrama in its deep moral concern about the problems arising from having to adapt to an abruptly changed social reality, much like the aftermath of the French Revolution. To borrow Peter Brooks’s observation, French melodrama emerged when “the traditional imperatives of truth and ethics were violently thrown into question” (1985, 15). In Japanese domestic novels, the desire to “find firm moral bearing in an uncertain world” (Ito 2008, 21) is clearly evident in the violent moral struggle of characters, reflecting how the quickly changing social environment and economic structure presented a range of serious challenges to people’s lives, especially the lives of the newly arising urban middle class (Ambaras 1998).
Japanese domestic novels first started to appear in 1912 in The Daily News (Maeil sinbo), the only vernacular newspaper available to Koreans between 1910 and 1919 (and again between 1940 and 1945). There were a handful of Korean journalists working for The Daily News who translated and wrote fiction, and among those, Cho Chunghwan (1884-1947) was one of the leading figures behind a surge of Japanese domestic novels to appear in that paper. The editorial section of this four-page paper was printed at the top of the headline page. This section largely served to propagate Japan’s justification of the annexation by listing a range of reforms to help Korea modernize that had been enacted by the colonial government, in such areas as government administration, education, industrial development, and agricultural techniques. While the reporting of these “positive” changes was a key concern of the editorial section, the paper facilitated various other modes of expression to animate images of modernity for readers, such as the insertion of photographs of railways, public parks, modern hospitals, and bridges being built across the Korean peninsula.
At first sight, the content of novels does not seem to be related to those images and reports. However, modern technologies and institutions in fictional scenes centered around young characters in the novels remind the readers of those images presented in the other sections of the newspaper. The characters in most novels, for example, are young, mobile students: they frequently travel by train, take leisurely strolls around resorts and parks, and go abroad to study. The romantic dimension of modernity is augmented by the characters’ expressions of individuality, which is mainly explored through the themes of free love and free choice of a marriage partner. At the same time, reports of old social practices such as early marriage and physical abuse of wives by husbands appeared frequently in the newspaper’s society section. Through the projection of fictional and physical realities, the newspaper made promises of social progress to the colonized just the way it was actualized and imagined in the metropole, while simultaneously criticizing old customs and manners as obstacles to progress. The centrality of love in The Gold Demon is therefore significant not for its candid expression of intimate emotions shared between a young man and a young woman, but for its political aim of advancing a colonial social order by romanticizing the progressive idea of individuality.
As Haiyan Lee argues in her discussion of the theme of romance in literature during the first half of the twentieth century in China, “discourses of sentiment are not merely representations or expressions of inner emotions, but articulatory practices that participate in (re)defining the social order and (re)producing forms of self and sociality” (2007, 8). Similarly, Cho’s translation of romance deserves our attention for its emotional responses to the transformation of social conditions; in Cho’s work, his imagination of the colonial reality in the Japanese imperial order paralleled his political vision.
The Gold Demon portrays a tragic love story between Kan’ichi, a promising high school student and an orphan, and Miya, the only daughter of a middleclass family. As they grow up together, they become progressively closer to each other, and they promise to marry each other, a promise that lasts until Miya’s strong desire to elevate her status brings an end to their romance. Just as Miya ponders the possibility of making her desire for higher status a reality, the son of a wealthy banker approaches her and proposes marriage, and Miya accepts with little hesitation. Kan’ichi is deeply wounded and completely demoralized: as a result, he abandons his education and becomes a moneylender. Interpreting Kan’ichi’s career choice as a self-destructive act based on her choice to reject his love in order to satisfy her material desire, Miya suffers from guilt. She is enveloped by remorse and longing for Kan’ichi and seeks his forgiveness. Without Kan’ichi’s forgiveness to redeem her conscience and her loyal heart, Miya becomes physically and mentally debilitated, eventually reaching a suicidal state. The conflict remains unresolved, and the novel ends with a long letter from Miya to Kan’ichi, expressing her loyalty towards him and her unfulfilled dream of their reconciliation.
