In “Dubliners,” James Joyce presents an assortment of timid, hesitant protagonists who try to flee from Dublin, and yet cannot leave because of different forces that pull them down. In this collection of short stories, Joyce’s protagonists are all frustrated, discontented people who desperately wish to escape from their homeland. Unfortunately, they are nothing but timorous, petty bourgeois who are too vulnerable to personal and social bondages to boldly cut loose and leave.

It is only in his next book, “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,” that Joyce’s disillusioned protagonist and alter ego, Stephen Dedalus, finally succeeds in breaking free from the religious and political chains of Ireland and flies from Dublin.

In the novel, Dedalus denounces even his homeland and church. “I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church,” he said.

He goes on to say, “But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave.” Only when he decides to move to Europe does Dedalus realize his true potential. Similarly, if he had not transcended the boundaries of his hometown and homeland, Joyce would not have become a great writer, either.

A similar theme can be found in the short story “Wings” by Yi Sang. Yi’s timid protagonist also yearns to escape from his home where he seems stuck forever.

His wife, who lives in a red-light district with him, can be read as a symbol of a colonized Korea, ruthlessly exploited by the Japanese in the early 20th century.

Deprived of autonomy and economic power, Yi’s protagonist has nothing to do except idle in bed while his wife entertains guests in the next room separated only by a thin sliding door. The protagonist intensely wishes to escape from his suffocating milieu and cries out at the end of the story, “Oh, wings! Let me fly. Let me fly again.”

I, too, wished for wings to fly away from the grim situation of Korea when I was young. At the time, Korea was destitute and under military dictatorship. When I read Joyce’s short stories and novels in college, I dreamed of becoming an artist like Dedalus who, through exile, was able to be free himself from all the bondages of his homeland, including its ultranationalism, the extreme political factionalism, and the oppressive religious dogmas.

I was lucky enough to acquire wings in the form of a Fulbright scholarship. In 1978, I left the Korean Peninsula for the United States to study in a bigger, wider world. My encounter with other cultures and other people opened my eyes and broadened my horizons. My dream of transcending the boundaries of my hometown and homeland finally came true. Like Dedalus, I was not afraid of being alone in a foreign place and would have been happy to remain an exile there.

Unlike Dedalus, however, I decided to return to Korea in 1984 and have lived in this small country ever since, except for occasional sabbaticals that I spent in the United States.

Looking back upon my life in Korea, I realize I belong to the generation who experienced the most turbulent period of modern Korean history: the Korean War, the student revolution of April 19, 1960, the military coup on May 16, 1961 and the ensuing two decades of military dictatorship, and the military coup on Dec. 12, 1979.

At the same time, however, I have watched the spectacular social change that has been taking place for the past few decades in Korea, such as democratization, economic success, cutting-edge technology, and cultural prosperity due to the widespread popularity of Hallyu.

Meanwhile, I have proudly watched South Korea turn into an affluent society from a poverty-stricken postwar country and emerge as a flourishing nation that impresses the whole world with its dynamic energy.

Nevertheless, I often wonder if I made the right decision when I decided to return to Korea 33 years ago. The doubt arises when I see my homeland torn by ideological conflict, when I watch our incompetent leaders steer us in the wrong direction, when I see signs of my country regressing to a totalitarian state that has no room for different opinions, and when I sadly observe the decline of a splendid nation -- which I hope is not true.

Disappointed, sometimes I wonder: Should I write a novel titled, “A Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man” and seek exile at this old age? Unlike Joyce’s young artist who boldly left Ireland, I have not been able to leave this small country I love so much, because I cannot possibly give up on my homeland yet. In 2017, too, I wish to remain in Korea, even though that means I cannot become a great artist.


By Kim Seong-kon

Kim Seong-kon is a professor emeritus of English at Seoul National University and president of the Literature Translation Institute of Korea. He can be reached at sukim@snu.ac.kr. -- Ed.