The Vegetarian by Han Kang: A Nobel Prize Winner
There’s something about reading a book after it wins a major prize. A shift in weight, an added expectation. The cover is the same, the words unchanged, but suddenly, they belong to history. This year, that weight rests on The Vegetarian by Han Kang, crowned with the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature.
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I hadn’t read The Vegetarian before the Nobel announcement. It wasn’t on my radar, and if I’m honest, I picked it up only because of the prize. It felt like a literary obligation—like witnessing history as it unfolded.
On October 10, 2024, Han Kang was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for her “intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.” Despite this recognition, I hesitated. The book wasn’t universally adored—3.63 stars on Goodreads with 241,369 ratings. Hardly the unanimous praise one might expect for a Nobel-winning work.
Originally published in South Korea as three novellas, The Vegetarian unfolds in three sections, each from the perspective of a different character orbiting Yeong-hye, the woman at the center of it all. First, her husband, Mr. Cheong, who found comfort in her unremarkable presence and compliance. He sees her decision to stop eating meat as an inconvenience, but his real frustration lies in her growing autonomy—a woman making choices outside of his control.
Next comes her brother-in-law, an artist, who initially sees Yeong-hye as a blank canvas for his desire, but when she refuses to conform to his vision, he too turns away. Finally, her sister, grappling with the fallout, begins to understand Yeong-hye’s refusal as an act of resistance rather than madness. The book, at just 188 pages, is sparse yet heavy, first published in October 2007 and now cemented in literary history.
The truth is, The Vegetarian is about much more than vegetarianism.
I didn’t cry, though it wasn’t an easy read. I didn’t relate to Yeong-hye’s experience as deeply as some might—I’m neither vegetarian nor vegan. But the novel makes clear how personal choices, even as simple as changing a diet, can alienate someone from their closest circles. The discomfort isn’t just about food; it’s about control, expectations, and the silent pressures that dictate our lives.
“But this is only the premise of the novel. It’s also about sexual desire, the unwavering power of lust, and sheer emotional enthrallment. However, it’s not about the body as an object of sexual desire; it’s not about the attractiveness or unattractiveness of the female or male form—that’s just meat. It’s about the power of the individual. It’s about the power of an idealistic free spirit. And this is what drew me to the book. The lust in here is freedom. It is the ability to make one’s own life choice and live in harmony with the rest of the world. Labels don’t matter. Restrictions don’t matter. What matters is the freedom to be who you are and what you are. Whether or not this is a vegetarian, homosexual, transgender person, a Buddhist monk, or a Christian isn’t overly important. What matters is choice. The vegetarian in here serves as a metaphor, a rallying cry for a more accepting world. It’s a brutal reminder of the narrow-mindedness that infects this planet toward those who fall through the cracks of society.”
— Sean Barrs, Goodreads review
And then there’s the ending. The kind of ambiguous, open-ended finale that leaves you questioning everything. I wanted something clearer, something more conclusive. The problem with vagueness is that it invites endless interpretations, and you risk reading it entirely wrong—à côté de la plaque. Some might say that’s the point, that the book is meant to haunt rather than resolve. Maybe they’re right.
Reading The Vegetarian after its Nobel win felt like peeling back layers of something raw and unsettling. It’s not a book I’ll forget, nor one I’ll easily define. But perhaps that’s its power—it lingers, it unsettles, and it forces you to sit with discomfort. And if that’s not literature worth reading, then what is?