The Korean translation of The Gold Demon was published as Changhanmong (A Dream of Long Suffering), a title that embodies a cultural sentiment familiar to both Japanese and Korean readers. The term Changhan (long suffering) originates from a famous love story between the Tang emperor Xuanzong (685-762) and his consort Yang Gui-fei (719-756). Their tragic love affair and the emperor’s longing for his departed lover are depicted in a long poem, Changhen ge (A Song of Long Suffering), composed by Bai Juyi (772-846). The poem is thought to be very romantic, and Bai’s poetry in general—and “A Song” in particular—significantly influenced Japanese literature from the Heian period (794-1185) onward (Kondoˉ 1981, 64-90), as well as the literati in Choso˘n Korea (1392-1910). According to a Heian source called the Konjaku monogatari (Anthology of Tales from the Past), the popularity of the love story had mainly to do with the erotic appeal of Yang Gui-fei, tales of whose legendary beauty have been passed down in East Asia to this day. Not only has Yang’s beauty been praised in many poems over an extensive period, but it has also been portrayed in numerous paintings and illustrations. In other words, Yang has become a synonym for female beauty.
The term used in Changhen ge to indicate Yang’s sensual charm is se 色 (iro in Japanese, saek in Korean; its primary meaning is “colour”, but it also denotes sex). Throughout the poem, the emperor’s fondness for Yang is expressed in erotic terms, and beyond the description of Yang’s physical charms there is no mention of her personality. This erotic dimension of love was an important component of premodern Japanese literature, which would diminish in the literary works of the midto-late-Meiji period. During this time the spiritual bond between lovers began to be emphasized instead, replacing iro with the words ai (愛) and renai (恋愛), though the latter was used predominantly. It is said that renai was the Japanese translation of the English “love” and the French “amour,” a concept that first appeared in the 1880s (Suzuki 1996, 74). The romantic feelings shared by Kan’ichi and Miya are described as renai, which was radically different from the native perception of romantic love, represented by iro (色) and koi (恋): the spiritual attraction and mutual affection between lovers are emphasized in renai (Suzuki 1996, 74), while iro and koi mainly depict an erotic dimension. When the purely spiritual aspects of romantic relationships were emphasized, the English term, raabu (ラーブ love), was used in katakana.
Why had Japanese culture changed to the extent that a foreign word had to be adopted in order to explain the affection between men and women? Noguchi Takehiko explains that the Protestant concept of love influenced Meiji writers in their exploration of heterosexual relations (1987, 9-44). In Meiji literature, sexual intercourse for the sake of pleasure tended to be downplayed while the spiritual bond between lovers was emphasized, and some went so far as to denounce iro as barbaric or a “lower form of love” (Saeki 2000, 13-17). Junko Saeki points out that the clear split between the physical and the spiritual, and their hierarchy, were derived from Meiji intellectuals’ observation of a “civilized world”—the West— where men and women maintained partnerships based on equality, freedom, and respect, over erotic attraction. The categorization of love in the writings of famous literary critic and writer Tsubouchi Shoˉyoˉ (1859-1935), for example, epitomizes this literary tendency: he defines the highest form of love as based on one’s spiritual bond with one’s partner, while the lowest is based on pure eroticism (Saeki 2000, 13-14).
In Japanese popular novels, the fundamental condition for entering into an “ideal relationship” was the freedom to choose one’s partner for marriage, or jiyuˉ kekkon, a very popular term that captured the relatively liberal mood of the late Meiji period, as seen in Miya’s choice in The Gold Demon. There was, however, also some social prejudice against jiyuˉ kekkon during that time. On the one hand, the term jiyuˉ (freedom or liberty) implied a rather selfish justification for individual thought and action that challenged the group-based lifestyle of the Japanese. On the other hand, although the traditional class system was abolished in 1868, and restrictions on “marriage across status groups or to non-Japanese” were lifted in 1871 (Mackie 2003, 22), the custom of arranged marriage remained strong in Japan. This was especially true for people in the middle class where marriage entailed an exchange of economic interests and social connections intended to benefit both families.
If marriage was instrumental in terms of its exchange of status value in Edo, its instrumentality was measured by capitalist standards in Meiji. In this regard, the idealization of love in literature was often coupled with the writer’s moral judgment on the practice of marriage, and exploration of conflicts that derived from material interest rather than the priorities of the past, such as honor or loyalty. Flowing beneath this current of moral exhibitionism was a strong sense of fear and despair over the loss of traditional culture. In a number of Meiji romance novels, the confrontation between different generations and individuals is depicted through the polarization of moral sentiments, where faithfulness and compassion are posited as the antithesis of material desire. In The Gold Demon, the male protagonist, Kan’ichi, exemplifies this point when he vilifies the materialism that undermines human feelings.
