The Hanok Review is a rising journal of Korean literature, publishing Korean-to-English translations, interviews, and original creative writing by authors identifying with Korean culture. At the intersection of contemporary, global letters and the Korean diaspora, the Hanok Review cultivates its unique voice by managing each translation internally, curating Korean-language poetry submissions that speak to a multilingual world of pan-Korean identity, with each editor contributing to the journal’s harmonious chorus of translations. In this interview, I spoke to the founder and editor-in-chief, Nicole Hur, about the philosophy of translation and Korean literature, as the Hanok Review launches their second issue.
Michelle Chan Schmidt (MCS): Nicole, in addition to founding and editing the Hanok Review, you also wear the hats of poet and translator. I’d love to hear your opinion on a wonderful essay by Nicole Wong published in our Summer 2023 issue, “The Terroir of a Single Work: Redefining Scope in Approaches to Translation.” It dissects the techniques of translation with metaphorical heft and eloquent clarity and asks the same question you do: “What is home?” How do you understand Wong’s words on foreignization and domestication in relation to the Hanok Review’s translations?
Nicole Hur (NH): Perhaps because I was a poet before a translator, I naturally came to the process of translation with the textual cues and self-awareness enabled by poetic depth. I see this in what Wong articulates as “foreignization with an appropriate scope,” in which the receptor language takes on a “foreign” or non-standard form in an effort to resemble the particular authorial manipulation of the source language; that is, translation as an act of transferring the various stylistic elements in which an author articulates their world from the bounds of one language to another. I believe this intimate approach to translation yields a natural sensitivity to—or at least awareness of—the source text’s socio-cultural context. This sensitivity enables resisting unfounded projections of foreignization or domestication.
Translation can never be perfect, in the sense that the Korean “eomma” can never fully equate to the English “mother,” even in its literal glory. I often think back to Ocean Vuong’s quotation: “even if I were to write the word ‘the’… that is still an Asian-American ‘the.’ I can’t escape it, so if I can’t escape it, I should tend to my curiosities beyond the identity. Because the identity is already there, it’s embedded into everything.”
I want to emphasize the notion of traversing “beyond the identity.” As Wong asserts that the “translator is not a transparent vessel for the foreign author,” I consider a solely ethical aim in translation (at least in regard to foreignization and domestication) to be unattainable, and one that mistakenly assumes a culturally void image of the translator. Translation can never fully be ethical, nor should it aim to be, so how, then, can we reconcile these innate cultural differences—the difference between a Korean “the” and an English “the”? I propose the medium of poeticism. Through careful and deliberate poetic choices, translators have the opportunity to reimbue texts with their socio-cultural nuances beyond the inextricable murkiness of cultural identities and into the workable scope of literary identity—which is in itself a kind of cultural identity.
The Hanok Review team adopts poeticism where language is insufficient to convey the full cultural identity of an original word or expression, particularly in regards to the phonetic nature of the Korean language. For example, in our most recent issue, the lead translator for “The thing that seeps” (shoutout to Ainee Jeong) ingeniously translated the onomatopoeic reduplication of “울컥울컥” into “sobbing sopping.” In Korean “울컥울컥” (ulkuk-ulkuk) denotes an intense emotional response that the syllables echo mimetically. The repeated “kuk” sound signals a downward cathartic release, much like the cadence of sobbing (consider the choked exhalations in between sobs). A simple translation of “울컥울컥” as “crying, crying” or “sobbing, sobbing,” would flatten this emotional catharsis and efface the cultural tones. By allowing the “b” to give way to a “p” sound (sobbing sopping), we can recreate this downwards-falling sonoric quality while adding the visual element of a downturned “b.” In this way, our poetic approach to translation permeates into a cultural one. Foreignization occurs as a by-product of the translator’s role as a literary creative, rather than as a cultural gatekeeper. It makes sense that a lot of our team are talented writers as well as translators.
MCS: The Hanok Review embodies a strong Korean cultural identity, embedded in the structure of the journal’s name. Does the editorial team translate with the intention of conveying a national specificity in Korean literature? If so, how do you sense that specificity echoing in the Korean language and its writing?
