H 7 Gfre 4 W 3

Hero of the People: Reimagining the Trickster in North Korea
Author(s): Charles La Shure

Source: The Journal of American Folklore , Vol. 133, No. 529 (Summer 2020), pp. 259-
284
Published by: University of Illinois Press on behalf of American Folklore Society
Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5406/jamerfolk.133.529.0259
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Charles La Shure
Hero of the People: Reimagining the Trickster

in North Korea
The trickster is a liminal figure who subverts and undermines existing power
structures. But what happens when the trickster is appropriated by a totalitarian
regime? Four North Korean collections of tales featuring Kim Sŏndal, a famous
trickster from feudal Korea, show how he can be repurposed as a means of ideo-
logical education and institutional control.
Keywords
afs ethnographic thesaurus: Tricksters, folktales, political
ideology, propaganda, social control
Introduction
Totalitarian regimes will use any means at their disposal, including folklore, to main-
tain control. While the trickster may seem an odd choice for hero of the state, he
can indeed be reshaped and repurposed; North Korean descriptions of the famous
trickster Kim Sŏndal are one example of this process in action. Lest we make the
mistake warned against by T. O. Beidelman, namely, of assuming the obviousness of
the category we intend to examine (1980:28), it seems prudent to start with at least
a brief discussion of the trickster figure and of how Kim Sŏndal and other Korean
tricksters might fit into that tradition.
The trickster began its modern academic career as a category applied to Native
American mythology in the nineteenth century (see Brinton 1890:131), specifically
to characters also known as “transformers” or “culture heroes”; these terms, along
with “trickster,” were used to denote the various roles that these characters played in
myths. Early scholars saw the coexistence in a single figure of the noble culture hero
and the selfish trickster as a paradox, a puzzle that needed solving (as, for example,
in Boas 1898:4–18). Eventually, though, this ambiguity and ambivalence came to be
seen as a fundamental characteristic of the trickster. Claude Lévi-Strauss adopted a
structural approach and concluded that the duality of the trickster allowed him to
be a mediator between opposing concepts, such as life and death (1955:440–2). In
Charles La Shure is Associate Professor of Korean Literature at Seoul National University
Journal of American Folklore 133(529):259–284

Copyright © 2020 by the Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois

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260 Journal of American Folklore 133 (2020)
his authoritative and eponymous work on the trickster, Paul Radin saw in the Win-
nebago trickster cycle the evolution of an undefined or undifferentiated figure into
a socialized man (1956:136). Carl Jung, in that same volume, went a step further
to state that the trickster was the “epitome of all the inferior traits of character in
individuals” (1956:209). Not all scholars have seen the ambiguity of the trickster
as negative, though. Robert Pelton, for example, saw the creative potential in West
African tricksters (1980), and Laura Makarius argued that the very thing that made
the trickster dangerous—his breaking of taboos—also gave him his power ([1969]
1993).
There have also been warnings against attempting to fit trickster figures into a
predetermined mold (see Pelton 1980:14–7; Beidelman 1980:28; Herskovits and Her-
skovits 1958:95–103). Some, like Beidelman, even question the validity of the trickster
as a universal category. O. B. Lawuyi, a native speaker of Yoruba, notes that there is
no equivalent term in that language (1990:71), and it should be said that the same
holds for Korean.1 Some scholars, such as Anne Doueihi, have even argued that the
apparent contradictions in the trickster are merely artifacts of the imposition of an
etic perspective on the tales (1993).
Nonetheless, the trickster has proven to be a useful analytical category, as long as
the urge to make all examples conform to one ideal type is resisted. Indeed, scholars
attempting to define the trickster have often resorted to lists of characteristics that
may not all be present in all tricksters, but most of which are present in most (for
two examples, see Babcock-Abrahams 1975:159–60; Hynes 1993:33–45). It may in
fact (drawing on Wittgenstein’s concept of family resemblance [(1953) 2009:36–7])
be that the trickster is a constellation of concepts rather than a single character or
archetype. For the purposes of the present study, a brief description of how trick-
ster figures have been portrayed in Korea seems a useful starting point. Like many
tricksters around the world, the Korean trickster is a liminal figure and an agent of
anti-structure who engages in trickery and deceit. Given the rigid class system of the
Chosŏn period (1392–1897), the setting of the traditional trickster tales, he often
will act against the ruling class. But as one who rejects the very idea of the hierarchy,
he will also play tricks on the powerless. Many tricksters are lower-class individuals,
such as Chŏng Man-sŏ and Pang Hak-chung (the latter of whom is often portrayed
as a clever servant), but upper-class tricksters exist as well, such as the prankster pair
Osŏng and Hanŭm or King Sukjong. Kim Sŏndal exists somewhere in the middle of
this socioeconomic spectrum; he is definitely not a servant, and he is at least well-off
enough to fund elaborate cons (Cho 1975:279), but he is not a member of the ruling
class either. In temperament, he is generally depicted as a more careful planner than
impulsive charlatans such as Chŏng Man-sŏ and Pang Hak-chung (Kim H. 1990:133).
Korean tricksters in general tend to differ somewhat from trickster figures in other
cultures, such as Native American tricksters. Perhaps the most significant difference
is that they do not seem to be ruled nearly as much by their baser appetites, in par-
ticular their sexual appetites. Korean tricksters do play lewd tricks—such as exposing
themselves to women or forcing women to expose themselves to others—but these
are often a means to a different end; instances where they act primarily to fulfill
their sexual urges are relatively rare. This may be due in part to the strict Confucian

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La Shure, Reimagining the Trickster in North Korea 261
morality of the Chosŏn period, but likely there are other factors at play as well (such
as, perhaps, the reluctance of storytellers to share these tales with university professors
and graduate students, some of whom may be women). Kim Sŏndal is no exception
to this, and, thanks to his more deliberate character, he tends to be even less ruled by
his appetites than other tricksters.
The division of the Korean nation at the end of World War II meant a bifurcation
not only of a land and its people, but also of its culture and traditions. Kim Sŏndal
provides a good point of comparison, as he remains popular in South Korea to this
day. There he is the archetypal con man; headlines might refer to a criminal who
pulls off a particularly galling con as a “modern-day Kim Sŏndal.” There was even
a film version of the traditional tales released in 2016.2 But he originally hails from
Pyongyang, which is no doubt why his tales have been an important part of North
Korean folklore as well.
Over the past 3 decades, four collections of Kim Sŏndal tales have been published
in North Korea, and these collections portray a character who differs from South
Korean and pre-division oral tale collections and written versions. Chosŏn kujŏn
munhak charyojip pyŏngyang chŏnsŏl (Chosŏn Oral Literature Sourcebook: Legends of
Pyongyang) (Kim C.), published in 1990, contains a total of 98 tales; the first section
(64 tales) deals with a variety of stories that have been handed down in the capital
city, but the second section consists of 34 Kim Sŏndal stories. Pongi kimsŏndal chŏnsŏl
(Legends of Pongi Kim Sŏndal)3 (Kim and Ŏm 1992), published 2 years later, adds
18 new tales to produce a volume of 52 tales devoted solely to this famous character.
Together, these two collections most closely resemble oral tales, though they are still
clearly edited. From 2002 to 2004, a five-volume collection entitled Pongi Kim Sŏndal
was published (Pak). This series adds 11 new stories to the 52 tales from 1992, but it is
aimed at a much younger audience; in addition to changes to the language that make
the tales more accessible to children,4 the books are heavily illustrated in cartoon style,
with no more than two pages of text between full-page illustrations. Most recently, a
two-volume collection entitled Pongi kimsŏndal iyagi (Pongi kimsŏndal Stories) was
published in 2015 and 2016 (Yun). The stories in this collection differ greatly from
those in previous collections in that they are novelizations of the tales; they retain an
episodic structure, but these episodes form a continuous and interrelated narrative.
It is also the first “collection” to be attributed to an author rather than an editor or
compiler, and it exhibits a sophisticated literary style that departs from any semblance
of oral style.
It would be difficult to argue that these collections are “true” folklore, as they are
published by government-run publishing houses; they are institutional rather than
vernacular. Richard Dorson, in the same year that war broke out on the Korean pen-
insula between the two halves of the freshly divided nation, warned of the dangers of
what he dubbed “fakelore” (1950), and we would do well to heed this warning. But,
as William Fox argued 20 years later, fakelore is a means of controlling the rebellious
and anti-structural tendencies of true folklore (1980:251–2), and we ignore it at our
own peril. I take as my call to arms an admonishment from Alan Dundes: “Rather
than reject fakelore on the a priori grounds that it is impure or bastardized folklore,
let us study it as folklorists, using the tools of folkloristics” (1985:15–6). Though these

