It’s a sad fact that relatively few of Korea’s more notable contemporary writers have managed to command an audience outside of their homeland. The reasons for this are perhaps too numerous to get into, but without doubt one of the biggest challenges is that many of the more interesting literary products defy easy categorization. They are neither this not that (at least by the reckoning of the major publishing houses) and, as a result, end up overlooked, condemned to the obscurity of small government sponsored presses. Considering this reality, it’s rather surprising to find that of the rare few works to draw more than a flicker of interest in the West one of them should be an illustrated edition of a bizarre, Kafkaesque novella about a man with an ant problem.

In Tower of Ants Choi In-Ho offers up a strangely detached central character – a man with seemingly no connection to society aside from his dead-end job as an advertising copywriter. Despite the fact that he is endlessly surrounded by his fellow drones, the story rarely reveals him in conversation with anyone other than the nameless women he drags home for meaningless sexual congress. The rabbit warren of apartments in which he resides serves only to emphasize the paradox of being alone among a crowd.

Encroaching on his isolation, however, is a colony of ants seemingly bent upon taking possession of the meager space he’s managed to carve out for himself. Although the man employs a variety of stratagems to rid himself of the pesky intruders, all are to no avail. Indeed, the ants seem to proliferate under his persecution, and it isn’t long before he is forced to entertain other options.

Like a number of the author’s other stories, Tower of Ants hones in on the theme of submission. Struggle is often regarded as an assertion of one’s humanity. Not so for the characters who populate the fictional world of Choi In-Ho. For these unlucky creatures, the cost of freedom is nothing short of absolute surrender.

Tower of Ants is the type of story that not only invites reflection on the meaning of existence, it insists upon it. The allegorical dimension is clear from the outset, and because of this it’s highly unlikely that any reader would to take the character’s struggle against the ants at face value. That said, however, there is room for differences of opinion as to what the outcome of that struggle is intended to tell us.

            Elton LaClare

The road trip has been a mainstay of American literature since it first appeared in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road more than half-a-century ago. In that time, we have come to regard it as something indigenous to America – a manifestation of the frontier spirit. I’m sure I speak for most when I say that I never thought I’d see the day when a writer from the ‘hermit kingdom’ would turn his hand to what has been – in the main – an American form of expression. That said, Choi In-Ho is an anomaly among a writing establishment that has preferred to turn its gaze inward to the dominant themes of Korean history.

But, like it or not, foreign adoption, emigration, and political and personal exile are also themes that are central to the Korean postwar experience. Deep Blue Night hones in on the last of these as it follows the adventures of two men bound by their need to escape the oppressive conservatism of Korean society. Like most exiles, their notions of America prove deeply misguided. Contrary to the liberation they’d expected, their American experience binds them ever more tightly to their homeland. A California road trip offers one last chance to find what they’ve been seeking, but sadly for them, the freedom of the open road serves only to throw into sharper relief the various forms of confinement from which they suffer.

The story culminates in a harrowing late-night journey down the Pacific Coast Highway. The landscape is recounted in vivid detail, and we come to realize that what’s being described is not just a physical voyage but an emotional and spiritual one too. When the car crashes at the edge of a precipice, the author’s point is clear. Pursuing the journey any further would come at the risk of a complete breakdown for the characters. In the final scene, both exiles pledge to return to face the forces that had inspired their flight.

The other tale contained in Deep Blue Night offers readers welcome respite from the angst conjured by the title story. On the surface, The Poplar Tree is a story about a man who trains himself to leap over a towering poplar planted in his garden. However, a perceptive reader will discern that this is actually a tale about how dreams and ambitions crushed by tragedy can be resuscitated by time, patience and effort. The message of The Poplar Tree serves as an interesting counterpoint to Deep Blue Night, which – in the end – advises submission to one’s conquerors.

Over the years, Choi In-Ho has solidified his reputation as the infant terrible of the Korean literary scene. Self-declared ‘autobiographical’ tales, such as Deep Blue Night, which feature liberal use of recreational drugs have no doubt placed him under an uncomfortable spotlight. The good news for us is that the pressure cooker of Korean society has unwittingly assisted in the creation of gripping stories such as those contained in this book.

            Elton LaClare