“The Vegetarian,” by this year’s Nobel Prize laureate Han Kang, follows Yeong-hye, a simple and humdrum woman who converts to vegetarianism overnight after a dream. Repulsed by her dream’s graphic, bloody details, she excavates all the meat from her fridge. When she is met with her husband’s confused reaction, Yeong-hye’s only explanation for this sudden shift is “I had a dream.” Her catatonic declaration of vegetarianism corrupts her personal relationships. Yeong-hye’s family reacts violently to her decision as she spirals further into her fantasies, eventually rejecting food altogether and moving into a mental institution. There, she decides that water and sunlight are enough to sustain her, convinced that she is metamorphosing into a tree. Although her desire to become a plant is poignant, it becomes equally terminal. Through Yeong-hye’s suffering as a physical, psychological, and spiritual result of dietary resistance, Kang portrays the disruptive power of longing.
Yeong-hye reflects the tension between our two selves: one shaped by social conformity and the other by greed and primitive instinct. The narrative unflinchingly explores humanity’s repressed primal desires— what Yeong-hye and other characters “long” for—especially through sexuality and violence. Yeong-hye’s vegetarianism is like an existential protest against the inherent violence of human life. Humanity feels like a burden to her, so Yeong-hye prefers to exist in the liminal space between human and inhuman. Through Yeong-hye’s character, Kang questions one’s relationship with the physical body, sense of bodily agency, and our definitions of sanity and madness. Ultimately, she explores what it means to be human and to accept her humanity.
Kang’s use of narrative perspective is particularly notable throughout the novel. Despite the story’s concentration on Yeong-hye, Kang rarely writes from her point of view. The first section is narrated by Yeong- hye’s husband, a man with low ambitions and old-fashioned principles who later divorces her. Yeong-hye’s brother-in-law, a video artist who is peculiarly obsessed with painting flowers on human bodies, recounts the second section. Kang usesvisual art prominently in the book to complement the
vitality and sensuality of her writing. Yet, instead of finding consolation, the characters’ engagement with art is almost dangerous, especially after her brother-in-law requests Yeong-hye as his artistic muse, which then sparks their illicit relationship.
The reader expects the characters to find some kind of catharsis or understanding through art, but none ever do. The final section is narrated by In-hye, Yeong-hye’s sister, who cares for her at the hospital. In-hye faces her inability to truly know Yeong-hye and her motives, which further feeds her feelings of frustration, disillusionment, and isolation. As the narrative expands, Kang uses Yeong-hye’s nonconformity as a criticism of those around her. Inciting reactions from anger to fetishization in her family, Yeong-hye’s state drives each character to confront their own morals, principles, and limits of empathy.
Yeong-hye’s autonomous choices heavily influence her relationship with these three central characters, especially in ways that isolate her from them. This intersection between the personal and the social stood out to me. A compliant and simple character in the beginning, Yeong- hye’s increasing autonomy corresponds with her alienation from others, which led me to question: How does developing our personal agency, as we approach adulthood throughout high school, impact our relationship with society?
Like Yeong-hye, at times, independence has felt almost synonymous with isolation, especially when navigating my senior year of high school. Fresh out of the college application process and facing Senior Spring Project plans, I realize that the ties connecting me to my friends and family—like a shared living or schooling space—are gradually being severed. Although independence has always been an exciting prospect for me, from moving countries alone to trying new menu items at a restaurant, it also feels equally distancing and daunting. Yeong- hye’s character arc as a vegetarian, where personal agency and social detachment parallel each other, was certainly a relatable experience.
Kang artfully explores human nature in “The Vegetarian,” intertwining beauty and brutality, violence and pacifism, and surreal art and reality. Drawing from literary traditions like existentialism, modernism, and feminist critique, Kang’s use of allegory undergirds Yeong-hye’s story, creating an evocative read that resonated with me as I segue into an unfamiliar phase of my life.