The equivalent of iro in Korean, saek, generally belongs to the sensual realm, which was seen as ‘vulgar’ by Confucian literati during the Choso˘n period (13921910). The word sarang—which originally meant having someone special in mind over a long period of time—was widely used to express deep affection for friends, family, and lovers. However, it was rare to find the term used in public discourses about romantic relationships between men and women; it seems to have existed mostly in popular fiction and traditional theatre (p’ansori, one-man opera), which were consumed largely by commoners. It must be noted that the theme of romance in popular fiction and p’ansori often involved criticism of the rigid class system and the corruption of bureaucrats, as well as upholding the importance of Confucian precepts. Ch’unhyangga (Song of Ch’unhyang), one of the most beloved p’ansori in Korea, is just one example that elucidates the political dimension of love in popular forms of art in pre-modern Korea. But the meaning of sarang was to go through a significant change in Korea as Protestant missionaries arrived there in the 1880s. The missionaries favored employing the vernacular when translating religious texts, using sarang to mean “love” of God, for example. Renai, on the other hand, was introduced to Koreans for the first time through Cho’s translation of Kikuchi Yuˉho’s Ono ga tsumi 己が罪 (My Crime), from which he borrowed the term directly. Now pronounced in Korean as yo˘nae, in Cho’s translations of My Crime and The Gold Demon, this term describes a romantic relationship between a man and a woman that was fundamentally spiritual.
The native term sarang, which was repurposed by Protestant missionaries and congregations starting in the 1880s, was to be reconfigured once more in literature in the early 1910s, being associated more strongly with romance between a man and a woman when Cho began using it interchangeably with yo˘nae in his translations. The word yo˘nae was introduced clearly as a foreign word, and sarang was used to explain what yo˘nae meant. Both terms emphasized the spiritual dimension of a love that is devoid of sensuality. The question is: why did Cho use sarang and yo˘nae interchangeably when the latter could have served this purpose on its own? He explicitly describes yo˘nae as “pure and sacred” in a number of places in his translations, providing extending descriptions of the love that is based on a spiritual bond. To explain the linguistic value of the native term sarang in Cho’s translations, one must examine the set of alien forms of social behaviour that came with the original text. Cho’s incorporation of a religious and patriarchal notion of love “smoothed out” such behaviour, helping familiarize his readers with them. Some of the most sensational features of these romance novels were the reduced patriarchal authority in young couples’ romantic relationships, premarital pregnancy, and young people’s independent decision-making processes for their careers and marriages—all of which might have shocked the readers of the time. Arranged marriage was still the norm in Korea and obeying parents was one of the most important virtues in the still predominantly Confucian society. Inasmuch as the newness of yo˘nae had to be preserved to evoke the imagination of the modern, it was equally important for Cho to reduce its foreignness to appeal to his readers. The result, as we will see, was the appropriation of the narrative and the intervention of a patriarchal voice clothed in the garb of Christianity.
Although Meiji writers criticized the erotic dimension of love in literature as a sign of ‘barbarity,’ the topic was hotly discussed in attempts to redefine the meaning of love. However, discussions of eroticism were basically absent in the Korean literary world during the 1910s. This absence, I believe, had partly to do with the tenacity of the notion of female chastity that dominated Korean public discourse. That said, the most likely reason was that most writers were elite intellectuals whose ethical framework was formed mainly by their Confucianbased moral training, which meant that their liberal ideas of social progress were not necessarily applied to the realm of sexuality. Cho, like other translators and writers at the time, maintained this conservative attitude towards female sexuality in his translation, as illustrated by an added plot element in his translation of The Gold Demon wherein the female protagonist tries to keep herself chaste even after she is married.
Whereas Miya has a child with her wealthy husband in The Gold Demon, Miya in A Dream resists having sexual relations with her husband for almost four years after marriage. After eventually being raped by her husband, Korean Miya is traumatized by the event, and even tries to kill herself, but she does not attempt to challenge her husband’s wrongful conduct; instead, her shame and guilt drive her to madness. In fact, this emphasis on female chastity had been a distinctive feature of many Korean novels and translations produced in the 1900s and 1910s in which female protagonists tried to keep chaste at all costs, signifying loyalty and dedication to their lovers and husbands.
