Contagion 
 This is a horrible book, a wonderful book, a book that fascinates even as it makes you want to throw up. The first of its three parts begins when a young married Korean woman, Yeong-hye, has a terrifying dream and suddenly gives up eating meat. More than a Vegetarian, actually, which is the title of both the novel and this first section; she becomes a Vegan, eschewing animal products entirely and rejecting sex with her husband because he smells of meat. This so alarms her family that they attempt an intervention, with disastrous results. All through the section, the narrative of Yeong-hye's husband Mr. Cheong alternates with the violent images of her dreams; it is hard to say which is the more skin-crawling. I cannot believe how tight the author screws up the tension towards the end of this part, then giving the screw another turn and yet another. The nearest I can think of is 
 The Dinner 
 by Herman Koch, but in terms of ghastly family dynamics, Han Kang has him beat, 
 Keeping that family straight is the one thing that may make this a difficult read, since the names are introduced late and can be hard to keep apart. Yeong-hye has an elder sister, In-hye, and a younger brother, Yeong-ho. All three are married. In-hye's husband, who I don't think is ever named, is a video artist; they have a young son called Ji-woo. Often, though, they do not use names at all, but address one another by titles such as father-in-law and sister-in-law, which only make it more confusing. 
 The family is important because as the book proceeds, whatever disorder it was that wreaked such havoc in the first part passes to others, like a contagion. I don't mean that the veganism spreads; Han Kang has the sense not to attempt to build on disgust with more disgust; each of the three sections begins in quite a different key and focuses on a different member of the family. So the second part, "The Mongolian Mark*," shifts the focus to Yeong-hye's artist brother-in-law. The tension at the end of the first section seems to have disappeared, and the mood is artistic, relaxed, creative rather than repressive. But as the character's pursuit of his vision becomes an obsession, it quickly builds to another climax, this time sexual in nature. The third part, "Flaming Trees," has passed beyond desperation into a kind of dead zone. Yeong-hye is hospitalized and is mentally in another world entirely; the horror here is what we learn of her sister, In-hye, as in this early paragraph begins to hint: 
 Though the ostensible reason for her not wanting Yeong-hye to be discharged, the reason that she gave to the doctor, was this worry about a possible relapse, now she was able to admit to herself what had really been going on. She was no longer able to cope with all that her sister reminded her of. She'd been unable to forgive her for soaring alone over a boundary she herself could never bring herself to cross, unable to forgive that magnificent irresponsibility that had enabled Yeong-hye to shuck off social constraints and leave her behind, still a prisoner. And before Yeong-hye had broken those bars, she'd never even known they were there. 
 I have worked enough with Koreans to understand that theirs is a patriarchal society, with behaviors accepted from fathers and husbands that in the West would be considered grossly chauvinistic. Even so, I couldn't imagine a more detestable man than Yeong-hye's husband, Mr. Cheong, who spends the first pages calmly explaining that he had married her because she was neither attractive nor intellectual enough to show him up. But he pales in comparison to Mr. Kim, Yeong-hye's father, who is a true monster. If her sudden veganism is a reaction to male oppression, who can blame her? But In-Hye's own desire to escape and the flight from social convention more or less achieved by her artist husband are caused by something larger. The back-cover blurb suggests that this might be an allegory of South Korea itself. I leave that to those who know the country better. Even without that, it made a perplexing, horrifying, and utterly compelling novel. 
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 The Vegetarian won the 2016 Man Booker International Prize, awarded equally to author and translator. The latter is especially remarkable, since the translator, Deborah Smith, apparently took up Korean upon her graduation only seven years ago, but translates (at least to my ear) as if she had been living there all her life. It was tough competition, including novels by two Nobelists, 
 Death by Water 
 by Kenzaburo Oe and 
 A Strangeness in My Mind 
 by Orhan Pamuk. I have read both, and don't think they compete with Han Kang for originality and impact. Nor does 
 Ladivine 
 by Marie N'Diaye, though it has considerable ingenuity. Jose Eduardo Agualusa's 
 A General Theory of Oblivion 
 is also entirely sui generis, though it seems a slighter book. I have not read everything on the longlist, of course, but of the six that I have, the only one I might place above Han Kang's is Maylis de Kerangal's stunning The Heart, although the version considered for the prize was the UK translation, 
 Mend the Living 
 . 
 I received my copy through Amazon Vine. 
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 * A large bluish birthmark sometimes found on Asian children.