Korean myths and legends

Neither Miss H nor I had ever been to Seoul Tower by night. We decided that, on New Year's Eve (that's Western New Year's Eve, not Korean New Year; the latter is this weekend), we would go and look down upon the ocean of light which is Seoul by night.

The view was spectacular, and if I wasn't a cruddy journalist who keeps forgetting his camera, I'd post a picture or two here. But I am, and I can't. So there.

That's not what I want to talk to you about, though. I found this book in the gift shop:

EUREKA! Do you know long I've been trying to find something like this? I've wanted to read about Korean mythology for ages. I used to quiz my Korean friends and students whenever I got the chance, trying to find out more about the ancient legends. I met with varied success. But finally, just when I was least expecting it, a book appeared (in a gift shop, no less!) that enabled me to delve into the diverse pageant of peninsular fairy stories.

This is the best book I could have possibly found on the subject, too. It was written and published in 1952 by In-seop Jeong, a professor of Korean culture and history. He copiously collected these stories from all corners of the country, gleaning them from aged storytellers and childhood friends who remembered the old days of the Korean kingdom. Professor Jeong taught a course in Korean studies at Oxford University for many years, and was the first Korean man to make a deliberate effort to share his nation's culture with the world. He cleverly divided this book into sections: myths (which deal in the creation of the world and its pantheon of deities); legends (stories about human heroes which contain some historical facts); fairy tales (innocent stories for children); fables (which contain a moral); and old novels, which were autobiographies written by venerable ancient Koreans, and have become almost legendary in their own right.

What I have found within this book is most incredible, and it has answered many of the questions I had about Korea in general—and even cleared up some of the mysteries of their culture.

The reason they like fart jokes so much, for example.

Seriously. Anything involving poop or passing gas sends Koreans, old or young, into paroxysms of mirth. (They were like this before the American cinematic juggernaut inundated the world with fatuous bathroom comedies, too.)

I just read one legend called "General Pumpkin" about a boy who loved pumpkins so much that he bankrupted his parents trying to feed him. Not only that, but he broke so much wind that they kicked him out of the house. He traveled the peninsula for many years, working odd jobs (for pumpkins) until he happened upon a prosperous Buddhist temple. The monks saw how big he was and figured he'd be a good guy to have around, for this temple was always getting robbed by bandits. The boy (now a man) agreed to help in exchange for all the pumpkins he could eat. When the bandits attacked that night, "General Pumpkin" bade all the monks hide in the corners of the compound with drums. The bandits swarmed over the walls, and then the monks started beating the drums. General Pumpkin passed gas for all he was worth. The noise and the stench threw the bandits into a panic, and the wall collapsed and killed them all as they tried to swarm back over it. Pumpkin lived the rest of his life at the temple, and eventually died by crapping himself to death.

This is actually one of the least disgusting stories I've read in this book.

In general, I've found that the tone of Korean folk tales is not so different from the Japanese or Chinese myths that I've read. (Some of them were even inspired by Chinese or Japanese tales, just as Korean tales inspired theirs; there was a lot of cross-pollination.) There's just more of an emphasis on, um, gross bodily functions. Generally speaking.

That's not what I wanted to tell you about, though. I'd like to reveal the most momentous discovery I've made by reading Korean Folk Tales. Are you ready?

Ever since I came to this land, something's been bugging me. It's the word "Seoul." Seoul is, of course, the name of Korea's capital city. But the name is different from any other Korean city name I've seen. It just sounds weird. Seo-ul. Very few Korean municipalities end with the -ul suffix. Common suffixes are -cheon, which means "river" (Bucheon, Incheon, Gwacheon); -san, which means "mountain" (Busan, Ulsan, Ilsan); -ju, which means "province" (Gyeongju, Gwangju, Jinju); or -won, which I'm guessing means "valley" (Suwon, Namwon, Changwon).

But what was "Seoul"? The meaning was a mystery. I knew the word "seo" in Korean meant "west." So maybe the meaning of Seoul's name was "Western" something? Wikipedia and the Internet proved unhelpful. They vaguely stated that "Seoul" was derived from a Chinese word (as many Korean words are) which meant "capital city." I was forced to swallow this half-baked explanation until a better one came along.

Well, a better one did. Right after the fart-heavy "General Pumpkin" story, I read a little tale called "The Castle of Seoul." And it told me everything I wanted to know. Listen to this:

Apparently there was this Buddhist monk called Doseon, from the Silla Kingdom. He had prophesied that "the king of Korea shall be Yi," and that the "capital will be moved to Hanyang."

There were two problems with this prophecy. First, the king was not named Yi. Second, the capital was in a town called Gaeseong (which now lies just north of the DMZ, and is the site of an industrial complex jointly administered by North and South). "Hanyang," just in case you're wondering, was Seoul's original name. It wasn't officially known as Seoul until 1882, near the end of the Joseon Dynasty. It was called Hanyang during Joseon times.

But lo and behold, the prophecy came to pass. A man named Yi deposed the king. However, the old king's loyalists made it warm for Yi in Gaeseong, so he enlisted the help of a Buddhist monk called Muhak to find a location to build a new capital.

Eventually Muhak found the perfect spot, with mountains on three sides and a broad river to the south. King Yi was delighted and moved his court and ministers there at once, and built a city. They couldn't decide where they wanted to build the king's castle, however.

Then it snowed one night. In the morning, the king's men found a perfect circle of snow ringing the area marked out for the castle, and decided to built the wall along this line. And so the capital was nicknamed Seoul, which is derived from two ancient Sino-Korean characters: seol, the Chinese word for snow, and ul, an original Korean word, meaning "fence."

I sat back when I finished reading this story, and stared out the window. I felt like Indiana Jones holding the Holy Grail. Finally. I'd finally found the answer I was looking for. Now I understood why Seoul's name was so different from every other Korean city. It was a nickname from an ancient legend. The word meant "snow-fence"! That's why it ended in "ul," because ul means "fence"! All the other Korean cities ended with "province" or "valley" or "mountain" or "river"! But only Seoul ended with "fence"!

I had a serious geek-out right then. And now I'm sharing it with you. Enjoy. To heck with you, Internet! You let me down. The True Way is to be found in books: real, tree-paper books. Thank you, King Yi. Thank you, Muhak. One mystery solved.