With the chaste female body representing the colony and the male aggressor symbolizing Japan’s economic exploitation of the colony, Korean Miya’s adamant resistance against her capitalist husband can be read as an allegory for Koreans who refused to succumb to colonial power (Thornber 2009, 171). However, the reading of female chastity solely as a national allegory runs the risk of masking the gender hierarchy that was legitimized by male writers in colonial Korea. Colonized men may have become more possessive and controlling over the lives of their women due to the reduction of their authority by the colonial force, and this reduced masculinity becomes the central element in a rape fantasy where men’s very notion of their marginalized position and their desire to regain power is released. The loss or reduction of masculinity, however, is never personal but social and ideological. The rape fantasy rationalizes men’s desire to bar external powers from penetrating their territory, thus making women an “object of exchange or catalyst for rivalry within male conversation and male power struggles” (Silver 1991, 124). In short, Japanese writers had to ‘translate’ the meaning of love to defend their moral authority against the power of capitalism in the name of ‘spirituality,’ whereas Korean translators undertook the ‘retranslation’ of love as symbolic resistance against colonial power.
The Cultural Meaning of Suffering
In The Gold Demon Miya seeks atonement through suicide, thrusting a knife into her throat to prove her innocence. Such hyperbolic expressions of violence and blood in romantic fiction are, in fact, one of melodrama’s most significant features. Peter Brooks (1985) observes that the violence, exaggerated emotional reactions, and moral implications embedded in French melodrama were used as modes of imagining spirituality at the time of the dissolution of Christendom. Following Brooks’ observations of melodrama in light of violence, Ito Ken argues that the moral suffering of the central characters, Miya and Kan’ichi, is a “gauge of love,” where “violence is a marker of their passions” (2008, 88). In the stabbing scene— which happens in Kan’ichi’s dreams—Kan’ichi is incapable of taking decisive action while Miya wrestles with another woman, Mitsue, Kan’ichi’s admirer, over a knife, and until Miya picks up the knife and thrusts it into her throat, Kan’ichi cannot utter a single word. Ito argues that such male impotence is an extension of the difficult relationship between Kan’ichi and Miya, which is heightened by violence and death.
While Miya and Kan’ichi’s fate is bleak in the original work, the Korean translation ends with their happy reunion. Unlike Japan, Korea had yet to experience urbanization and industrialization, and the number of middle-class households was small. Although the colonial government promoted class equality as a part of their assimilation policy, the opportunity to achieve economic success was limited for most young Koreans since their access to educational and economic resources was limited. Various reports of events in the education sector and advertisements that attempted to recruit students for technical schools appeared frequently in the Daily News, yet these enticing images of the future were less a reality than a construction of colonial control that aimed to mask the predicament faced by the colonized.
Cho likely felt ambivalent about the changing social landscape. In light of the depressing colonial environment, he may have tried to create a cultural space for the manifestation of collective fantasy and the desire for cultural unity. In this regard, his active involvement in theatre and film productions cannot be separated from his translation activity. In the mid-1930s, he recalled his motives for translating The Gold Demon: “I had a hope that I would encourage young men and women in Korea to be spiritually uplifted through A Dream. In order to achieve this, I felt compelled to make it entirely Korean” (Cho, 1934). Cho’s appeal to a public conception of moral sentiments is another characteristic of melodrama. An innocent person is misrecognized and victimized within the novel, but her or his moral struggle is clearly identified by a public who will eventually resolve the protagonist’s ordeal (Gledhill 1987, 30). In other words, the protagonist’s moral conflict is not personal; rather, his or her personality represents the overriding moral sentiments of the readership. It is evident that Cho was consciously familiarizing foreignness to appeal to his readers by accentuating domestic sensibilities. Except in his first translation of a Japanese romance novel, The Cuckoo (Hototogisu by Tokutomi Roˉka, 1899), for example, he changed the names of characters and geographical specificities from the Japanese originals into Korean; and he changed the original titles to reflect contemporary trends in Korean literature or traits of traditional Korean literature and culture.