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collections may not tell us exactly how the average North Korean sees the character
of Kim Sŏndal, they can show us how a state that maintains an iron grip on its people
repurposes the trickster as yet another means of control. They might also tell us much
about a nation that, despite frequent mentions in headlines and news tickers, still
remains largely a mystery in the West.
North Korean Ideology and the Role of Folklore
The central North Korean ideological tentpole is Juche, a concept that Victor Cha
translates as “self-determination” or “self-reliance” (2012:37). Literally, the word means
“principal (ju) body (che),” and it is used as a Korean translation of “subject” as under-
stood in both the linguistic and Marxist senses; borrowing from more contemporary
philosophical terminology, “agent” or “agency” might also be suitable renderings.
The first mention of the concept as a national ideology came in 1955, although the
Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK) has always claimed that it originated
during Kim Il Sung’s guerrilla campaign against the Japanese Empire in the 1930s
(Armstrong 2007:68; JIRE 1975:19). Kim himself admitted to borrowing the idea
from early twentieth-century Korean scholars, although this fact is little mentioned
within the DPRK (Oberdorfer 1997:19).
The philosophy of Juche can be summed up in the oft-repeated phrase, quoted
here from the scholars at the Juche Idea Research Institute (JIRE), that “man5 is the
master of everything and decides everything” (1975:38).6 “Everything” is, of course,
somewhat vague, but Kim Il Sung7 did specify what this meant: “The Juche idea is,
in a word, the fact that the masters of revolution and construction are the masses of
the people, and the driving force behind revolution and construction also belongs to
the masses of the people”8 (JIRE 1975:72). These two concepts of “revolution”—doing
away with the old, outmoded society—and “construction”—building a new, ideal
society—are also essential in DPRK ideology.
Each of these stages in the socialist revolution can in turn be encapsulated in two
pairs of ideas. Both sadaejuŭi (toadyism) and kyojojuŭi (dogmatism) must be done
away with in the revolution. The first concept, sadaejuŭi, literally means “principle
of serving the great” and is used on a geopolitical scale to refer to Korea’s historical
relationships with foreign powers, first as a tributary of China and later relying on
Western powers such as Russia. The second concept, kyojojuŭi, refers to the principle
of clinging to outmoded feudal ideologies and belief systems. Kim Il Sung often
denounced these principles, penning proclamations such as the following: “Only by
solving problems with one’s own head, without toadyism and without dogmatism,
can a proper conclusion be achieved” (quoted in JIRE 1975:34). Toadyism was exem-
plified in the sociopolitical realm by the class system; religion was one example of
debilitating dogmatism. The Juche Idea Research Institute called religion “a mental
obstacle that shackled the autonomy of man” and traced its origins to primitive people’s
ignorance and fear of powerful natural phenomena (1975:44). A people that could
overcome the restraints of toadyism and the shackles of dogmatism would then be
able to construct a society based on the second important pair of ideas, autonomy
(chajusŏng) and scientific rationalism.

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The philosophy of Juche is often closely associated with—and seen as a development

of—Marxism-Leninism, but scholars have pointed out that it is in fact a different
philosophy entirely. Charles Armstrong notes that it reverses the Marxist theory of
historical materialism, as it prioritizes “thought revolution” over a revolution in the
means of production (2007:68–9). Cha argues that, while Marxism looked forward
to the disappearance of the nation-state, when workers united against capitalism to
found a socialist utopia, “Juche, by contrast, was all about the Korean state, Korean
sovereignty, and Korean identity and independence” (2012:38).
Not all scholars agree that the Juche ideology is as central to North Korean thought
as North Korea would have us believe, though. B. R. Myers claims that Juche is little
more than a “show-window doctrine” designed to distract people from the DPRK’s
true ideology, “an implacably xenophobic, race-based worldview derived largely from
fascist Japanese myth” (2010:15, 47). This true worldview, according to Myers, may
be stated as follows: “The Korean people are too pure blooded, and therefore too
virtuous, to survive in this evil world without a great parental leader” (2010:15).
While Myers argues a compelling case, the fact remains that Juche is central to North
Korean thought as it is presented to its people and to others. For present purposes,
Myers’ arguments seem best understood as casting light on another aspect of North
Korean thought, as opposed to being a debunking of Juche. Such a broader view of
North Korean thought may reveal similarities to nationalist thought in other regimes
that might be missed by a perspective that focuses solely on Juche.
Nationalism and folklore have, of course, been intertwined since their inception.
Eighteenth-century romantic nationalism, in particular Herder’s idea that each nation
has a national soul best expressed in its folk literature (see Wilson 1973), allowed the
National Socialist movement in Germany to use folklore toward ideological ends
(Bausinger [1965] 1994; for German attitudes toward folklore during Nazi rule, see
also Kamenetsky 1972, 1977). In the Soviet Union, folklore was thought to embody
Soviet values (Klymasz 1975:178), yet emphasis was also placed on winnowing folk-
lore that was ideologically pure from that which was not (Oinas 1975:160). China
turned to folklore in the early twentieth century as a middle path between traditional
Confucian learning and modern Western scholarship, hoping to reclaim authentic
Chinese values (Eminov 1975:263). Even in democratic societies such as South Korea
(Janelli 1986) and the United States (Bronner 1998), folklore has not been free from
nationalism. While Richard Dorson famously argued that “democracies of course
do not use folklore as propaganda, but for knowledge and insight” (1962:163), even
democratic societies use folklore to advance social and political agendas, as William
Fox noted (1980:245). Thus, it is not surprising that DPRK research on oral literature
should seek a national soul; one text notes that a process of natural selection will
eventually leave only tales that “most truthfully realize [a people’s] aesthetic ideals”
(Chang 1990:22). This does not protect folklore from corrupting influences, though,
and Kim Il Sung warned that only those works that are “truly of the people” should
be preserved and developed (quoted in Chang 1990:20).
This national spirit, and the folklore that embodies it, was thought to be bound up
with the peasantry and the land on which they lived and worked; as Dundes notes,
“folk” in the nineteenth century referred only to the European peasant (1977:20), and,

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in the twentieth century, the folk continued to be thought of as “a preindustrial people

with premodern lifeways” (Abrahams 1993:27). In Nazi Germany, this connection
between people and land was encapsulated in the concept of Blut und Boden (blood and
soil), which was in turn seen as the focus of folklore (Ziegler [1938] 1994:184). While
modern propaganda in the DPRK tends to focus on the worker, the role of the peasant
is recognized as being equally important; Kim Il Sung declared: “Is there anything that
is not created by the hands of the workers and the peasants? There is nothing” (quoted
in JIRE 1975:88). Since the Kim Sŏndal tales take place in a feudal society, it is natural
that the peasant should be the sole representative of the “masses of the people.”
Something else that North Korean folkloristics shares with other nationalistic folk-
lore projects is the idea that folklore holds the key to a hidden or forgotten history.
Even if it is contemporary folklore that merely depicts an earlier era, it is still thought
that the national soul of that time is handed down from generation to generation.
Korean folklore of the medieval era, for instance, is said to “reflect the history of the
people’s struggle against aggression and the feudal system” (Chang 1990:14), a system
characterized by “class-based subjugation, exploitation, oppression, harsh poverty,
and disenfranchisement” (1990:24). The Kim Sŏndal tales in particular are praised
for their perception of this historical reality and how they expose the feudal oppres-
sors (1990:107–8). Once this lost history has been recovered, it must then be taught
back to the people, and folklore is the ideal textbook (see Ortiz 1999, for an example
of this during the Franco regime in Spain). Although what may have originally been
vernacular folklore has been reworked from an institutional perspective, it still retains
the trappings of the vernacular and is thus a more effective medium of education. After
all, the people are simply being reminded of what they knew all along, being educated
in the wisdom of their ancestors. Thus, Kim Il Sung emphasized the importance of
educating “the younger generation in our revolutionary traditions” (quoted in JIRE
1975:147) and “preserving national traditions and inheriting and developing superior
national heritage” (1975:149). It is the Kim Sŏndal tales, more than any others, that
are best suited to capturing these revolutionary traditions and the reality of class
struggle in medieval Korea.
The Tale Anthologies
The first two collections mentioned in the introduction can for the most part be
treated as a whole; the 34 tales they share are identical, and the 18 new tales added in
1992 follow the same major themes, with only relatively minor differences. One of
these major themes is the solidarity between Kim Sŏndal and the people (inmin). As
a poor farmer himself, he has direct experience with the plight of the people; “The
Price of an Egg Becomes the Price of a Calf,” for example, portrays Kim Sŏndal as
one of many tenant farmers in a village of people who suffer under the cruel landlord
(Kim C. 1990:288; Kim and Ŏm 1992:100). The opening passage of “The Runaway
Landlord Is Mocked” illustrates the hardship he shares with the people:
Kim Sŏndal got married, bought this house, and lived for a year or two by farming
the landowner’s land, but the miserly landlord bled him so much that he struggled
to even make ends meet.

