A review by paninigoweenie
The Vegetarian by Han Kang

challenging dark emotional sad tense fast-paced
  • Plot- or character-driven? Character
  • Strong character development? It's complicated
  • Loveable characters? It's complicated
  • Diverse cast of characters? N/A
  • Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

4.0

 Yeong-hye, the Vegetarian, remains a mystery to me. The reader never truly understands her, Han Kang veiling her behind the perspectives of the people in her life: first behind her domineering husband, then behind her repulsive brother-in-law, and finally behind the worrisome and tired eyes of her caring sister, In-hye. 

In the first third, The Vegetarian, I disliked every character, especially Mr. Cheong, Yeong-hye’s husband. A natural patriarch, he feels emboldened by his control over his wife. Naturally, when she decides to cease her consumption of animal products, he calls her insane, inconsiderate, mentally-ill. What will his boss think of him? How will society perceive him? A man with a vegetarian wife, a man who lost control of the being who belonged to him. Yeong-hye defies society. By rejecting meat. By rejecting wearing a bra to ease the tension in her chest. By rejecting submission. And so begins Yeong-hye’s quiet revolt against the pain of being human. 

In the second third, Mongolian Mark, we follow In-hye’s husband, Yeong-hye’s brother-in-law. When compared to Mr. Cheong, her brother-in-law is not outwardly tyrannical. A distant artist, he keeps to his art studio, often forgetting about his wife and child. Hearing about Yeong-hye’s mongolian mark, he finds inspiration for a new film project. He films her nude, painting flowers over her body. He sexualizes her. He defiles her. He is the embodiment of the cruelty and perverseness of humanity. All the while Yeong-hye embraces a new version of herself: she becomes more reticent, less anxious, almost like a plant. In fact, she begins to believe she is one. 

After In-hye learns of her husband's infidelity, and him taping him and Yeong-hye having sex, she calls the police. We then transition to the final third of the novel which redeemed the book for me in many aspects: Flaming Trees. In this latter third, the fog that blurred my understanding dissipated, albeit, not completely. Reading from the perspective of In-hye was particularly enjoyable, solemn, and devastating. Suddenly the book became less about the savagery of men and more about the women, the two sisters, who must endure the agony of human consciousness. Yeong-hye’s suffering stemmed from the abuse of their father; In-hye learned to survive their father’s abuse. Suffering is inflicted upon them throughout their lives. And as a result, Yeong-hye revolted, becoming like the trees, a silent creature that does as she pleases, without serving others. In-hye suffers as well, realizing she’s never really lived: 

“The feeling that she had never really lived in this world caught her by surprise. It was a fact. She had never really lived. Even as a child, as far back as she could remember, she had done nothing but endure. She had believed in her own inherent goodness, her humanity, and lived accordingly, never causing anyone harm. Her devotion to doing things the right way has been unflagging, all her success had depended on it, and she would have gone on like that indefinitely. She didn’t understand why, but faced with those decaying buildings and straggling grasses, she was nothing but a child who had never lived.”

While her sister is admitted in the mental hospital, In-hye thinks of her son and her love for him, she thinks of life and its plights, but she also thinks about a human oddity: we suffer yet we endure. We lace laughter in our suffering, we continue treading:
 
“Life is such a strange thing, she thinks, once she has stopped laughing. Even after certain things have happened to them, no matter how awful the experience, people still go on eating and drinking, going to the toilet and washing themselves—living, in other words. And sometimes they even laugh out loud.”

When I think of this novel, I do not think of meat, or a mental hospital, or even a certain character. I think of the imagery of the trees: the trees that Yeong-hye and In-hye escaped to as children, their leaves burning with the rising of the sun, the same trees they see in the last scene of the book. As children, they see the trees as an alternative life, a peaceful one, devoid of their father’s abuse. Why not become one? Why not escape the tumultuous expectations of life, and simply live as you care to? Why not simply forge your own path, no matter how peculiar it seems?

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