The Vegetarian Quotes

Before my wife turned vegetarian, I'd always thought of her as completely unremarkable in every way.

“Have you lost your mind? Why on earth are you throwing all this stuff out?”

I hurriedly stumbled my way through the plastic bags and grabbed her wrist, trying to pry the bags from her grip. Stunned to find her fiercely tugging back against me, I almost faltered for a moment, but my outrage soon gave me the strength to overpower her.

In that barn, what had I done? Pushed that red raw mass into my mouth, felt it squish against my gums, the roof of my mouth, slick with crimson blood.

“I couldn't let those things stay in the fridge. It wouldn't be right.”
How on earth could she be so self-centered? I stared at her lowered eyes, her expression of cool self-possession. The very idea that there should be this other side to her, one where she selfishly did as she pleased, was astonishing. Who would have thought she could be so unreasonable?

“What’s the problem, exactly?”
“I'm tired.”
“Well then, that means you need to eat some meat. That's why you don't have any energy anymore, right? You didn't used to be like this, after all.”
“Actually . . .”
“What?”
“. . . it's the smell.”
“The smell?”
“The meat smell. Your body smells of meat.”

By the time the twelve magnificent courses were over, my wife had eaten nothing but salad and kimchi, and a little bit of squash porridge. She hadn't even touched the sticky-rice porridge, as they had used a special recipe involving beef stock to give it a rich, luxurious taste. Gradually, the other guests learned to ignore her presence and the conversation started to flow again.

Can only trust my breasts now. I like my breasts, nothing can be killed by them. Hand, foot, tongue, gaze, all weapons from which nothing is safe. But not my breasts. With my round breasts, I’m okay. Still okay. So why do they keep on shrinking? Not even round anymore. Why? Why am I changing like this? Why are my edges all sharpening—what I am going to gouge?

Though In-hye sprang at him and held him by the waist, in the instant that the force of the slap had knocked my wife's mouth open he'd managed to jam the pork in. As soon as the strength in Yeong-ho's arms was visibly exhausted, my wife growled and spat out the meat. An animal cry of distress burst from her lips.

In precisely that moment he was struck by the image of a blue flower on a woman’s buttocks, its petals opening outward. In his mind, the fact that his sister-in-law still had a Mongolian mark on her buttocks became inexplicably bound up with the image of men and women having sex, their naked bodies completely covered with painted flowers. The causality linking these two things was so clear, so obvious, as to be somehow beyond comprehension, and thus it became etched into his mind.

When it was all over, she was crying. He couldn't tell what these tears meant—pain, pleasure, passion, disgust, or some inscrutable loneliness that she would have been no more able to explain than he would have been to understand. He didn't know.

Seeing how utterly baffled he was, she laughed quietly. A melancholic laugh. “Didn’t I say you wouldn’t understand?”

He couldn’t ask: in that case, why did you use to bare your breasts to the sunlight, like some kind of mutant animal that had evolved to be able to photosynthesize? Was that because of a dream too?

She rubbed her neck against J’s like they were two birds caressing, almost as if she’d seen his sketches and knew exactly what he wanted her to do.

He stood up, stepped close to her and pushed her still-fevered body up against the wall. But when he pressed his lips firmly against hers, probing with his tongue, she shoved him away again.
“Why shouldn't we? Because I'm your brother-in-law?”
“No, it’s nothing to do with that.”
“Then why not? Come on, you said you were all wet!” She was silent. “Did you fancy that kid?”
“It wasn’t him, it was the flowers . . .”

He held her at the waist and stroked the mark, wishing that he could share it with her, that it could be seared onto his skin like a brand. I want to swallow you, have you melt into me and flow through my veins.

“Will the dreams stop now?" she muttered, her voice barely audible.

“Dreams? Ah, the face…that's right, you said it was a face, no?” he said, feeling drowsiness slowly creep through his body. “What kind of face? Whose face?”

He had to rush out onto the veranda, now, and throw himself over the railing against which she was leaning. He would fall down three floors and smash his head to pieces.

Look, sister, I'm doing a handstand, leaves are growing out of my body, roots are sprouting out of my hands…they delve down into the earth. Endlessly, endlessly…yes, I spread my legs because I wanted flowers to bloom from my crotch, I spread them wide…

No one can understand me…the doctors, the nurses, they’re all the same…they don't even try to understand…they just force me to take medication, and stab me with needles.

“I don't know you,” she muttered, tightening her grip on the receiver, which she’d hung back in the cradle but was still clutching. “So there's no need for us to forgive each other. Because I don't know you.”

It's your body, you can treat it however you please. The only area where you're free to do just as you like. And even that doesn't turn out how you wanted.

If her husband and Yeong-hye hadn't smashed through all the boundaries, if everything hadn't splintered apart, then perhaps she was the one who would have broken down, and if she'd let that happen, if she'd let go of the thread, she might never have found it again.

“Perhaps this is all a kind of dream.” She bows her head. But then, as though suddenly struck by something, she brings her mouth right up to Yeong-hye's ear and carries on speaking, forming the words carefully, one by one. “I have dreams too, you know. Dreams…and I could let myself dissolve into them, let them take me over…but surely the dream isn’t all there is? We have to wake up at some point, don’t we?”