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Wondering if it was just as difficult to live in this damned world wherever one
went, he got it into his head to go out into the world to have a look around, and so
he left home, leaving behind his wife and their infant child.
No matter where he went, though, this chaotic world was the same. (Kim and Ŏm
1992:147–8)
Despite his situation, he always aids anyone he meets in his travels who is in need;
as “The Story of Selling a House” notes, Kim Sŏndal was someone “who could not
bear not helping if he saw poor and pitiful people” (Kim C. 1990:282; Kim and Ŏm
1992:285). Thus, he is a sympathizing and sympathetic figure universally loved and
trusted by the people.
Kim Sŏndal’s solidarity with the people is matched in intensity by his antago-
nism toward the enemies of the people: the privileged but morally bankrupt yangban
(aristocrats); corrupt and oppressive magistrates, governors, ministers, and other
government officials; rapacious landlords; and greedy misers and moneylenders. The
antagonistic relationship between the haves and the have-nots in these tales is best
exemplified by the absurd and unreasonable demands made by those in power. Two
consecutive tales in the 1990 collection feature magistrates who demand excessive
tribute from their subjects in order to line their own pockets. The magistrate in “The
Nature of a Magistrate” taxes the villagers on a hundred horses when they have only
50, and then sends the tax for 40 horses to the royal court, pocketing the difference
(Kim C. 1990:236; Kim and Ŏm 1992:232). The following tale, “The Magistrate Who
Drank Rice-Washing Water,” relates that the magistrate “went red in the eyes in his
attempts to rake in riches from the people” (Kim C. 1990:241; Kim and Ŏm 1992:159).
At the end of both tales, a connection is drawn between the magistrates and pigs. In
the first tale, the magistrate’s mouth is referred to as “a pig’s snout” (Kim C. 1990:241;
Kim and Ŏm 1992:233), while the second tale concludes: “And so the magistrate who
had been so eager to devour the riches of others like a pig ended up eating pig’s slop”
(Kim C. 1990:247; Kim and Ŏm 1992:165).
The greedy landowner is another common antagonist. In “The Price of an Egg
Becomes the Price of a Calf,” even though the landlord owns a fat, healthy cow,
he insists on taking Kim Sŏndal’s thin and sickly bull to plow his fields (Kim C.
1990:288; Kim and Ŏm 1992:100). The landlord in “The Boulder in the Rice Paddy”
puts people to work in his field without giving them even a drop of water, let alone a
meal (Kim C. 1990:292; Kim and Ŏm 1992:42). In “The Landlord’s Wife,” when the
titular wife becomes pregnant, the landlord demands from his tenants black chickens,
black rabbits, black dogs, and black calves for his wife to eat, and he threatens to take
their land away from them if they do not comply (Kim C. 1990:315; Kim and Ŏm
1992:175).
In fact, all those with wealth and power are depicted as being unreasonable in their
demands of those beneath them. Rich Man Kwon, in “Rich Man Kwon’s Trip to ‘Mt.
Kŭmgang,’” buys a beautiful young maiden and takes her on a trip to have his way
with her, treating her as little more than a plaything (Kim C. 1990:311–3; Kim and
Ŏm 1992:182–4). Kim Sŏndal is passing by a village in “Did You Bring the Eye of the
Needle, Too?” when he sees a servant girl being thrown out of a house. When he asks
her what is wrong, she tearfully tells him that her mistress is angry with her for wearing

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out too many needle eyes while sewing and refuses to let her back into the house until
she has reattached all of the eyes to all of the needles (Kim and Ŏm 1992:56). This
theme of the mistreatment of servants is a common one; “The ‘Hellish Path’ of Mt.
Myohyang” offers incisive commentary on the subject (Kim C. 1990:370–7; Kim and
Ŏm 1992:59–67). In this popular tale, Kim Sŏndal is taking in the sights at the famous
Mt. Myohyang when he comes upon a group of rich yangban wives bossing around
their servants. He tricks the wives into confessing their sins, saying that they must
come clean to climb the sacred mountain. They confess to various acts of adultery
and sexual impropriety, and one woman even confesses to the sin of murder, having
poisoned a concubine. However, the sins that receive the most attention from Kim
Sŏndal are the sins of mistreating those beneath them—even the murder is considered
of only secondary importance.
This antagonism between those with power and those without is, of course, not
merely an issue of a few bad actors; there is something deeper and more systemic
going on in these tales. We can see hints of this in two completely different tales that
begin with the same premise: that all of the public toilets along the main streets of
Seoul were torn down because the king and his officials thought they were unseemly
and didn’t want to see them as they passed by, thus causing great suffering among
the people (Kim C. 1990:253; Kim and Ŏm 1992:67, 73). Although not always as
straightforward as this, most of the tales in these collections contain at least implicit
criticism of the system that benefits those in power. The very first tale in the 1990
collection, “The Broken Inkstone to Be Gifted to the King,” for example, criticizes
the irrationality of placing one man above all others. At the end of the tale, when
Kim Sŏndal returns to Pyongyang from Seoul, Mr. Han asks him what the king looks
like. Kim Sŏndal replies, “The king? When I looked closely, I saw that he had a head
just like you could see anywhere else.” To this, Mr. Han mutters, “Is that so? Well, I
suppose even the king is no one special. Curse this world that makes us live lives not
even worthy of beasts!” (Kim C. 1990:217; Kim and Ŏm 1992:37)
As seen here and elsewhere, “this world” is an oft-repeated phrase. It refers, of
course, not to the entire world, but very specifically to the nation and its society—to
the feudal system. Kim Sŏndal, a man who is of the people and for the people, is
naturally opposed to this system, and the system in turn fears and despises him as a
threat. A number of tales feature yangban attempting to trap and punish him, and
“Ringing the Pyongyang Bell” clearly states the reason why: “They were nervous about
what plan Kim Sŏndal, who mocked the laws so strictly established by the nation and
yet remained unharmed, might cook up to play a trick on them next time” (Kim C.
1990:222–3; Kim and Ŏm 1992:191). To the yangban, so deeply entrenched in the
feudal system, a man who could buck the system and escape punishment was terrify-
ing, for he threatened to tear down everything on which their power rested. He was
also able to use that system to his own advantage. In “The Wise Verdict,” Kim Sŏndal
turns a public trial on its head by tricking the yangban defendant into admitting his
guilt and receiving punishment (Kim C. 1990:378–83; Kim and Ŏm 1992:221–8). In
“The Beheaded Mayor of Ŭiju,” a popular tale that is one of only six to appear in all
four collections, Kim Sŏndal tricks the mayor into making a false accusation, and
the mayor is ultimately beheaded by royal order (Kim C. 1990:230–6; Kim and Ŏm

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1992:152–8; Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 3:168–83; Yun 2015–2016, Vol. 1:176–88, 227–39).
For as often as Kim Sŏndal acts outside the system to punish those in power, he also
shows that he is perfectly capable of turning the system against those who usually
benefit most from it.
Time and again, the tales demonstrate how alien the rulers and the ruled are to
each other. Not only do the powerful exploit and abuse the powerless, but they lack
even the ability to comprehend the plight of the powerless. In “A Handful of Bar-
ley”—which follows the tale in which Kim Sŏndal earns the highest marks in the
civil service examination—the disgruntled yangban scholars tell him to return home
alone, as they plan to do some sightseeing in the Diamond Mountains. They send him
off with only a single handful of barley, claiming that they cannot afford to give him
any more, but in fact they intend to humiliate him by making him beg for his food
and sleep out in the open. Their logic is that Kim Sŏndal’s humiliation will somehow
offset their own. To their great surprise, though, when they follow in his footsteps
after a few days, they find that the villagers were so impressed by his frugality and
willingness to share his single handful of barley that they took up a collection of rice
to feed him. At their last stop, the yangban hear of an old man who gladly took Kim
Sŏndal in and fed him: “He was overjoyed, saying that the world would be at peace if
a man like that, who knows how to share his barley with the common people, were to
rule” (Kim C. 1990:268; Kim and Ŏm 1992:213). Interesting to note here is that Kim
Sŏndal does not resort to the usual ruses or deceptions that are the trickster’s bread
and butter; it is his sympathetic relationship with the people—in contrast with the
scholars’ complete disconnect from the people they would rule—that saves the day.
“Winning an Eating Bet” has a similar point. Kim Sŏndal stops at the home of a rich
landowner who prides himself on winning all games, and he bets the landowner that
he can eat more than the landowner can. Kim Sŏndal wins the bet, and when the rich
man asks him what his secret is, he replies, “You just have to starve for two or three
meals before the eating bet” (Kim C. 1990:299; Kim and Ŏm 1992:241). Again, there
is no trickery, just an illustration of how the rich are out of touch with the plight of
the common people.
With such a cruel, oppressive, and clueless ruling class, there is only one possible
outcome when Kim Sŏndal sets his sights on them: they always get their come-
uppance. The yangban who try to deceive him are hoisted with their own petards
(“Ringing the Pyongyang Bell”); corrupt government officials are humiliated (“The
Magistrate Who Drank Rice-Washing Water”) or even executed (“The Beheaded
Mayor of Ŭiju”); greedy landowners are deprived of material goods or wealth (“The
Stunned Rich Miser”); and noblewomen who mistreat their servants are suitably
punished (“The ‘Hellish Path’ of Mt. Myohyang”). The methods used by Kim Sŏndal
to trick his targets are quite clever and often rely on taking advantage of a specific
weakness. Two tales that are also popular in South Korea, “Spoiled Mung Bean Por-
ridge” (Kim C. 1990:360–4; Kim and Ŏm 1992:37–41) and “Getting Three Hundred
Nyang from the Blind Men” (Kim and Ŏm 1992:119–29), demonstrate his methods.
In the first tale, Kim Sŏndal sets out to punish a rich yangban who is exploiting the
people of Pyongyang. He knows of a mung bean porridge restaurant that happens to
have a surplus of porridge that has gone bad, and he takes the yangban there, telling