Although it has a historical connection with the love story of the Tang emperor, the title of the translation, Changhanmong, resonates with a sensibility that represents the collective consciousness of the Korean people. Han (恨) is a culturally bound term that refers to a range of emotions including suffering, resignation, resentment, unfulfilled desire, and pent-up grief. In the original, Kan’ichi expresses his feeling of betrayal and bitterness as urami (恨). Although the same Chinese character is used in the Japanese and Korean versions, the meaning of the term differs considerably. Urami as the word used for Kan’ichi’s feeling towards Miya in the original can be translated as “hatred.” However, the term used in Korean text, han, should rather be associated with mute grief and suffering. Han is deeply embedded in one’s personal psychology, and the possibility of resolving it during one’s life is slight. Thus Korean ghost stories and traditional fiction which draw upon the concept of han commonly feature dead souls who creep back to the real world or protagonists who wander the realm of dreams in order to fulfill their desires. Some scholars associate the concept with Korean shamanistic rituals, which seek to pacify the traumatized soul of a deceased person by resolving the deceased’s han and liberating the soul. Since shamanistic rituals are communitybased activities, the religious language of han can be conceptualized in terms of a “collective consciousness” or “representations of collectives” (Jae Hoon Lee 1994, 4).
In other words, while grief over death is said to be private and individualistic in Western societies, shamanistic ritual in Korea reflects a collective society in which death is associated with a communal belief system (Archer 1999, 33). The inability of the dead to speak in real life carries significance here; their voices are audible to the community through such rituals. Han, in other words, was a strategically chosen term that reflected the popular view of suffering. The rewriting of the plot of A Dream, through the happy reunion of the lovers, provides a resolution to the dialectic of han, pacifying emotions suppressed by the various social restrictions Cho’s readers faced at the collective level.
Christian and Patriarchal Rhetoric
A Dream was advertised as a novel that depicts a realistic rendering of human misery (Daily News, May 9, 1913). Simply put, the source of human misery in the novel is the greedy pursuit of money. Indeed, the capitalist economic structure that influenced social relations is captured in the Japanese names of the characters of The Gold Demon. Miya’s husband Tomiyama (富山, ‘mountain of wealth’) represents the power of material possessions to stand above moral sentiments. Hazama Kan’ichi (間一, ‘one-in-between’) is caught in a moral conflict between money and love, and Miya ((お)宮, ‘a Shinto shrine/an imperial princess’) can be seen to represent the diminishing strength of the Japanese cultural spirit. When Ozaki Koˉyoˉ said that the novel was a depiction of the “battle between love and gold” (Ito 2008, 88), he may have meant something more than the unfortunate separation of Kan’ichi and Miya, and Miya’s surprising decision to choose Tomiyama as her husband. As Ito observed, Koˉyoˉ’s intention may have been to critique the loss of traditional ways of life and of the disintegration of honour and loyalty in social interactions that had become tainted by economic interests.
Although the Korean translation mostly corresponds to the original, some significant changes were made in Cho’s choice of names: Miya becomes Sunae (純愛, ‘gentle and pure love’); Kan’ichi becomes Suil (守一, ‘to defend the one’); and Tomiyama becomes Chungbae (重倍, ‘to foster [material] accumulation’). Sunae’s nature is gentle and faithful, and her chaste and loyal heart is finally recognized by Suil at the end of the novel. Although he also suffers, Suil is the one who never loses his faith in love. Conversely, the most unsympathetic character is Chungbae.
Antithetical to love, he is arrogant, greedy, a rapist, and a womanizer who is completely devoid of compassion.
While character development in the original Japanese version is more complicated, the Korean version operates around the theme of kwo˘nso˘n chingak (reward the good and punish the evil), the typical narrative structure of traditional Korean novels, which was still prevalent in translations and creative fiction at that time. In the Japanese version, Miya and Kan’ichi never reconcile and the novel ends with Miya’s letter to Kan’ichi in which she recognizes that it is impossible to reverse the situation and seeks Kan’ichi’s forgiveness. Sunae, on the other hand, tries to prove her faithfulness by killing herself, and earns her lover’s forgiveness.
The fact that the story’s central character was a student may have attracted the newly emerging social elites in Korea (Kim Yunsik and Kim Hyo˘n 1973, 115) where public expectations of the educated were often linked to national progress. In fact, it was hard for public intellectuals, especially learned men, to avoid criticism if they were seen—in the public’s eyes at least—to be engrossed in “personal” interests. At the same time, Suil’s status as a student was a condition of self-advancement for young Korean readers. Suil’s circle of school friends achieves social success by becoming government officials and bankers via education in Japan, while Suil voluntarily gives up the opportunity. While obtaining higher learning in Japan was a desirable goal for many young Korean men and women, Suil’s determination to become a moneylender symbolizes the moral collapse of a youth who not only abandons his obligation to serve society, but also abandons the educational opportunity that will ensure his personal growth.
