How did you do it midnight timetable pass through?
There are pieces from everywhere. Its title comes from a small bus station near where I live. I live in a port city in South Korea, so for the sake of foreigners the sign was also written in English. And instead of saying ‘night bus’, the sign read ‘midnight timetable’. I thought it was very interesting and romantic in a way. So, I took a photo and made a mental note that I would use it as a caption someday.
During Covid, everything was closed and the whole atmosphere seemed ghostly. Buses still ran, very rarely. The emptiness felt terrible. And my university was the same – classes were online, but we teachers still had to go for meetings sometimes. The empty classrooms and corridors were very disturbing. This is where the idea of ​​’The Institute’ in the book came from.
across Cursed Bunny, Your Utopia, Red Sword and now midnight timetableThere seems to be a deep interest in how technology, capitalism and the body interact. Do you see them as connected, almost like parts of a larger project, or do you think of each book as its own separate experiment?
To me, they are completely different. They were written at different times and under different circumstances. midnight timetable It’s actually the first full-length book I wrote after leaving teaching and becoming a full-time writer.
Cursed Bunny, Your Utopia, and the Red Sword All these were written while I was teaching, interacting with students. I felt connected to that daily routine. My students kept me sane, so I guess those books were better. (laughs) I’m not sure about that!
Your writing is often described as “horror”, “fantasy”, or “weird fantasy”. Do you embrace these labels, or do you feel that your work is limited by these genre classifications?
I would love to be a horror writer. I am proud to be one. When I say I write ghost stories, other Asian people immediately start telling me their ghost stories – and it’s the best thing in the world! We Asians are proud of our ghosts – they are linked to our history, our culture, our collective memory. They are like a treasure trove of life, experiences and perspectives.
Whenever I hear an Asian ghost story, I see a lot of similarities between all Asian people. So, I like to introduce myself as a horror writer, because it opens more doors for people to share their ghost stories with me.
Korean literature has historically been associated with realism, but your work pushes into surreal and fantastical territory. How have your Korean readers responded compared to your international readers?
They didn’t respond because I didn’t sell (laughs). Nobody really knew me. We have a handful of die-hard, die-hard genre readers. I think, like, 12 people read me, and that’s it.
After the whole international Booker frenzy, I was stunned because I had never given so much importance to my literary endeavours. For me, it was something I did for fun.
Your work has reached a massive audience around the world through Anton Hur’s translations. Has the translation process and the entire experience of finding a wider readership shaped or changed your work?
Yes and no. As for the translation process, I do not bother Anton – I trust him completely. He is a native Korean speaker, but he also grew up speaking English in several different countries. So, he knows his readers and I put (the novel) in his lap and don’t think about it.
As far as global readers are concerned, it is really exciting to meet new ghost stories. I had the chance to meet many other writers at various festivals and events and hear about their writing lives and routines. In a way, this also gave me more opportunities. I met this Malaysian author from Singapore whose fantasy books I really liked. So, I translated it into Korean. Same goes for another budding writer from Poland.
The main result of this is that I now get the opportunity to meet people from other languages, cultures and time periods, which is very different from my very narrow circle of expertise. It is a blessing for me as a reader and writer.
You and Anton Hur have a unique relationship – he has translated your work into English, and you have translated his first novel, towards eternityIn Korean. How has this shaped your perspective on translation and collaboration?
In a way, that hasn’t happened. Anton and I both have the same approach to translation. We don’t harass our translators. But we do shows together and it’s a lot of fun.
You have translated contemporary Polish and Russian literature into Korean, bringing these voices to new readers in your country. How does being immersed in another writer’s work and voice affect the way you think about and write your own stories? Do you find that your voice changes the more you translate for someone else?