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him of the rare delicacy of “vinegared mung bean porridge.” The yangban, reluctant
to appear unsophisticated, eats the porridge even though it has clearly spoiled. Not
only does he fall ill, but he is made the laughingstock of the city when word gets out.
In the second tale, Kim Sŏndal bails out his nephew, who has borrowed the huge sum
of 150 nyang (a sum that Kim Sŏndal notes is equivalent to the price of four oxen)
from the blind usurers outside the city gates. Kim Sŏndal invites them to a “feast” he
has prepared for them (but which is actually just the aroma of leftover fat and gristle
being boiled), puts them up on a rickety platform over a pile of broken crockery, and
then extorts 300 nyang from them when the platform collapses and they break the
“priceless” dishes. In the first tale, Kim Sŏndal takes advantage of the fact that the
yangban is blinded by his desire to appear worldly and sophisticated; in the second
tale, Kim Sŏndal uses the literal blindness of the usurers to fleece them for twice the
amount borrowed by his nephew.
As mentioned at the beginning of this section, while the two tale anthologies are
largely identical in content and consistent thematically, there are some minor differ-
ences in the 18 tales introduced in the 1992 collection. Two of the new tales, “Finding
the Lost Golden Candlestick” (Kim and Ŏm 1992:254–9) and “The Brilliant Judg-
ment” (274–6), offer criticism of a type not found in the 1990 collection. In “Finding
the Lost Golden Candlestick,” Kim Sŏndal pretends to be a mystic, and he is roped
into finding the titular candlestick. He succeeds in the end, but the tale as a whole
acts more as a criticism of superstitious people who believe that a mystic can solve
all of their problems. “The Brilliant Judgment” is much more straightforward in its
criticism, this time of organized religion. In this tale, Kim Sŏndal scolds a monk who
has been beaten by a group of farmers for wearing silk clothes: “What difference is
there between a monk who wears silk clothes and goes around begging for alms from
farmers wearing hemp clothes and a governor who sits there in his silk clothes and
eats the food offered to him by farmers wearing hemp clothes?” (1992:276). The final
tale in the 1992 collection, “The Story of Kim Sŏndal Scolded” (300–4), is unique
in that it is the only tale in any of the collections in which Kim Sŏndal is the victim.
The antagonist here, though, is a blind man who lectures Kim Sŏndal on his lack of
sympathy for the common people. Considering that Kim Sŏndal only ever acted in
the interest of the people and showed a sympathy for and understanding of them like
no other, this is a puzzling conclusion to the collection. Perhaps it is a warning that
Kim Sŏndal—and, by extension, the reader—should not forget where his loyalties
must lie.
The Children’s Stories
The five volumes of Pongi Kim Sŏndal, according to the introduction, are intended
to educate readers about “the lives and aspirations and desires of the people of the
time, about their wits and wisdom, their everyday customs, and their sentiments and
creative talents” (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 1:5). To this end, they build on the themes
established in the earlier tale anthologies through careful additions to the existing
texts. While the majority of the tales here are nearly identical to the 52 tales from the
1992 collection, some of the additions to these tales—ranging from single sentences

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to passages running for several pages—greatly increase the force of the message. The
first tale to appear in this collection, “The Governor’s Fanning,” contains a new intro-
duction that runs for two-and-a-half pages and, through Kim Sŏndal and his friend
Pak, clearly depicts the suffering of the people: “The two of them were the children
of terribly poor farmers, so they were in a horrible plight, barely making ends meet
by weeding the landlord’s fields for a wage and feeding their parents the thinnest of
gruel” (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 1:6). It is made explicit here that the poverty of the com-
mon people is handed down from generation to generation, and there is little chance
they will be able to rise above their station. The tale in which Kim Sŏndal passes the
civil service examination also has an interesting addition; while the 1990 and 1992
versions only note that he mumbles something in response to the question posed by
the examiner, here, the actual verses he recites are included. Instead of being a quota-
tion from a classical work, as is customary, though, the verses are an indictment of
the rapacious landlords in the words of the oppressed tenant farmers (2002–2004,
Vol. 2:128). In “The Boulder in the Rice Paddy,” Kim Sŏndal takes a closer look at
the man he comes across working in a field, noting: “His strong shoulders and sturdy
build; his large hands, roughened like a turtle’s shell; the creases on his forehead, cut
deep as rows in a field, all from the harsh farm labor; his face, blackened from the
sun. Even that first look was enough to tell him that this was a man who lived in
suffering” (2002–2004, Vol. 3:5). Yet another tale adds an introduction in which a
poor farmer complains vividly of his plight to Kim Sŏndal: “My life is one tied to the
earth, so what choice do I have? At best I farm the land and lose part to the landlord
for my land fees, and then they come from the government office and take all kinds
of taxes, so I am left with next to nothing. On top of that, last year was a lean year, so
the households that have run out of food are too innumerable to count!” (2002–2004,
Vol. 3:78). In all of these tales, the versions from the anthologies had already estab-
lished the terrible situation of the common people, but the children’s stories make
their suffering even more explicit.
The same is true for the solidarity between Kim Sŏndal and the people, which is
emphasized in a number of subtle ways. While the people Kim Sŏndal interacts with
in the original tales are rarely given names, in the children’s stories, Kim Sŏndal has
a friend named Pak, who often accompanies him on his adventures. Also, in one tale
from the anthologies, Kim Sŏndal is said to merely be visiting a certain farming vil-
lage in Hwanghae Province (Kim and Ŏm 1992:165), but in the revised version, he
is said to be living there (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 1:53), thus creating a much stronger
connection with the villagers. In his most famous con, “Selling the Taedong River,”
the 1992 version has him keeping the money he gets from his victim (Kim and Ŏm
1992:77–82), while in the new version of the tale, he gives all the money to the poor
of Pyongyang (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 1:94–114).
Perhaps even more impressive are the commentaries on Kim Sŏndal and his role in
society found in the new introductions to some of the tales. As mentioned above, the
very first tale in the collection adds a long introduction, no doubt intended to serve
as an introduction to Kim Sŏndal and his tales as a whole. In this passage, Pak asks
Kim Sŏndal if the day will ever come when they will tend their own fields, and Kim
Sŏndal replies with conviction that he is “going to make a better world,” one in which

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“the poor folk will live in harmony” (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 1:8). His plan is simple:
“If I follow after those rich yangban and disgrace them, they will not be able to walk
around with their heads held high to the heavens, and they will go into hiding like
a nest of mice. Then it will be the people’s world, will it not?” (2002–2004, Vol. 1:8).
Pak interprets this as referring to a peasant rebellion, but Kim Sŏndal has no interest
in the use of force: “All I can do is take this tongue I’ve inherited from my parents,
wander here and there among the rivers and mountains of the eight provinces, and
shame the rich yangban, and once word of this gets out, the others will feel a prick of
conscience and not be able to act cruelly anymore” (2002–2004, Vol. 1:8). In the first
tale of the third volume, “The Boulder in the Rice Paddy,” there is an introduction
to Kim Sŏndal that highlights his antagonism toward the ruling class and his close
relationship with the common people.
Pongi Kim Sŏndal put those rich yangban, who tormented the people, through the
wringer with his witty humor and jests and his exceptional wisdom, and in this way
he shook up the land from Pyongyang to Seoul.
So the poor people loved Kim Sŏndal, but if the rich yangban even heard his name
they would grind their teeth. (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 3:4)
On the other side of the power equation, the evil nature of the oppressors and the
ends they meet are also emphasized. The tale of Rich Man Kwon is largely the same,
but the addition of a single sentence makes Kwon a far more insidious villain. The
1992 version simply notes that the maiden’s lover, a woodcutter, intends to marry her
after he has paid off her debt, but the children’s story adds: “That Rich Man Kwon was
not unaware of this” (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 3:86). With this, the paragraph about how
Kwon greedily eyes the beautiful maiden and takes her on a journey to have his way
with her becomes that much more sinister. “The ‘Hellish Path’ of Mt. Myohyang” is
another story in which the antagonism against the ruling class has been intensified.
It is hard to imagine how the yangban women could be any more despicable, but the
new version achieves this by adding Kim Sŏndal’s infuriated internal monologue. For
example, after one of the women confesses to murder: “When he heard about her crime
of taking a person’s life as one might kill a fly, Kim Sŏndal ground his teeth. ‘I will not
forgive you, you wench!’” (2002–2004, Vol. 3:100). As these oppressors and exploiters
are more evil than ever, naturally their punishment and humiliation are ratcheted
up as well. The yangban who forces down one bowl of spoiled porridge in the 1992
collection is here made to eat three, and while Kim Sŏndal explains the moral of the
story (essentially, that pride comes before a fall) to onlookers in the original version,
in this version he explains it directly to his victim, adding a humiliating lesson to
the yangban’s suffering (2002–2004, Vol. 1:31–52). A number of tales that originally
ended simply with the humiliation of a greedy landlord, such as “The Price of an Egg
Becomes the Price of a Calf,” now end with the antagonist absconding in the middle
of the night, never to be seen again (2002–2004, Vol. 1:66–85).
The criticism of superstition is somewhat more pronounced than in the tale
anthologies, though it is still not very strong. In “The Wise Verdict,” Kim Sŏndal
scolds the monk far more harshly for wearing silk clothes, and he does so before the

