Pachinko (2017)
Ship-jangsaeng do by an unidentified Korean artist
By Alecsander S. Zapata
“Is it so terrible to be Korean?”
“It is terrible to be me.”
I could certainly tell that Pachinko (2017) was a long work when I bought it at my local bookstore: its 479 pages create a volume that is roughly two inches thick. I don’t have too many modern novels in my possession that are this long so its length stood out to me. I don’t judge a book by its cover, but it is true that everything enters through the eyes, and I had read a few (spoiler-free) reviews of the book that referred to it as an ‘epic.’ So, I began reading Min Jin Lee’s novel with the ideas of size and scope floating around inside my head. Having read and reflected on Pachinko for the last few days, I realize that I can’t stop thinking about the word ‘epic.’
Growing up in the 21st century, the colloquial use of the word ‘epic’ as an adjective is something that I cannot escape: this book is, without a doubt, epic. But of course, it goes far beyond that. This novel evolves in the manner of Homer, of Byron, of Keats and Shelley. Pachinko is epic poetry in contemporary prose form. And yet this still does not capture all that this novel does in a literary context: as you can probably tell, this novel has challenged me in the most delightful ways imaginable. It is hard to structure a review of a novel that operates on so many different levels and does so many different things but, alas, I will try, and the beginning of the novel is as good a place to start as any.
“History has failed us, but no matter.” The horror of Pachinko’s opening sentence is not understood right away. Lee could not be more correct: the Korean people have been failed, this entire portion of history swept under the rug. It is the only time the narrator refers to itself, and Lee seizes this opportunity to state her objective clearly—we might refer to it as the reclaiming of Korean history.
This is the tale, told through four generations of a single family, of the oppression and discrimination against Koreans by the Japanese in the 20th century. We begin to understand, if only slightly, that failure as we come to know the family at the heart of this novel (and really, the idea of family itself is the heart of this novel).
In 1916, Hoonie and Yangjin give birth to Sunja in Yeongdo, a small island off the southern coast of Korea. In 1932, Sunja becomes pregnant with the child of a wealthy Korean based in Japan but refuses to be his mistress, resigning herself to shame before she is saved by Baek Isak, a kind but sickly Presbyterian minister who offers her marriage. This union creates the family that we come to know in Pachinko.
Lee paints for us not only the vast and sweeping portrait of a racial, social, and political struggle spanning seven decades, but also the small and intimate one of a familial legacy. It is staggering how this novel oscillates between the extremes of scope. One might say that the story of one family, if written well enough, should paint an accurate picture of the world it was a part of, and while there may be some truth to it, it is not a task that is easily achieved. Lee, however, brings each decade of the Korean experience under Japanese subjugation, from the 1930s to the end of the 1980s, to stunning life.
And yet, Lee’s clarity of vision, the way in which she channels her grandset ideas into the intimate story of a single family, is only made possible by her sophisticated and masterful prose. Aside from her vivid descriptions, which alternate between gorgeous and defeating, and the smooth poetry of her syntax, what is particularly striking is the candor of her characterization. Unlike many authors whom I admire, Lee almost never withholds any of her characters’ thoughts from the reader. Yet, it never feels as if information is revealed too soon, or as if her willingness to bring us as close as possible to the characters is demystifying. “Hansu could say with confidence that the Japanese were pathologically intractable when they wanted to be. In this, they were exactly like the Koreans except their stubbornness was quieter, harder to detect.”
While the novel itself is a complex investigation of the Japanese subjugation of Koreans, the narrator quickly and succinctly gives us one of the central character’s views on the situation at large: “Hansu could say with confidence that the Japanese were pathologically intractable when they wanted to be. In this, they were exactly like the Koreans except their stubbornness was quieter, harder to detect.” Despite how casually this information is revealed to us, we still want to know more. Pachinko, in part due to the historical context being studied, mostly due to the brilliance of Lee’s inventions, has so much momentum and transformation that surprise is always nearby. The characters, very much like the world they inhabit, evolve constantly in deeply rewarding ways. Through Lee’s close investigation of the characters, the reader cannot help but share in their triumphs, sufferings, and defeats because Lee shows us each one’s journey. Sunja’s labor, Noa’s suffering, Mozasu’s ambition, Solomon’s unease—it is irresistible to care deeply for all of them.
The Baek family is constructed from the ground up, each member and generation being brilliantly distinct. That is the core of Lee’s juggling act: the Baek family creates its own story. Despite the overbearing oppression against Koreans in Japan during the time the novel takes place, the Baeks persevere in their social and financial climb. We are presented with a beautiful duality: the generational changes in the Baek family are brought about as much by the changes in the world as they are by their own upward trajectory. Sunja, Noa and Mozasu, and Solomon are informed as much by the development of Japanese-Korean relations as they are by the development of the Baek family’s wealth. And while we see the family rise we see the cost at which it is achieved.
We are given enough time with each main character, and enough time at different stages of their life, that everything in this novel feels earned. Lee’s skill for narration is what makes it all possible, of course, always staying in third person but acting as a chameleon, jumping into different character’s heads, absorbing their thoughts, feelings, and world views. Each change of perspective is a colorful burst of energy. Lee has so much to say with this novel, though, that it seems only natural that she should tap on all of her characters to help propel her tale to the highest level of contemporary fiction.
Pachinko has scrambled my mind. This novel operates on the smallest of scales and the largest of scales, creating powerful emotional investment while raising complex, academic ideas. It is about two groups of people and one family, and so much more than that. It could be argued that this is a story of otherness, a meditation on barriers. Family, race, national origin, language, religion, wealth, education, sexuality—all of these ideas are given space within the novel as forces which connect and disconnect.
History may have failed the Korean people, but Lee has certainly not. Pachinko is no less than a modern epic.
Alecsander Zapata is a writer, editor, and reviewer of fiction who has devoted his life to the storytelling craft. He follows two core tenets which frame his philosophy on literature: one, that it is the question minus the answer, and two, that it can be found anywhere. He is soon to graduate from the University of San Francisco with degrees in English and Spanish.