From there I started to wonder: What makes a Korean person Korean? Is it what they eat? How they think? What they care about? What they know? So much of culture is transmitted through osmosis, through generalized knowledge. Every American knows the story of George Washington and the cherry tree and of Lincoln’s assassination at Ford’s Theatre. What stories would I know if I had been a Korean growing up in Korea?
The story of Prince Sado and King Yongjo is one such cultural marker. I discovered it during a frantic period of readingas much Korean history and literature I could get my hands on (anything written or translated into English). And it is remarkable. Written by Lady Hong, the wife of Prince Sado, it is a true story of a king who had to kill his son, the heir apparent, in order to save the dynasty from a madman and murderer. What struck me most about this story was that outside of its royal trappings, it is at its core the very human story of a father and son.
Lady Hong’s work defies genres: it is a thriller, a personal memoir, a historical document, a psychological study, a philosophical look at the complexity of human beings, and a good old folk tale of how life is random but must be mined for meaning. Written as four separate memoirs, it is an anomaly in Korean history and literature. First, it was written by a woman in the eighteenth century, a rare occurrence. Second, she wrote it in Hangul, the Korean written language, rather than the classical Chinese favored by men until early in the twentieth century. And third, she wrote about an event that was so devastating that the king ordered complete silence on the subject and scrubbed all mention of Prince Sado from official records.
My story, “The Prince of Mournful Thoughts” is an extension of Lady Hong’s memoirs. I wrote it because I could not find a fictional account of it in English, though I am sure there are many Korean versions. (For the millionth time in my life, I regret my inability to read beyond kindergarten Korean.) At the time, I remember being inspired by a Toni Morrison quote encouraging writers to write the stories they wanted to read. I should say that I have taken some liberties—added characters, situations, and actions—but I hope I have been faithful to Lady Hong’s wise understanding of the tragic relationship between Prince Sado and King Yongjo.
I felt very close to Lady Hong as I wrote the story, and am indebted to her and to the two versions of Lady Hong’s memoirs I read, one translated by Yang-hi Choe-Wall and the other by JaHyun Kim Haboush. I am grateful to Lady Hong for hercourage, poise, resilience, and maybe even her literary ambitions. I like to think there is an invisible line connecting us, two Korean women writers from different times, different cultures writing about what matters most: love, family, truth.
Choe-Wall, Yang-hi, translator. Memoirs of a Korean Queen. By Lady Hong, KPI, Ltd., 1985.
Haboush, JaHyun Kim, translator. The Memoirs of Lady Hyegyong: The Autobiographical Writings of a Crown Princess of Eighteenth-Century Korea. University of California Press, 1996.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest thanks to Alexander Chee for selecting my manuscript as the winner of the Drue Heinz Literature Prize. I admire him not only as a writer but also as a human being and the greatest example today of a good literary citizen. His light, gentle touch is everywhere, helping lift writers up.
It takes a whole host of talented, dedicated people to bring to tactile reality the book you hold in your hands. I’d like to thank the fine folks at the University of Pittsburgh Press who made the publishing part of this process painless and even joyful at times: Chloe Wertz, Alex Wolfe, Amy Sherman, Christine Ma, Kelly Thomas, and John Fagan.
I don’t think it’s possible to be a writer without at least one writer friend. I’ve been lucky to have many. Deepest gratitude to my writers’ group of almost two decades, Seventeen Syllables: Brian Komei Dempster, Lillian Howan, Grace Prasad, Marianne Villanueva, and Jay Dayrit. And also to the ones who moved away: Grace Talusan, Sabina Chen, Roy Kamada,Brynn Saito, and Edmond Chow. Thanks also to my newer Squaw Valley writers’ group: Swathi Desai, Holly Labarbera, and Cindy Newberry. Jaime Lalinde and Ramona Reeves are newer writer friends who read some of the stories in this collection and gave me invaluable advice. Love and gratitude to my two oldest writer pals whom I can always count on for advice: Leah Stewart and Rachel Galvin.
I wish to thank the editors of the literary journals and magazines who published versions of the stories in this collection: MANOA, Meridian, Faultine, The Hunger: A Journal, Parhelion Literary Magazine, and to Pat Matsueda and Rebecca Thomas who helmed the anthology Ms. Aligned 3. Sometimes I wonder if short story writers could exist without publications like these. Surely not without great despair.
I’m grateful to the many wonderful teachers I’ve been privileged to learn from: Deborah Digges, Marie Howe, James Kelman, Denis Johnson, and, especially, Steven Cramer and Zulfikar Ghose.
Where would writers be without family? First they give you fodder for stories, and then they give support. I need to thank my large circle of cousins, especially the ones who have been sisters to me: Christin Pienkney, Susan Lee, Haeyoung Lee, and Beth Lee. I’m also grateful to my brother Charles and to my gentle, wise sister-in-law, Hyunju, who gave me a place to stay when I needed it most, no questions asked. Thank you to all my nephews and nieces on both the Kim and Brown sides: Christian, Brandon, Noelle, James, Sam, Peter, Emily, Peyton, and Ainsley. Thank you to Charlie and Connie and, especially, Jim and Cindy for bringing the East Coast west to us. Thank you to my