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monk is beaten by the farmers, implying that Kim Sŏndal’s words might have been
at least in part the impetus for the beating (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 1:161–70). One tale
that is new to this collection, “The Shamans Who Were Run Off,” offers criticism of
the traditional Korean belief system of shamanism. Kim Sŏndal goes to a yangban
house that is holding a shamanic ceremony for the soul of the deceased head of the
household. He pretends to be a reincarnation of the deceased himself and does not
spare the shamans his wrath: “Our house is threatened with disaster because of those
shamans. They have come not to pray for the peace of my soul, but because they are
after wealth and riches, and the King of the Underworld is greatly angered by this”
(2002–2004, Vol. 5:46). The criticism of shamanism is somewhat undercut by Kim
Sŏndal’s manipulation of the family’s beliefs and the fact that he never attempts to rid
them of their superstitions, but it is the most pronounced criticism of people’s beliefs
seen in any of the collections discussed so far.
One theme that is noticeably more prominent in the children’s stories is the focus
on aesthetics. In addition to their functions noted above, some of the newly added
introductions also serve to extol the beauty of the land. The 1992 version of “The
Woodseller Who Ran Away” begins with Kim Sŏndal merely musing that there is no
place like the Taedong River, but the new version contains a paragraph explaining
why he feels this way: “The willow branches drooping over the peacefully flowing
waters of the river, the dew-drenched grass that coolly caressed his ankles, the fresh
smell of the earth floating in the early morning air . . . all of these things came to him
anew, as if he were experiencing them for the first time” (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 1:115).
In previous collections, “Rich Man Kwon’s Trip to ‘Mt. Kŭmgang’” always featured
the scenery as part of its narrative, but the children’s story paints a far more colorful
picture, drawing on identical imagery to that seen above: the scent of the earth, the
feel of the grass, and the sound or sight of the water (2002–2004, Vol. 3:85). In both
tales Kim Sŏndal reacts the same way, feeling an intense connection with the land of
his forefathers.
It is not just the land that receives this sort of attention. In the fifth volume, which
consists of ten new tales, there is a particular focus on the appearance of the characters.
In the first tale, “Like Father, Like Son,” Kim Sŏndal comes to the aid of a damsel in
distress, and one of no mean appearance: “With her fair-skinned face, her high nose,
her lowered eyelashes, her small, cherry-red lips pressed tightly together, and her fine,
long neck, she was a lovely young maiden without a single flaw” (Pak 2002–2004,
Vol. 5:6).9 Similar language is used in “The Lecher Who Was Beaten Senseless,” about
another maiden: “Her fine neck and thin waist, her high nose and plump, cherry-red
lips, her pretty eyes, and her unusually white skin . . . this maiden was truly without
flaw” (2002–2004, Vol. 5:68). Naturally, these maidens are objects of purity to be
protected from the greedy and lecherous yangban; Kim Sŏndal is infuriated when he
hears that the local landowner wants the first maiden married to his hideous son, and
he thinks to himself: “This cursed world, where a maiden’s unsullied purity cannot
be protected unless one has money!” (2002–2004, Vol. 5:7).
The innocent and pure maidens are not the only characters whose outward appear-
ance is emphasized; the antagonists get similar treatment. An evil kisaeng (courtesan)
in Pyongyang, where the kisaeng have historically been famed for their beauty, is

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described as having “a face that stopped just short of being ugly” (Pak 2002–2004,
Vol. 5:29). The wife of the deceased yangban in “The Shamans Who Were Run Off ”
has “a body like a mortar” and “flapping, saggy cheeks” (2002–2004, Vol. 5:41). The
hideous son of the landowner to be married to the beautiful maiden mentioned above
is described in grotesque detail:
His large, scarlet head looked like he was wearing the head of a beast over his own.
. . . His skin, dark red as if a layer had been peeled off, was covered all over with
smallpox marks, as if he had been struck repeatedly by a horse’s hoof.
His long, fat nose, like a radish plucked freshly from an autumn field, sat promi-
nently in the middle of his face like a horse’s muzzle, and above that were his squinting
eyes, more white than pupil, shifting back and forth and looking at [Kim Sŏndal]
like an epileptic.
His nostrils were so wide it looked as if you could fit an entire rice ladle inside,
and from his wide mouth, stretching from ear to ear, there came a strange sound,
whether laughter or crying [Kim Sŏndal] could not tell.
He was a person in name only; he was a person who was not a person, little more
than a monster from hell. (Pak 2002–2004, Vol. 5:10)
Both the beauty of the good characters and the ugliness of the evil characters are
reinforced and emphasized by the illustrations that accompany the text. Although
there is no stereotypical description of the maiden in “Rich Man Kwon’s Trip to
‘Mt. Kŭmgang,’” unusually particular attention has been paid to the girl’s face in the
accompanying illustration, depicting her as a beauty—although her traditional Korean
attire hides her figure, lest she be anything but chaste. The cartoonish illustrations are
also well-suited to portraying the evil characters. The woman described above with
the “flapping, saggy cheeks” looks for all the world like a frog; on the other hand, the
hideous landowner’s son is merely a drooling, sniveling boy, possibly because the
illustrator did not want to scare young readers with depictions of an actual monster
from hell. The text and the images work together here to convey the message that
physical appearance is a good indicator of character.
The Novelizations
The most recent two-volume collection of tales is also the most unique, eschewing
as it does any semblance of the oral form. Instead, the text is organized into chapters
that create an unbroken narrative and do not always correspond to a single tale; some
chapters contain more than one tale, and some tales are broken up over more than
one chapter. (“The ‘Hellish Path’ of Mt. Myohyang” is one good example, as Kim
Sŏndal tricks the women into confessing their sins in one chapter but does not use this
information until two chapters later.) All told, only six of the tales from the previous
collections appear here in one form or another, while the rest of the material is new.
Thematically, the novelizations do not stray far from the previous collections,
although some themes receive more emphasis than others. The criticism of the class
system is, of course, foundational, and many of the chapters play up the antagonism
between the classes. “Han Pu-hak’s Scheme and Kim Sŏndal’s Trick” (Yun 2015–2016,

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Vol. 1:82–101) introduces a yangban who is so rich that he can offer an exorbitant
sum of money to anyone able to tell him three lies. He is depicted as a sort of anti-
Kim Sŏndal, using his wiles to enrich himself at the expense of others. Kim Sŏndal, of
course, gets the better of him. It is not only rich yangban who torment the common
people, though; the oppression has become systemic as even the police get involved.
The police were “an organization created to capture thieves, but the rotten officials
were always using them to oppress the people,” and the officers themselves “relied
on their power to arrest people and did whatever evil things they wanted, so people
tried as hard as they could to not run into them, but the police would spy on people
and provoke them, and if anyone irritated them they would make up some pretext to
take them away” (2015–2016, Vol. 1:123). When the institutions that were supposedly
designed to protect the people are used to oppress them, where can one turn? Kim
Sŏndal’s mission is thus more important than ever.
One technique that the novelizations use to great effect is the frequent inclusion
of the internal monologues of other characters. When Kim Sŏndal dares to address
a traveling yangban named Sŏ as “you,” the reader is given a glimpse inside the
infuriated man’s head: “You’re calling me ‘you’? Look here, you bastard, you can call
me ‘sir,’ but ‘you’? Do you think I am a good-for-nothing beggar like you?” (Yun
2015–2016, Vol. 1:106). Although the yangban does nothing, his thoughts betray
a desire to “trample [Kim Sŏndal] into mush, just as one might trample fermented
soybeans” (2015–2016, Vol. 1:107). The longer form of the novelizations also allows
for philosophical arguments between characters, such as the one that occurs between
Kim Sŏndal and his friend and two yangban. The encounter takes place at a tavern
where travelers from all over are eating and drinking in the common room, but two
yangban show up and demand that the room be cleared. Kim Sŏndal and his friend
stay, claiming to be yangban themselves, but after observing their meal and their
language, the two real yangban grow suspicious: “According to tradition, a yangban
must be refined in manners and morality, like a superior man,10 and must not allow
coarse language to touch his lips, so how is it that you two know so little of manners
and morality and so carelessly speak such coarse and rough words?” But Kim Sŏndal
turns their argument against them, showing a far greater understanding of the true
meaning of Confucian morality than the yangban when he asks, “Was it to observe
those manners and morality that you drove out the many people who were eating
here to have this vast room all to yourself?” (2015–2016, Vol. 1:202).
As with the tale anthologies, the gap in thinking between the ruling classes and the
ruled is made clear, but the novelizations take it a step further to show how untenable
this way of thinking is. In the chapter featuring the yangban Sŏ mentioned above,
there is an interesting digression about the society of horses that comments on the
absurdity of feudal class society: “In the world of horses, who are valued according
to their frames and their muscles, there are no rich and no poor, and neither are they
valued by whether they are fat or skinny. Superiority is determined only by whether
the frame and muscles have developed to allow the horse to run fast and for long
distances” (Yun 2015–2016, Vol. 1:108). A passage in another chapter describing the
social atmosphere of a bathhouse notes that, without clothing, there is no way to tell
if someone is a yangban or not (2015–2016, Vol. 2:186–7). Both of these passages offer