The original novel presents the moneylending business as an extreme form of economic exploitation in a capitalist society that challenges and degrades human morality and feelings. By abandoning his original goal of going to college to pursue a respectable career and instead becoming a moneylender, Kan’ichi is inflicting pain on himself by entering a world he despises, a self-destructive act that drives Miya almost to madness. Two other characters, however, justify the importance of running the moneylending business: Wanibuchi, Kan’ichi’s boss, and Mitsue, Kan’ichi’s admirer. As Ito rightly pointed out in his analysis of the novel, Wanibuchi reveals his patriotism in his speech to his son, Tadamichi, who considers his father’s business unethical. Treating his son’s concern as the “oversensitive” (shinkeika) reaction of “a scholar” (gakusha) who does not understand how society ‘really’ works, Wanibuchi argues that not only does his business fulfill people’s desire to accumulate wealth, it also contributes to the nation’s progress (Koˉyoˉ 1971, 226-27).
In the Korean translation, the connection between national wealth and the moneylending business was omitted and the word “nation” is changed to “the world” (sesang [244]). In Korea, moneylending was illegal until the turn of the century, though the industry seems to have gradually grown towards the end of Choso˘n (Son 1980, 1113-14). The Japanese then began to operate legitimate moneylending businesses after the conclusion of the Kanghwa treaty in 1876 (Sin 2003, 158), following which the number of these businesses increased significantly in major cities and ports, such as Seoul, Kaeso˘ng, Pusan, and Inch’o˘n between 1895 and 1905. By the mid-1900s the industry was dominated by the Japanese (Son 1980, 1115). Under these circumstances, the moneylending business was likely a sensitive issue and it would have been inappropriate for the government-run newspaper to present it as the “source” of national prosperity. Furthermore, the Japanese had taken full control of trade and resources on the peninsula by 1910 (Duus 1995, 24588), and the memory of the loss of their own nation was still fresh in the minds of Koreans. Thus it might have been a tactical device for Cho to appeal to universality by replacing “our nation” with “the world.”
Another notable change made in the Korean translation is Tadamichi’s occupation. While he is described as a teacher and a scholar in the Japanese version, the Korean is vague except for one illustration where Kim Tosik (Tadamichi) appears to be a Catholic priest (October 9, 1913). Yet Cho described him by borrowing Kim’s father’s words, as “a Christian” (kyoin) who doesn’t know how the real world works (Cho 1934, 244). Although the original Tadamichi represents the spirit of a Confucian samurai, whose indifference to materialism was meant to inspire Japan’s social elites to perform benevolent acts for their community, a suitable and native Korean counterpart was not available. The yangban (civil and military officials in Choso˘n) were frequently accused of being “uncivilized” and “corrupt” by the government and media, thus the insertion of Christian ethics may have been intended as a critique of the yangban. However, the deployment of Christianity embodies something more than an attack on the materialistic mindset of capitalists. When Suil decides to quit the moneylending business, his friend says, “So, you are baptized today. You have been renewed” (puhwal han saram [493]). Paek, Suil’s friend, continues to deliver this Christian message by persuading Suil to forgive Sunae in the name of Jesus Christ. Indeed, terms such as “baptism” (serye), “repentance” (hoegae), and “resurrection/renewal” (puhwal) appeared frequently in literature from the mid-1900s onwards (Yi Mihyang 2001).
It is noteworthy that these terms were used by Christian nationalists, especially Protestants, who emphasized the spiritual renewal of Korean society by focusing on that of its individual members in their translations and fiction. The fact that the notion of equality was propagated in the independence movement before and during the colonial period also was related to Christian proselytizing. The nationalist image of Protestantism in Korea shaped the country’s literary discourse on Christianity significantly, since the Protestant notion of equality, in particular, was endorsed enthusiastically by a number of prominent writers, including An Kukso˘n (1878-1926) and Yi Kwangsu (1892-1950).
