The Vegetarian by Han Kang

So it all began with a dream, a red, violent one. Where Yeong-hye (the protagonist) slowly starts a small act of being free from conventional conformity, where she first took a stand, which marks her will to refuse to eat meat. At first it seems such a small act, but this was just the beginning of her freedom. What seems first like a harmless change in diet becomes a rupture, a crack in the structure that holds her life together. Her decision to stop eating meat is not about food; it’s about control in a world that constantly demands obedience. It’s about reclaiming her freedom, and it’s about reclaiming the one thing she still owns — her body. But in a society that refuses to understand quiet defiance, even silence becomes madness. 

Han Kang begins with something deceptively simple, that is a dream about animal slaughter, soaked in blood and violence. But that dream awakens something primal in Yeong-hye, something that she cannot suppress. She then begins to see the world differently. The smell of the meat disgusts her, her body feels alien, and she starts slipping away from the ordinary rhythm of life. Her husband, who was incapable of understanding her inner storm, sees her only through the lens of inconvenience. Even her family sees her refusal as a disgrace. The more they try to bring her back to “normal”, the further she drifts. 

(I think) Yeong-hye’s body is a symbol of every conflict. She chooses her will rather than the world’s expectations. When you read, you’ll see that her father forces meat into her mouth, but she reclaims ownership of her body and refuses to eat. Her withdrawal from eating becomes her only way to escape. She isn’t just rejecting meat, she’s rejecting violence itself, the kind that society normalizes in countless small ways. 

The family seen in this is a symbol of social structure. It’s the very machinery of control that shapes and sustains the characters’ suffering. Han Kang paints the family not as a source of comfort, but as a microcosm of societal order where obedience is expected, silence is rewarded, and individuality is quietly erased. The father’s dominance echoes the rigid patriarchy that governs not just the household but the collective conscience. The dinner scene (the one I talked about earlier) is a moment where “family” transforms into something cruelly oppressive. His act is not about nourishment but about power.

Her husband, meanwhile, embodies entitlement of a different kind. He completely dismisses her. To him, Yeong-hye’s transformation is inconvenient. He sees her not as a partner, but as a possession, an extension of his social image. His detachment becomes another form of violence. And then there’s In-hye, the dutiful sister, the one who endures (I’ll talk about her in detail later). The father’s dominance, the husband’s entitlement, and the sister’s quiet duty all represent how conformity is passed down, enforced, and internalized in ways that we don’t even recognize. 

In the middle section, the novel shifts the lens away from Yeong-hye’s own mind to the eyes of her brother-in-law. He is an artist who becomes disturbingly captivated by her transformation. Here you’ll see the lines blur between art, desire, obsession, and madness. At first, his fascination seems almost aesthetic. He is drawn to Yeong-hye’s stillness, her quiet detachment from the world, as though she has transcended the noise of human chaos. But his artistic intrigue slowly turns into obsession. He starts to see her not as a person, but as a canvas, a vessel for his own fantasies and creative hunger. There is a scene where he paints her body with flowers and films her as though she has become part of nature itself. To him, she embodies purity, who is untouched and free from corruption (But the act of objectifying her contradicts that purity). His art, which he believes to be liberating, is in fact another form of control. This shows how easily the human body, especially a woman’s body, becomes a projection of someone else’s desire and someone else’s madness. He romanticizes Yeong-hye’s breakdown as art, but in doing so, he strips her little agency that she had left. 

The beauty of this section is its paradox. Yeong-hye’s refusal to be consumed by meat, by family, by expectation, ironically leads to another form of consumption. This time through the male gaze disguised as art. Her silence is again reinterpreted, misunderstood, and used by someone else. 

But the story isn’t only about Yeong-hye. Her sister, In-hye, stands in stark contrast. If Yeong-hye’s story is one of rebellion, In-hye’s is one of endurance. Where Yeong-hye breaks away from the world, In-hye continues to live within it. She holds the weight of family, responsibility, and routine on her tired shoulders. She becomes the mirror through which we see not only her sister’s unraveling, but the quiet, invisible suffering of those who “keep it together.” (I can relate very much to this).

In-hye’s life is defined by composure. She is practical, grounded, and deeply caring. She is the elder sister who picks up after everyone else’s chaos. Yet beneath that calm surface lies a woman who is just as fragile. Her pain doesn’t erupt like Yeong-hye’s; it seeps slowly, numbing her from within. She survives by conforming and by playing the roles that society expects. The role of a daughter, a wife, a mother, a caretaker. And in doing so, she loses parts of herself she never had the time to mourn. When Yeong-hye stops eating meat, it isn’t just her own world that falls apart; it shakes In-hye’s as well. Watching her sister’s descent forces her to confront a truth she’s long ignored. That she, too, is trapped. 

While Yeong-hye’s madness is visible and condemned, In-hye’s quiet endurance is praised and normalized. Society calls one “ill” and the other “strong.” (Like why! I think while conforming, we forget our own identity. We no longer know who we truly are. And in what nonsense society are we living, which blurs the lines where we no longer know what we are choosing is freedom or another trap covered in silk?) Han Kang gently dismantles this illusion, showing that both women are imprisoned, only in different cages. (The beauty of this book, which I liked the most)

As the story progresses, In-hye begins to envy Yeong-hye of her strange freedom, her escape from human cruelty, even her detachment. There’s a haunting moment when she wonders if her sister’s madness is a form of liberation. If losing touch with reality might, in some way, mean finding peace. (It’s a painful realization that sanity can be its own kind of suffering). By the end, In-hye’s emotional breakdown mirrors Yeong-hye’s physical one. She starts to feel the same disconnection, the same exhaustion with existence. Han Kang uses their parallel journeys to question the cost of survival. Whether endurance, when built on suppression, is any less destructive than collapse.

Both sisters are, in their own ways, rebelling against a world that consumes them. Yeong-hye does so by retreating from it entirely. And In-hye, by continuing to live despite it. One chooses to disappear, the other to endure, and both are punished for it. So, who is really free? The one who escapes, or the one who stays? (The question I was left with after reading)

Now, a bit about the ending. After reading and experiencing all the emotions that I came across, the ending gave me another chills. By the end, the boundaries between madness and freedom dissolve entirely. Yeong-hye’s body is frail, her mind is distant, yet there is something serene about her detachment, something almost otherworldly. She stops eating, speaking, and existing in the ways expected of her. She wishes to become a tree; rooted, still, and untouched by the world’s cruelty.

It’s difficult to say whether Yeong-hye has lost her mind or discovered a higher form of truth. Her rejection of human life, of violence, of hunger, of desire feels like both a breakdown and a transcendence. There is clarity in her madness. Han Kang doesn’t give us the comfort of certainty. She leaves us suspended in that uncomfortable space between illness and liberation, asking whether Yeong-hye’s withdrawal is a symptom of psychosis or an act of spiritual resistance (Maybe she’s not escaping reality, but exposing its brutality. Maybe madness is the only language left for those who cannot conform). 

And then there’s In-hye, left behind watching her sister fade into something both tragic and pure. She wonders (as I did) if Yeong-hye’s madness is truly madness or if, in a world that mistakes control for care and silence for sanity, it might be the only honest way to live.

So I ask you, is she insane or is she finally free?