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incisive criticism of a society in which people are judged to be superior or inferior

based on criteria that have nothing to do with their worth as human beings. Were
we to be stripped of all trappings of wealth and status, the author argues, it might be
a very different society indeed.
Kim Sŏndal’s solidarity with the people is emphasized here as well. He is often
depicted as visiting friends and acquaintances, and he travels with a companion for
most of the second volume. In a chapter entitled “Ri Ŏk-sun and the Tavern at the
Fork in the Road,” Kim Sŏndal helps Ri get back the money he was swindled out of
by the devious tavern owner, and the grateful Ri accompanies him on his adventures
for the next two chapters. After this, Kim Sŏndal travels around with his friend, the
famous singer Hŏ Tŭk-sŏn. Everywhere he goes, the people are moved by Kim Sŏndal’s
concern for them, and in a conversation with Hŏ, he explains why he cares so much
for the people’s welfare.
“For neighbors to share their food with each other, help each other, and treat wan-
derers generously has been the custom of our country’s people since the time of our
ancestors, has it not?
. . . I sometimes put yangban and rich men through the wringer and take their
money, but how is that money mine? It is money that the yangban and rich men
squeezed out of poor people.
. . . It is these poor people who make sure I don’t starve, even if I go around with
nothing but the clothes on my back.
These people give me affection, they give me happiness, and they give me laughter.
Without them, there would not only be no happiness and no laughter, but no Kim
Sŏndal!” (Yun 2015–2016, Vol. 2:284–5)
Kim Sŏndal makes a few important points here. The first is a claim about the tradi-
tional character of the Korean people, a generosity toward strangers that goes back
to “the time of our ancestors.” The fact that this is so at odds with how the yangban
and rich men act shows that they are merely an aberration. Second, Kim Sŏndal notes
that not only does the money he swindles from his marks not belong to him, but it
does not belong to the marks either; instead, it belongs to the poor people. Since the
defining characteristic of poor people is that they do not have large sums of money,
it is apparent that the rich men are not just stealing from the poor, but they are the
reason that the people are poor in the first place, and thus the cause of the current
socioeconomic imbalance. Finally, Kim Sŏndal recognizes that he exists in a symbiotic
relationship with the people. Despite his many exploits and the praise and adoration
he receives from the people, he does not hold himself above them.
As usual, the natural result of Kim Sŏndal’s solidarity with the people and hostility
toward those who make the people miserable is the punishment of evildoers. A couple
of examples from chapters already mentioned should suffice to illustrate this point.
Even though he has been warned that Kim Sŏndal’s horse is vicious, the arrogant
yangban Sŏ still ties his own horse up next to Kim Sŏndal’s because he will not be told
what to do by some commoner. When Kim Sŏndal’s horse predictably kicks and kills
Sŏ’s horse, Sŏ takes Kim Sŏndal to the government office, but the local magistrate rules

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against the yangban and demands that he pay all of the court fees (Yun 2015–2016,
Vol. 1:114). The two yangban who look down on Kim Sŏndal and his friend at the
tavern later end up falling into a river when a ferry capsizes. They attempt to swim to
the shore but “whether they were too concerned about saving face or they just didn’t
have the energy to swim,” they slip beneath the water and drown (2015–2016, Vol.
2:210). Not all evildoers are punished, though; some, in fact, come to their senses
and promise to mend their ways. At the end of the chapter featuring Han Pu-hak,
officials ferrying royal tribute across a river ignore the boatman’s warning that the
ferry is dangerously overloaded; when the ferry inevitably capsizes, they arrest the
boatman and demand that the people of the village replace the tribute. After Kim
Sŏndal saves the day, he tells the officials that they deserve to be executed for their
crimes—as they would be, having lost the royal tribute—but then he has a change of
heart and takes pity on them, or at least on their innocent wives and children. “Use
this opportunity to rid yourselves of the evil habit of government officials, that of
thinking of the people as insects,” he tells them, and then gives them a portion of the
money he got from Han Pu-hak (2015–2016, Vol. 1:99). Of course, the officials agree
to mend their ways.
The good characters—that is, the common people—learn lessons as well. After
Kim Sŏndal drives out a group of greedy and unscrupulous shamans, the village head
repents of his foolish ways: “Today, with the help of our guest here, I realized once
again that if something happens we should not rely on the power of spirits but use
our own heads and our own strength” (Yun 2015–2016, Vol. 1:14). In the tale of the
blind men deceived at the feast, Kim Sŏndal addresses the sighted villagers and tells
them to stick up for themselves against the predatory blind men (2015–2016, Vol.
1:47). In an interesting twist on the tale of the spoiled porridge, rather than seeking
to humiliate a yangban, Kim Sŏndal is simply helping a poor porridge seller recoup
her losses when all of her product spoils. He leaves her with this exhortation: “And
even if business should not go well, don’t just sit there and blubber about it, but
continue your trade with the boldness of knowing that you will make up any losses”
(2015–2016, Vol. 1:136). As in the other collections, everything Kim Sŏndal does
benefits the people in some way, but these concluding lessons give the impression
that his actions are not merely temporary fixes to the people’s problems; they might
actually have a lasting impact by empowering the people to take care of themselves.
Aesthetics and beauty do come into play in the novelizations, but mostly in the
introductions to stories, where the beauty and abundance of the land is praised; to
convey character, the author instead relies on more sophisticated means such as inter-
nal monologues. There is one aspect at least tangentially related to physical appear-
ance worth mentioning here, though, and that is the prejudice against the blind. The
blind in these tales are not merely easy marks, they are evil, and the novelizations
develop this idea more than any of the other collections. In the second chapter of
the first volume, the narrator mentions a traditional belief regarding the blind: “It is
ridiculous when you think about it; for the past several hundred years, until recent
times, people have believed blind men to be special individuals, and that only they
knew how to command ghosts” (Yun 2015–2016, Vol. 1:24). This is expanded on in

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the following chapter, “The Great Homecoming Feast,” which tells of the deception
of the blind men at the feast. Instead of being moneylenders, here they are mystics,
going around reciting sutras and claiming to know the will of ghosts and spirits.
This leads into what is perhaps the most prominent theme in the novelizations
when compared to previous collections: the criticism of superstition and religious
belief. Both the tale anthologies and the children’s stories do have the odd tale or two
that function as criticism of shamans or monks, but the novelizations amplify this
criticism and make it much more explicit. On the very first page of the first volume,
Kim Sŏndal muses about his relationship with God: “If God11 really existed, he would
probably hate me something fierce. But I’ve never lived by God’s favor anyway, so
even if I earned his displeasure, would I really be any worse off than I am now?” (Yun
2015–2016, Vol. 1:2). This very practical approach to spirituality is a theme throughout
the text and sets Kim Sŏndal apart from superstitious commoners and nobles alike.
Unlike the common people, who look to the supernatural world for solutions to their
problems, Kim Sŏndal insists that problems originate not in the spiritual realm, but
in the physical realm: “No matter where he went in the mountains and rivers of the
eight provinces, the cause of people’s misfortunes was always those who possessed
power or wealth, and evildoers; it was never ghosts” (2015–2016, Vol. 1:25). As such,
the solutions to these problems are to be found in the physical realm as well, and Kim
Sŏndal constantly chides the people for not paying attention to what really matters.
When he comes upon a ritual in a village called Miryang, he wonders if the villagers
have lost their minds, as they are more concerned with possible future misfortune
than the immediate issue of putting food on their tables (2015–2016, Vol. 2:48).
The commoners are not the only people who hold these beliefs, though, and Kim
Sŏndal will sometimes punish the rich by using their beliefs against them. In “The
Court Geomancer in Songpyŏng Village,” Kim Sŏndal punishes a greedy and vindic-
tive landowner by pretending to be the titular court geomancer12 (2015–2016, Vol.
2:75–105). In “The Secret Procession of the Dragon King’s Messenger,” Kim Sŏndal
and his friend play on a superstitious boat owner’s belief in the Dragon King to trick
him (2015–2016, Vol. 2:129–59).
To Kim Sŏndal, all beliefs that are not grounded in a material, scientific view of
the world are the same—there is no distinction between superstition and religion in
his book. This is made explicit by the narrator in the tale of the court geomancer. The
narrator notes that Kim Sŏndal’s explanations are actually correct according to the
theories of geomancy, and then goes on to explain that “as it is with religious doctrines
or the claims of shamans, when it comes to actually putting it into practice, geomancy
is one of those things that becomes an earring if you put it in your ear and a nose
ring if you put it in your nose; that is, it all depends on the glibness of the one mak-
ing the claims. . . . In truth, are there not many such sham doctrines in this world?”
(Yun 2015–2016, Vol. 2:89). Kim Sŏndal makes it his mission to root out these sham
doctrines, and he is merciless in his condemnation of those who peddle them, namely,
monks and shamans. When a group of villagers hires a shaman to catch a thief, Kim
Sŏndal is incredulous. Noting that thieves and shamans appear everywhere, he draws
a connection between the two: “Both are gangs that make their living off of the foolish
and naïve common people” (2015–2016, Vol. 1:8). His opinion of Buddhist monks