The Protestant Christian population in Korea grew exponentially during a very short span of time, increasing from 4,356 in 1896 to 20,918 in 1900, and up to approximately 130,000 by 1910 (Timothy Lee 2000, 125). Meanwhile, many leaders from the Protestant churches resisted the colonial government, and their political involvement in the nationalist movement during the 1910s became a growing government concern. Between 1911 and 1913, the colonial government of Korea reacted to the Protestant community with violent measures, arresting hundreds of church members for allegedly plotting the assassination of the Governor General of Korea (Kang 2006).
This incident reveals the period’s strict surveillance of Protestant churches for their material and emotional support of nationalistic activities. However, a broader implication of the incident is the competition between two nodes of imperial force in Korea, namely those of the West and of Japan. It was evident that Western missionaries were sympathetic to Koreans, showing a critical attitude towards the Japanese. Presenting “pen-loving” Koreans under the Japanese “sword” as a “passive and childlike” people to the Western world, the Western missionaries contended that “western knowledge, western religion, the secret of the West, is what the East is calling for” (Gale 1909, 242-44). Alarmed by the missionary leaders’ vehement accusations about Japan’s “reign of terror in Korea” in English media, the colonial government released all of the accused in 1915 (Kang 2006, 97101). In order to suppress the Western church’s influence, the Governor General of Korea tried to convert “Western-influenced Protestants” to “Japan-friendly Protestants” in the early 1910s. Under the pretext of harmony between Korea and
Japan in Christian beliefs, the Governor General of Korea encouraged Japanese Protestant groups to join Korean congregations, though the membership in these churches was far less than that of the purely native churches (Wells 1990, 74-75).
It was in this complicated geopolitical position of Korea that Christianity and the Christian rhetoric of love were translated on multiple levels. Nationalist intellectuals and writers regarded Christianity as the source of Western modernity; and they were attracted to the stress on equality, which justified the expression of their desire for national independence. Most of all, the rhetoric generated authoritative power when critiquing Korean culture and society; and the tone of the criticism was patriarchal, articulating gender roles for a “renewal” of Korea. Thematically, while Christian elements are absent from The Gold Demon, Cho deployed a Christian message in his translation. It is a matter of debate to what extent the patriarchal tone in the Christian rhetoric of love served Cho’s intention to “awaken” Koreans, since the colonial government also aimed to establish moral order in the colony by emphasizing women’s submission for the sake of national progress. Neither is it clear whether Cho was Christian, although between 1900 and 1902 he studied at Kyo˘ngso˘ng haktang, a high school established by Japanese missionaries in 1896 (Chinyo˘ng Pak 2004, 206). Cho’s religious identity, however, is of little significance here; rather, it is the double-edged function of the rhetoric that reinforced the material and spiritual renewal of Korean society, both confirming and bypassing the colonial government’s propagation of the importance of elevating the level of civilization in Korea.
In A Dream, cultural unity and national progress originate from the smallest unit of the society: the family. The expectations of patriarchal order and women’s submissiveness in the name of proper social order appear in the sections that were created entirely by the translator Cho. Appearing under the subtitle, “A harmonious household” (Tallanhan kajo˘ng), the last section of the narrative ends with Sunae’s determination to become a good wife, promising her complete submission to Suil. Sunae’s sickness is cured by Suil’s devotion and in the end they get married. The “harmony” of the household in A Dream is clearly predicated upon women’s complete subordination to the male heads of their families. Suil’s high school friend, Paek, illustrates this principle in the language he uses when he confronts Sunae’s father. A man of letters, indifferent to self-advancement, morally superior, and of staunch Christian beliefs, Paek becomes the central voice of paternalism in A Dream.
When Sunae’s father seeks Paek’s help in persuading Suil to visit his sick daughter, Paek replies with harsh criticism, blaming the father’s inability to supervise his daughter properly in the first place. Despite the fact that the age difference between Sunae’s father and Paek is more than twenty years, Paek does not lower his position in his speech as expected by social norms. Paek’s moral superiority and the tolerance of his condescending attitude by his senior signify the respect given to Korean youths for their high education; this in fact postulates that there is a heavy responsibility assigned to them for contributing their knowledge to the national community rather than pursuing their individualistic desires. That said, although at first sight Paek’s stern attitude towards his senior seems to suggest a moral failure of the traditional order, his stress on the importance of women submitting to male members of their family echoes the Confucian notion of women’s place in society. Paek’s advocacy of “renewal” then has less to do with spiritual renewal in Christian sense; rather it is to re-establish the Confucian-based patriarchal order for the sake of social harmony and collective unity in which women’s submission to men becomes a condition for re-establishing the order.