NH: A core asset of our team is bilingualism, which is more often than not accompanied by a bilingual identity. Many of our staff members grew up with the hyphenated Korean-American identity, which informs the way we translate into both worlds, instead of perceiving a clean separation betweeen them. For example, just as many Korean-American writers transliterate or include Korean words in their English-language works (a wonderful example is “엄마 grew up by the water” by Melanie Hyo-In Han in our second issue), our team adopts similar techniques to provide frameworks of Koreanness where they otherwise would have been eradicated. We try to preserve as much Koreanness as possible within a poem, but not to the extent of compromising readability in English.
An eye-opening incident for me was when a Korean poet took issue with our translation of “아저씨” into the transliteration “ajusshi” instead of “uncle.” I wonder whether the poet’s response would have been different had he shared this dual identity or been exposed to more Korean diasporic work, but I also want to acknowledge his perspective as part of a larger conversation in the translation world. There seems to be a notion that translations should read completely smoothly or be fully domesticated in the receptor language, and this is especially apparent in non-literary translations like subtitles or captions. For example, the recent controversy over Netflix’s Squid Game called attention to lost cultural tones resulting when translations disproportionately cater to one language audience (e.g. the Korean game “Mugunghwa Kkoci Pieot Seumnida” translated into its American variant “Red Light, Green Light”). I suspect the poet shaped his views on what a “desirable” translation looks like in response to the current trends of translation—which seriously needs to be re-interrogated and re-informed to accommodate both linguistic cultures.
MCS: In the Hanok Review’s interview with Yun Humyong, published in your inaugural issue, he says that the “era of globalization . . . is the path to different worlds, the path to literature.” How does that phrase resonate with you? Is the path to the “different worlds” of global literature perhaps the path to literary expressions of cultural identity?
NH: For me, this phrase indicates the expansion of thinking in tandem with the expansion of language capacity, and thus the expansive potential of literature as a whole. By language “capacity,” I mean multilingual expansion rather than lingual mastery over a single language: although both can work to expand literary potential, the former seems to invite more infinite potentials. The way I think is very much facilitated by the languages I think in: my Korean stretches and challenges the expressive boundaries of my universe in English, and vice versa. For example, if we take “untranslatable” words and attempt to re-create or re-express them in other receptor languages, such crossovers would broaden our expressive horizons. An expanded language capacity can be a means for furthering the expressive potential of poetic modes of thought, especially since poetry is in itself a way of thinking. Thus, the more expansive our knowledge of various languages, the more capable we become of literarily traversing Humyong’s “different worlds.”
When Humyong expresses that Korean scholars must “widen their breadth to include English as well as other languages [for] the potential of Hangul,” I think he envisions a cultural identity for Korean literature that can overcome its “history of only one hundred years”—an identity that is expansive and culturally rich despite its relatively compressed pool of influences. But to achieve this, Korean literature may have to borrow or expand its drawing pool from other languages.
MCS: How do you see the space of Korean literature at the moment, whether that’s in its original language, in Anglophone translations, or in the Korean diaspora that primarily communicates in English? Are there young writers and translators whose work you find particularly evocative?
NR: I would have to read much, much more to even come close to a confident response to this question. The Hanok team is key in altering and expanding my attitudes towards Korean literature, especially in regards to translation. Many of our staff also work on translations outside of Hanok, which enables us to discuss how other individuals approach translating. Through these discussions, I’ve realized that the field of translation is still very much contested, and that the right answer for one translator may be utterly wrong for another—but in this discordance I choose to seek relief rather than despair.
Emily Jungmin Yoon’s A Cruelty Special to Our Species immediately comes to mind as a particularly evocative collection. I remember being stunned when I first encountered the collection in high school. In her work, I found the version of the poet I wanted to be reflected and materialized. It seemed as if Yoon had brought expression to a Korean heritage and identity that I had, for years, tried and failed to express in the English language: sonic reverberance, seamless inter-weaving of Korean terminology, the underpinnings of a drawn-out rage… a kind of tenderness and interiority charged with the hummings of intergenerational trauma. I primarily read to write, so Yoon’s work was a major tour de force—and continues to be—for my personal writing style. Otherwise, I would say every time we translate a poem for Hanok, I cultivate a deep appreciation for the particular poet. In the intimacy of translation, every line break, punctuation mark, cadential rhythm, and spatial and syntactic arrangement is called into question. Through the close reading required for translation, I acquire a newfound respect for even the simplest word or device a poet chooses to incorporate in their creative process—it’s like tearing back a simple garment, only to find the intricacies of sewing and mathematically-precise cutting involved in its making. In that sense, I regard translation as the most underrated yet effective way to learn how to write from authors you respect: it is essentially learning to write in reverse.