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is little better: “In a word, Kim Sŏndal did not believe the Buddhist doctrines, and
he held all monks to be devious swindlers” (2015–2016, Vol. 2:22–3). There is never
any possibility that both the shamans and the monks might actually hold genuine
beliefs; their beliefs are a sham, and they know this, so they can be little more than
frauds and swindlers.
Finally, though the novelizations may stray from the form and style of orally trans-
mitted tales, they do make one important nod to the oral tradition and to those who
pass it on. When the famous singer Hŏ Tŭk-sŏn is introduced in the first volume,
the narrator explains Hŏ’s role and why he deserves so much attention: “The various
stories of how Kim Sŏndal drove the yangban, the rich, and the vile into a corner
and put them through the wringer became the subjects of Hŏ Tŭk-sŏn’s songs and
were sung before many people, and thus the foolishness and worthlessness of the
yangban, the rich, the greedy, and the mean were highlighted among the people,
and rumors of Kim Sŏndal spread far and wide” (Yun 2015–2016, Vol. 1:162). Hŏ
returns in the second volume, traveling with Kim Sŏndal for the entire latter half of
the book. Sometimes he assists Kim Sŏndal in his schemes or acts as a straight man
to allow Kim Sŏndal to make his points (as in the story of the two yangban in the
tavern), but at other times he literally takes center stage to give one of his famous
performances, retelling Kim Sŏndal’s exploits in dramatic and lyric fashion. From a
purely informational perspective, these songs do not add anything to the narrative,
but they do add a highly artistic element not found in the previous collections.
In addition to increasing Kim Sŏndal’s fame, Hŏ’s songs have an important func-
tion within the narrative. When Kim Sŏndal and Hŏ visit two villages on the east-
ern coast, they find two warring magistrates who, in their desire each to outdo the
other, are simply making the people in both villages miserable. As usual, Kim Sŏndal
hatches a plot to save the day, but this time he relies on Hŏ’s singing rather than
taking action himself, reasoning that Hŏ’s humorous narration of the magistrates’
foolishness would both awaken the people and cause the magistrates to do something
rash (Yun 2015–2016, Vol. 2:229). Kim Sŏndal does eventually whisper a few choice
words into the right ears to sow confusion, but it is Hŏ’s singing that sets everything
in motion. The final chapter of this collection contains another important comment
on Hŏ’s role. After Kim Sŏndal helps the villagers capture the bandits who have been
plaguing them, Hŏ delivers his final performance, memorializing the event in song.
Once he is finished, the old men of the village come up to him to thank him. Hŏ is
taken aback, saying that it was Kim Sŏndal who helped them. “Certainly, there is no
question,” says the village head. “This gentleman caught the thieves and took away
the misfortune of Tiger Valley, but you brought us to our senses through your song”
(2015–2016, Vol. 2:317). Thus, the author emphasizes the importance of the singer
of tales in enlightening the people.
A Brief Comparison with Southern and Pre-Division Tales
As mentioned in the introduction, Kim Sŏndal’s tales have been popular for quite some
time and remain popular in South Korea today. Two extensive collections of Korean
folktales—the 82 volumes of Han’guk kubi munhak taegye (Compendium of Korean

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Oral Literature), which contains tales recorded from the late 1970s through the 1980s
(AKS 1980–1988), and the 12 volumes of Han’guk kujŏn sŏrhwa (Orally Transmitted
Tales of Korea), containing a mixture of tales recorded during the colonial period and
tales recorded in the 1970s (Im 1987–1993)—contain numerous tales featuring our
trickster. Two earlier written sources—Sindan kongan, a serialized newspaper novel
from 1906 (Han and Chŏng [1906] 2007), and Ŏngt’ŏridŭl, a collection published some-
time during the colonial period (Haeyangŏbu, n.d.)13—provide different perspectives
on the character. A brief comparison of the North Korean tales with these pre-division
and South Korean versions will further highlight the characteristics of the former.14
Not every tale in the North Korean collections has an analogue in pre-division
materials or current South Korean collections, but comparison of a few popular tale
types is possible. The toilet tales, for example, are popular in South Korea as well,
although they are generally associated with other trickster figures, such as Chŏng
Man-sŏ (AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 7[1]:133–5, 318; Vol. 7[3]:127–9) or Pang Hak-chung
(AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 7[7]:375–7, 687–8); there is in fact only one version of this tale
attributed to Kim Sŏndal (AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 7[11]:328–40). The plot structure of
these tales is identical—the trickster is forced by a woman to pay to use her bathroom,
but he refuses to leave until she pays him many times more than what he paid—with
the only differences between North and South being in the setup. In the South, the
trickster finds himself caught out in dire need of a toilet, and only hatches the plan
to bilk the toilet’s owner once he is inside.15 There is no mention of any public toilets
having been torn down by the king. This makes sense, as the first public toilet did not
appear in Korea until 1896 (Chŏn 2017), long after the setting of these tales, but it also
shows how important it is in the North Korean versions to establish the antagonism
between the rulers and the ruled.
The South Korean tales in which Kim Sŏndal sells the vinegared porridge (Im
1987–1993, Vol. 3:184–5; AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 1[3]:415–7; Vol. 1[7]:744–5; Vol.
3[1]:213–7) also present a somewhat different picture of the trickster. In two ver-
sions, it is Kim Sŏndal himself who makes too much porridge and ends up with a
large amount of spoiled food; in the other two versions, it is his wife or an unknown
woman. This is an important difference from the North Korean versions because,
although the plot structure is once again the same for the trick itself, Kim Sŏndal’s
motivation in the South is simply to turn a loss into a profit. The victims of this con
are unknown passersby at the market, not rich yangban that Kim Sŏndal has set out
to deceive beforehand.
With the blind men as well, a similar pattern can be seen. A colonial-period version
of this tale (Im 1987–1993, Vol. 1:280) presents only a simple description of the con,
with no particular discussion of the blind men or why they deserve to be deceived.
Interestingly, a later South Korean tale (AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 1[9]:601–7) begins
with a completely unrelated episode that tells of a blind man performing a ritual for a
family, similar to what is seen in the North Korean novelizations. However, the teller
does not comment on this fact, nor does it come up later during the feast episode;
once again, Kim Sŏndal’s only motivation is to part a group of blind men from their
money. Because of the climate of religious freedom in South Korea, it is not surprising
that the ritual element should receive no comment or elaboration. But it might be
an example of how an element drawn from a common past can be interpreted very

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differently in divergent cultures. This is not the only story that features Kim Sŏndal
playing tricks on blind men; two colonial-period tales (Im 1987–1993, Vol. 1:277–80)
have Kim Sŏndal playing a wide variety of tricks on them, all of which take advantage
of their lack of sight. Some of these tricks allow Kim Sŏndal to steal something from
the blind men, while others are simply cruel pranks. They all highlight, however, the
fact that the blind man is a favorite target primarily because he is perceived to be easy
to deceive, not because he deserves it for any reason.
The tale most frequently associated with Kim Sŏndal, though, is the selling of the
Taedong River. The oral tale collections contain 10 versions that all follow the same
basic plot structure—Kim Sŏndal enlists the help of local watersellers to make it appear
as if he owns the rights to the river, and he then fools a rich outsider into buying it
from him—but the versions differ in terms of the details. Perhaps the most significant
difference is whether Kim Sŏndal has a mark in mind before putting his plan into
action. Six of the tales (Im 1987–1993, Vol. 1:266–7; AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 1[2]:463–4;
Vol. 1[9]:601–7; Vol. 2[7]:198–9; Vol. 3[1]:213–7; Vol. 7[10]:54–5), including one from
the colonial period, have Kim Sŏndal conning a random (if wealthy) passerby, but the
remaining four have Kim Sŏndal enacting his plan after he has already decided on
the mark. Two of these tales feature rich men from Seoul as the mark (Im 1987–1993,
Vol. 3:193; AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 2[5]:827–31), while the other two introduce a rich
Chinese merchant (AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 1[7]:748–9; Vol. 5[6]:76–9). These latter
two tales are interesting in that they add a nationalistic element to the story, since the
Chinese merchants represent external economic threats to the city of Pyongyang and
its markets. No matter his motivation, though, Kim Sŏndal always keeps the profits
for himself.
This tale was also included in both written sources mentioned above. Ŏngt’ŏridŭl
goes into much greater detail than the oral versions, using legal terms such as “conces-
sion” and “monopoly” to make the con seem more credible to the mark (Haeyangŏbu,
n.d.:22–4). Another interesting difference in this version is that Kim Sŏndal invests
some of his initial capital in the watersellers, giving them 10 don and telling them they
can keep two don for themselves. This is less generosity on Kim Sŏndal’s part than
a way of ensuring that his accomplices do as instructed; like the oral tales, he keeps
the mark’s money when the con is finished. The version in Sindan kongan (Han and
Chŏng [1906] 2007:158–68), a novel written in classical Chinese and thus intended
for an educated audience, is unique in a number of aspects. First, the mark is Kim
Sŏndal’s own uncle, who earns his nephew’s ire by lecturing him about his lifestyle.
Second, and more important, is Kim Sŏndal’s attitude toward his accomplices: “While
Kim Pongi has always freely played all sorts of tricks, he is always so kind to such
lesser folk as this, giving them money and grain” ([1906] 2007:159). Although he does
not give the watersellers any money at the beginning of the con, he throws a feast
for them and shares 10 percent of his profits from the con when it is complete. Here,
Kim Sŏndal most closely resembles the hero of the people seen in the North Korean
tales, although it should be noted that throughout the novel he seems less interested
in class warfare or enlightening the people than he does in filling his pockets and
living a carefree life. At the end of the work, a few nameless characters speak for the
author when they say: “Kim In-hong16 truly has been gifted with exceptional talent,
but he was born out of his time and into a needy plight, so he has used his head only