Conclusion
The Daily News and Cho had two different, yet overlapping visions in A Dream of Long Suffering. The former tried to construct images of social order and progress by utilizing Japanese novels as a prototype of modernity, while the latter tried to project his political visions onto the text by incorporating native sensibilities of suffering, and of religious and patriarchal love. As Ito argues, the irreconcilability of the lovers presents the contradiction of Meiji Japan, when men were relatively free to enter into fictive family relations—for example, the brotherhood between Kan’ichi and his close friend, or Kan’ichi’s relationship with his employer—while women were given a “one and only chance to change their place in the world, that is, marriage” (Ito 2008, 139). In A Dream, the impossibility of the main characters’ reconciliation is effaced; instead, the couple reunites and finds meaning in love and marriage by leading their lives for the public good. Their salvation, in turn, is linked with national salvation, which is granted through their adherence to the Christian doctrine of love and patriarchal hierarchy.
The expression of sadness caused by separation, betrayal, and the transience of life has been critiqued as a tool for veiling the powerless mental state of the colonized, and thus diluting their nationalistic sentiments (Kwo˘n 2004; 2008). However, the politics of emotion framed in these translations were products of the translating subject’s negotiation with colonial authority and ideology, which enabled him to subvert the hegemonic power through the protagonists’ moral victory in overcoming the “temptation” of material wealth, resulting in the solidification of the unity between the characters. The expression of sadness, in other words, was a literary device that was to amplify the meaning of unity. Cho’s emphasis on unity is supported by Confucian virtues under the garb of Christian and patriarchal rhetoric, a moral basis for young Korean men for assuming authority and leadership in restructuring society.
In her close reading of English translations of Russian literature, Rachel May (1994) suggests how historical circumstance as well as linguistic and aesthetic forces from the target culture affect translators, who at times override the authority of the authors because of their desire to accommodate the cultural sensibilities of domestic readers. This cultural accommodation was made at the expense of accuracy in the case of Ivan Turgenev, and with the loss of substantial passages in the case of Fyodor Dostoevsky, for example. May’s examination of Constance Garnett’s translation of Turgenev is especially noteworthy. By domesticating Turgenev’s literary language to fit Victorian literary taste, Garnett successfully introduced this Russian literary figure into the English-speaking world, despite the fact that her translation has been continuously challenged for its excessive domestication of the original’s ideological content and prose styles that were specific to Russian literature (May 1994, 11-42). This kind of excessive domestication, however, cannot be grounds for depreciating translators’ abilities because, as my investigation of Cho’s translation illustrates, the translation process is a historically specific site where linguistic and aesthetic differences are negotiated to meet the cultural expectations of the target audience. While readers’ reception of the translations of Japanese novels must be examined in order to see how the transcultural flow of imperial texts contributed to imaginations of nation and society in colonial Korea, Cho’s translation clearly demonstrates how romance was politicized by negotiating the uneven relations between the colonizer and the colonized.
GLOSSARY
ai
An Kukso˘n
Bai Juyi
Changhan’ga (Changhen ge)
Changhanmong
Cho Chunghwan
Choso˘n Ch’unhyangjo˘n gakusha Heian hoegae
iro
jiyuˉ
jiyuˉ kekkon
Konjaku monogatari
Kim Chungbae
Kim Tosik
Kan’ichi Konjiki yasha
koi
kwo˘nso˘n chingak kyoin
Liang Qichao Maeil sinbo
愛
安國善白居易長恨歌長恨夢趙重桓朝鮮春香傳学者平安悔改色自由自由結婚今昔物語金重倍金道植貫一金色夜叉恋勸善懲惡 교인/教人梁啓超毎日新報 Meiji
Mitsuei
(O)miya
Ozaki Koˉyoˉ
p’ansori puhwal han saram
renai saek sarang sesang serye shinkeika Sim Sunae
tallanhan kajo˘ng
Tomiyama
Tsubouchi Shoˉyoˉ Wanibuchi yangban Yang Gui-fei
Yi Kwangsu
Yi Suil yo˘nae
Xuanzong 明治三枝お宮尾崎紅葉 판소리 부활한 사람 恋愛色 사랑 世上洗禮神経家沈純愛 단란한 가정 富山坪内逍遥鰐淵兩班楊貴妃李光洙李守一恋愛玄宗
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