MCS: What do you look for in submissions? What overall feeling would you like a reader of the Hanok Review to take away from the journal?
NH: You never really know what you look for in submissions until that very thing arrives and surprises you, challenging readers to relocate their premeditated notions of the world—even if that change happens to be minute. As stated on our website, “we expect our contributors to submit work that can stand powerfully on its own,” and such surprises usually have to stand tall in order to enact ideological shifts in a reader’s world. We are also on the lookout for more poetry submissions written in Korean, which our staff can translate. This is a unique opportunity for both the contributor and our team, because it enables us to work with the poet in question when translating. It also offers emerging Korean writers the chance to showcase their work to a more global readership, encouraging a confidence that their work deserves to be translated.
I try my best to curate each issue as a complete body of work. As each poem in a poetry collection informs its “wholeness,” I strategically arrange every issue to lend itself to a unique arc of emotion. Ideally, I would want our readers to experience each issue differently—but always in a way that feels emotionally cohesive.
MCS: What are the greatest challenges you’ve faced in founding and editing the Hanok Review? What goals do you envision for the journal’s future?
NH: Bravery, for me, is a huge component of running Hanok. When I started the journal, I was still a high school student. I felt intensely self-conscious of my inexperience and inadequacy to lead what seemed at the time like such a culturally momentous venture. (Hence why I feel reaffirmed when Wong asserts that “‘ethical attitudes’… risk giving translators the illusion of being… responsible for either serving the myth of universality or preserving literary works as cultural relics rather than as works created by specific individuals who, themselves, do not embody cultures.”) I’ve had many conversations with close relations, expressing my anxieties at having taken on something possibly way out of my depth. However, I think I’m starting to develop a backbone; when I look back on all the mistakes and harsh truths that rattled my confidence in the past, I’m glad they paved the way for me to develop well-equipped response reactions to even the least ideal of circumstances. I’ve also come to realize, as one friend remarked, that “No one will do it if you don’t”—so I should just run with things while I can.
But, most importantly, with each learning curve I realize that I’m never alone. Whether it’s my parents staying up through the night to help draft response emails to the occasionally unsatisfied poet or the entire Hanok editorial team unhesitatingly supporting my final calls despite being unafraid to challenge my decision-making in the process, I’m never left to take on the burdens of growth alone. I think they are the real reason I could develop necessary resistance and self-assurance in the first place: they are the real ‘backbone’ to my backbone. In particular, I want to express my gratitude towards the Hanok team for never making me feel ‘small’ despite my age and for always—in the kindest, most patient way—pushing me to improve and evolve as an editor-in-chief.
Hanok’s current aim is to expand our community in terms of readership and contributors. I recently discovered the power of word-of-mouth when a new acquaintance mentioned he had been encouraged to submit by a previous contributor. I hope that, with the release of further issues (Hanok is looking like a life-long project for me), there will be a greater outreach to new audiences. Otherwise, our staff have also discussed a potential blog to provide insight on our translation processes. If we could offer guidance through transparency in our editorial process, that would perfectly align with our values—a large part of why I founded Hanok, amid other and more established Korean literary magazines, was to provide a more accessible entrypoint into Korean literature, particularly for budding writers and translators. Lastly, in collaborating with more Korean authors for our featured interviews, I would love to illuminate the discourse and mutual influence between different generations of Korean writers.
Nicole Hur is a poet and translator currently based in Seoul, South Korea. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of the Hanok Review, a literary magazine devoted to Korean poets and poetry. Although she enjoys experimenting with various literary genres, she spends most of her days on poetry. Her poems have previously appeared in Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Rogue Agent Journal, and The Poetry Society. You can find her on Twitter @nhurwords.
Michelle Chan Schmidt is a diasporic writer and editor from Hong Kong, now resident in Dublin, Ireland. She edits fiction for Asymptote and reads Hong Kong’s literary and historical narratives from afar to write her own. She enjoys cultural studies. Her essays, criticism, and translations have been published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Asymptote, and the Trinity Journal of Literary Translation, with upcoming fiction to be published in La Piccioletta Barca. A selection of her writing and editing work is available here.
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