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for fraud and swindling; how pitiful this is!” ([1906] 2007:191). The author clearly
felt that Kim Sŏndal could have made better use of his gifts, but he recognized that
his fundamental nature as a trickster prevented him from becoming a true hero.
Finally, it is also worth looking at a few examples of tales that differ in the Northern
and Southern traditions in order to highlight the characteristics of the DPRK tales.
Contrary to his humble behavior in “A Handful of Barley,” in both pre-division and
South Korean tales, Kim Sŏndal is notorious for using deception to avoid payment
for his food and lodging at an inn. In one tale, he dresses up as either a monk or a
mourner (both of whom are distinguished by their attire, not to mention their respon-
sibility to keep their appetites in check), has a late night feast to himself, and promises
the innkeeper that he will pay in the morning (Im 1987–1993, Vol. 1:283–5; Vol.
3:194–5; AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 1[4]:599–603; Vol. 3[3]:377–82, 704–15; Haeyangŏbu,
n.d.:16–22). In another tale, he steals the pin from an innkeeper’s hay cutter, render-
ing it useless (AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 1[1]:284–6; Vol. 1[9]:601–7; Vol. 2[2]:194–218).
He then later returns it to the innkeeper, presenting it as his own, and the grateful
innkeeper waives payment for his room and board. Kim Sŏndal’s behavior toward
religious figures is also markedly different. There are no popular tales that pit him
against shamans, but monks are a favorite target. They commonly appear in the inn
tales, as noted, but there is another popular tale where he swindles a monk out of his
alms through an elaborate con; this tale can be found both in pre-and post-division
oral collections (Im 1987–1993, Vol. 1:283–5; AKS 1980–1988, Vol. 1[7]:219–23) as
well as in Ŏngt’ŏridŭl (Haeyangŏbu, n.d.:25–7) and Sindan kongan (Han and Chŏng
[1906] 2007:135–50). There is a definite antagonism between Kim Sŏndal and the
monks, but the monk’s ideology is less a target than his wealth. Other pre-division
tales have Kim Sŏndal playing various simple tricks on monks, such as pretending
to have a boil on his rear and then defecating in the monk’s face when he leans in for
a closer look (Im 1987–1993, Vol. 3:188), or by defeating monks in various feats of
strength (Im 1987–1993, Vol. 1:271–3, 275–6). Once again, there is no mention at all
of a problem with the monks’ beliefs.
The above is only a brief comparison, but it should suffice to show some of the dif-
ferences between the North Korean versions of the tales and pre-division and later
South Korean versions. While the tales all share the same plot structures, it is in Kim
Sŏndal’s motivations, the people he chooses to target, and his general attitude toward
society that we see divergences.
Conclusion
The character of Kim Sŏndal as he is portrayed in the North Korean collections above
differs significantly from his portrayal in South Korean and pre-division Korean tales.
Perhaps the most obvious difference is his place in the social structure. Rather than
being a liminal figure who transcends class and other boundaries, in the North Korean
tales, he highlights those boundaries as an oppressed peasant. However, he does differ
from his fellow peasants in that he criticizes the feudal power structure by defeating
those who benefit from this structure: oppressors who are completely disconnected
from those they purport to rule. His tales function as an indictment of the feudal

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class system, exposing it as a historical aberration and providing historical evidence

for the class struggles that would ultimately lead to the modern socialist revolution.
The similarities to folklore in other nationalistic regimes should be obvious: the
romanticization of the peasantry as a pure embodiment of the national soul; an empha-
sis on the connection of the people and the land; the presentation of folktales as an
alternate history that portrays the truth of things; and the subordination of folklore to
state ideology. The elements of North Korean ideology discussed above are also clearly
visible in these tales; Kim Sŏndal is essentially an avatar of Juche—for however practical
that philosophy may be in real North Korean life—and of all the ideas that fall under
that umbrella. Rather than submitting to the philosophy of toadyism, Kim Sŏndal
seeks to tear down those in power by acting as a truly autonomous (yet still socially
responsible) agent; rather than succumbing to dogmatism, he opens the people’s eyes
to a rational, scientific view of the world that eschews both baseless class divisions
and mystical belief systems. We might also be hearing echoes of the idea of the North
Korean people as a clean and pure race in need of protection, as outlined by Myers, in
the depictions of beautiful and innocent maidens in the children’s stories, while Kim
Sŏndal is both a compassionate, fatherly figure to those in need and a fierce enemy of
those who would oppress the people—not unlike the beloved Great Leader himself.
Yet while the Kim Sŏndal of these North Korean collections shares many of the
same stories with his Southern and pre-division counterparts, he is not a trickster
as the character is generally understood; if he belongs to the trickster constellation
at all, it is only as a far-flung star. For it is the trickster’s liminality—his ability to
transcend the limitations of our rigidly bounded and ordered world—that at once
allow him to shake the foundations of the existing social structure and prevent him
from establishing a new structure of his own. What the trickster does best is show
us how flimsy the foundations are upon which we build our understanding of the
world, revealing that the way things are is not necessarily the way things must be.
He leaves the building of a new society to others, simply waiting in the wings until it
becomes necessary to take the stage again in order to point out the flaws of the new
system. One has the impression that the North Korean Kim Sŏndal would, should the
feudal class society collapse and a rational worldview prevail, decide that his mission
has been accomplished and hang up his hat. The trickster can only truly be free in a
society that allows for what Barbara Babcock-Abrahams called “a tolerated margin of
mess” (1975). The North Korean system is one in which control must be maintained,
so a chaotic and subversive figure such as the trickster can never be allowed free rein.
Folklore, like all other cultural productions, must ultimately serve the will of the state
and its ideology as fakelore, and even the liminal trickster ends up marching to the
rigid beat of this drum.
Notes
1. The English term has been adopted in South Korean trickster studies, with t’ŭriksŭt’ŏ simply being
the Korean rendering; as far as I can tell, the term is not used in North Korean folkloristics.
2. Pongi Kimsŏndal [Seondal: The Man Who Sells the River], 2016, dir. Pak Taemin, Seoul: M Pictures
and SNK Pictures, 120 min.

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3. Pongi means “phoenix” in Korean and is a nickname given to Kim Sŏndal because he famously
once bought a chicken and pretended that it was a phoenix as part of a clever con. Incidentally, “sŏndal”
is not a name, either; it is merely a courtesy title, referring to a scholar who has passed the civil service
examination but not been given a government position.
4. Specifically, many of the longer sentences have been broken up into shorter sentences, direct speech
dialogue replaces many instances of indirect speech reporting, and the speech level has been changed
from informal to formal.
5. The Korean original has the non-gendered saram, meaning “person” or “people,” but English-language
renditions published by the DPRK government universally use “man.”
6. All translations of North Korean materials are by the author.
7. It is common knowledge among North Korean scholars that the primary architect of the Juche ideol-
ogy was party official Hwang Jang-yop, who later became disillusioned with the direction the nation was
taking and defected to South Korea in 1996. It is likely that many of the statements on Juche attributed
to Kim Il Sung were actually written by Hwang. What is important here is that they were presented to
the people as coming directly from the Great Leader, the ultimate voice of authority. Thus, I will refer to
Kim Il Sung as the source of quotations attributed to him, regardless of what the truth of the situation
might be.
8. “The masses of the people” (inmin taejung) is another oft-repeated phrase in DPRK ideological texts;
“the masses” is understood in a political sense, while “the people” is understood in a socioeconomic sense.
9. Interestingly, the details of this description are neither traditionally associated with beauty in Korea
nor even with Korean ethnic features. They do, however, convey the impression of a woman who is both
high-born and submissive.
10. Kunja, or junzi in Chinese, is the Confucian ideal of the morally and ethically flawless man. The
term literally means “son of the ruler” (i.e., “prince”), but Confucius used it in an act of linguistic subver-
sion to argue that true worth was determined not by birth but by moral conduct.
11. There are a number of Korean terms that could be translated into English as “God.” The term
used here is hanŭnim, derived from hanŭl (heaven). This is the general vernacular (that is, not based on
Chinese characters) term for the omnipotent supernatural being who created the universe and also the
term used for God in Korean Catholicism.
12. The original Korean term is p’ungsu, more commonly rendered in the Chinese as feng shui, which
literally means “wind and water.” “Geomancy,” meaning “earth divination,” is not strictly an accurate
translation, but it has become a standard rendering since feng shui has developed some inaccurate con-
notations in popular Western usage. In medieval Korea, p’ungsu was used to determine the most auspicious
locations for shrines, graves, and palaces; it did not apply to the placement of furniture or the layout of
individual houses, and so on.
13. Ŏngt’ŏridŭl contains no publication date, but see Yi (2006:299). A somewhat conspicuous mention
of Feodor Chaliapin may also provide a clue, as Chaliapin’s final tour before his death included visits
to China and Japan in 1936; the cultural elite in Korea would have been well aware of him, so it is not
unreasonable to assume that the collection was published shortly thereafter.
14. For a more detailed look at South Korean and pre-division versions of Kim Sŏndal’s tales, along
with those of Chŏng Man-sŏ and Pang Hak-chung (particularly with regard to their transgressive nature),
see La Shure (2018), which is in turn based on my earlier work in La Shure (2011).
15. This is probably why Kim Sŏndal is generally not the protagonist in these tales, as Chŏng Man-sŏ
and Pang Hak-chung are more likely to find themselves in tight spots.
16. Sindan kongan is rare in that it gives Kim Sŏndal an actual name, In-hong.
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Hero of the People: Reimagining the Trickster in North Korea

Author(s): Charles La Shure

Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5406/jamerfolk.133.529.0259

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Hero of the People: Reimagining the Trickster

Charles La Shure is Associate Professor of Korean Literature at Seoul National University

Journal of American Folklore 133(529):259–284

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North Korean Ideology and the Role of Folklore

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The philosophy of Juche is often closely associated with—and seen as a development

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in the twentieth century, the folk continued to be thought of as “a preindustrial people

The Tale Anthologies

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The Children’s Stories

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incisive criticism of a society in which people are judged to be superior or inferior

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A Brief Comparison with Southern and Pre-­Division Tales

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class system, exposing it as a historical aberration and providing historical evidence

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Armstrong, Charles K. 2007. The Koreas. New York: Routledge.

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