Yes, maybe!? It’s like I’m walking and not counting every step, I know where I need to be and I’m slowly making my way. I can’t say exactly how much or how much I’m changing, but I’m pretty sure every single translation has changed me. I actually learned how to write fiction by translating other people’s works and reading them. Maybe that’s why I didn’t sell in Korea, because up to a point everything I translated was too strange. (laughing)
Do you feel that your work is inspired by Korean literary traditions or global speculative traditions? Which writers, Korean or other, have influenced the strange, unsettling texture of your stories?
Both. I can’t tell exactly, 49% this and 3% this and 48% that. I grew up reading a lot, reading without limits. I read a lot of Korean writers in addition to contemporary writers of my time. I also read a lot of translated stories from around the world. Also, a lot of Russian literature, even though I grew up during the Cold War. Korean women writers have influenced me a lot. Park Wan-suh, his work was the first time I saw a woman presented as a normal person. She reveals the mystery of motherhood and womanhood. I can say the same about Han Kang, who writes from a broader perspective. Beyond Korean, I love Lyudmila Petrushevskaya, who wrote about women who survived the collapse of the Soviet Union – mothers and grandmothers struggling to care for families in a new, chaotic economy. That everyday struggle is scary. Then, there is Bruno Schulz, the Polish writer and painter who was murdered by the Nazis. His stories are rich and surreal – childhood, time and imagination all mixed together. The Russian poet Zinaida Gippius fascinated me from the very beginning. Her poems were mysterious, sensual and unapologetically feminine. She showed me that poetry could be mesmerizing. And, of course, Stanislav Lem, author of solaris And cyberiad — I translated some of his shorter works.
Your stories often balance bizarre horror with dark humor. How important is humor to you in telling these stories?
I get that question a lot. I don’t intentionally try to be funny all the time, but sometimes things are just…funny. I’m not saying I’m funny, just that things are funny. The world could be a much more fun place if you weren’t so scared all the time.
In much of your writing, everyday objects or systems – bunny lamps, an elevator or a toilet – become supernatural and sometimes terrifying. What draws you to exploring fear through mundane means?
This is where the horror lies. This is how you scare people. The fear of jumping happens because it doesn’t seem scary.
How to get recognition from the International Booker shortlist for cursed bunny What shaped your career – in terms of readership, opportunities or more internally in your own sense of what’s possible?
I felt very honored and it was truly the experience of a lifetime. I got a chance to meet amazing writers like Gitanjali Sri (twice!!!), so that was amazing. Also, I don’t see him as a starting prospect for me. I think people will forget about me in a year or two (laughs), so I have to get everything done while I can.
Your stories are very concise yet layered. Can you share more about what your writing process looks like?
In short stories, I start from the end. I have a clear ending in mind. Sometimes even sentences and scenes, which I write down. Then I go back to the beginning and try to decide on a title. This is the stage where everyday objects come in. It’s easier for me if I have something concrete in my mind or, even better, in front of me. Once I have the ending, title, and object, I find the starting point, and then start finding the path from that point to the ending point. Then the story merges into itself.
What does your writing routine look like now that you’re a full-time writer?
When I was a teacher, my life was very structured. Everything was scheduled around my classes. I had a set amount of work – grading, admin, teaching, etc – but now my life has become chaotic. I don’t have any structure. I don’t really have a routine. If I have a deadline I write like crazy. But if I don’t do that, I’m sprawled out on the couch and idle, until something like this interview comes along. I like to write on paper and notepad. If it is considered routine then I start writing by hand.
Now you have four books in English, where do you see your writing taking you? Are there themes or forms you look forward to exploring in the future?
I recently wrote a short story in the form of a research paper. But I haven’t heard from my editor yet, and it’s making me nervous. And right now, I’m collaborating with another Korean-language writer. I don’t know if it will ever be translated. The way we’re writing it, he writes one chapter, I write the second, and then he writes the third in response. It’s like ping pong and it’s been a lot of fun.
Rutvik Bhandari is a freelance writer. He lives in Pune. He is a reader and content creator. You can find him talking about books on Instagram and YouTube (@themindlessmess).
