In Sohn Won-Pyung’s sophomore novel, “Counterattacks at Thirty,” we meet Kim Jihye, a thirty-year-old woman with perhaps the most ordinary Korean name possible—so ordinary that throughout her life, she’s been distinguished from other Kim Jihyes merely by letters or numbers. This theme of indistinguishable ordinariness colors the entire narrative as Jihye navigates the soul-crushing corporate world of South Korea, where she works as an intern at Diamant Academy, a subsidiary of the massive DM Group conglomerate.
Unlike Sohn’s breakout hit “Almond“—which followed a neurodivergent boy struggling to feel emotions—”Counterattacks at Thirty” delves into the quiet desperation of millennial life in contemporary South Korea. The novel succeeds brilliantly as both a specific cultural critique and a universal exploration of finding meaning in a world that seems determined to render you invisible.
The Weight of Ordinary
What immediately strikes the reader is how Sohn captures the suffocating weight of being unremarkable. Jihye isn’t seeking fame or extraordinary success; she simply wants acknowledgment that her existence matters. Her invented “boyfriend” Mr. Jeong-jin (a compound of two Korean words meaning “real”) becomes both a clever escape from tedious workplace lunches and a symbolic representation of her isolation.
When a new intern named Gyuok arrives, displaying an inexplicable enthusiasm for menial tasks, Jihye’s carefully constructed world of minimal effort begins to crack. Through Gyuok’s influence, she reluctantly joins a band of workplace rebels who execute minor “counterattacks” against those who abuse power—leaving anonymous notes for a flatulent boss, egging a corrupt politician, defacing a pretentious graffiti artist’s work.
Sohn excels at depicting these small acts of rebellion with both humor and pathos. These aren’t grand revolutionary gestures but tiny punctures in the fabric of an oppressive society—momentary disruptions that may or may not lead to lasting change.
Cultural Context and Social Commentary
The novel’s greatest strength lies in its nuanced portrayal of contemporary South Korean society. Sohn weaves in references to the country’s tumultuous path to democracy—from dictatorships to student protests to the modern corporate state—providing context for why these characters feel so powerless. When Jihye reflects on participating in protests during her college years, she remembers feeling like “a lonely fragment of a beautiful panorama,” highlighting how even collective action can feel isolating when your individual voice seems irrelevant.
The corporate culture depicted in “Counterattacks at Thirty” will resonate with readers familiar with workplace hierarchies anywhere, but Sohn infuses it with distinctly Korean elements:
The expectation that interns will remain at their positions indefinitely without promotion
The elaborate social codes dictating who can leave work when
The invisible but rigid distinctions between regular employees and “irregular” workers
The relentless pressure to act enthusiastic about exploitative conditions
When describing former department head Kim—once a passionate protestor for democracy who became the very type of authority figure he once fought against—Sohn delivers a devastating portrait of how idealism can calcify into complacency.
Flawed Characters, Realistic Relationships
Where “Counterattacks at Thirty” occasionally falters is in its pacing. The novel takes time to build momentum, and some readers might find the early chapters overly contemplative. However, this deliberate pace mirrors Jihye’s hesitant approach to change and allows for rich character development.
The relationships between the four main characters—Jihye, Gyuok, Muin, and Mr. Nam—evolve with messy authenticity. They aren’t united by ideology so much as shared frustration, and when their alliance eventually fractures, it feels painfully true to life. Muin’s betrayal, selling out his screenplay while abandoning their collective protest, highlights the complicated reality of resistance in a capitalist system. His accusation that Gyuok’s activism comes from privilege rather than genuine struggle introduces nuanced questions about who can afford to fight the system.
The romantic tension between Jihye and Gyuok adds another layer of complexity to the narrative. Their relationship remains tantalizingly unresolved for much of the book, with Jihye’s internal conflicts about her feelings mirroring her ambivalence toward social action. The scene where they share a kiss, followed by his mysterious disappearance the next morning, captures the tentative nature of connection in a world where self-protection often overrides vulnerability.
Style and Translation
Sean Lin Halbert’s translation deserves significant praise for preserving the novel’s distinctly Korean sensibility while making it accessible to English-language readers. The translator’s note at the end provides valuable context about Korean age counting, work culture, and the political environment that enriches the reading experience.
Sohn’s prose style shifts between introspective reflection and sharp dialogue, occasionally punctuated by moments of unexpected lyricism:
“Sometimes, when the music, alcohol, and emotions were just right, no words were needed.”
The novel’s structure, with its twenty-one chapters including an intentionally empty one titled “Empty Chapter,” mirrors Jihye’s journey from passive observer to active participant in her own life. The final chapter, “Rainbow,” offers a hopeful yet realistic conclusion that avoids both cynicism and naivety.
Strengths and Weaknesses
The novel’s greatest strengths include:
Authenticity in depicting workplace dynamics and societal pressures
Character development that allows for complex, often contradictory motivations
Cultural specificity that nevertheless speaks to universal human experiences
Thematic richness exploring questions of identity, resistance, and community
Areas where some readers might find fault:
Pacing that occasionally feels tentative, particularly in early chapters
Resolution of certain plot threads that might feel too ambiguous for some
Political commentary that sometimes lacks the same depth as personal reflections
Comparative Context
“Counterattacks at Thirty” joins other recent Korean novels like Cho Nam-Joo’s “Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982” and Ha Seong-nan’s “Flowers of Mold” in examining the psychic toll of modern Korean society, particularly on women. However, Sohn’s approach is distinctly her own—less overtly political than Cho’s work and more hopeful than Ha’s darkly surreal stories.
Fans of Sohn’s acclaimed debut “Almond” will find “Counterattacks at Thirty” strikingly different in tone and subject matter, yet both novels share an interest in outsiders seeking connection in a world that makes genuine human relationships increasingly difficult.
Final Assessment
“Counterattacks at Thirty” offers a thoughtful meditation on finding meaning and community in a society that prizes conformity and achievement above all else. Sohn has crafted a novel that functions simultaneously as workplace satire, coming-of-age story (albeit delayed until one’s thirties), and subtle political commentary.
The novel’s central insight—that small acts of resistance might not change the world but can transform the resisters—feels both modest and profound. When Jihye ultimately creates a stage where “anyone can go up and participate,” she discovers a form of activism that aligns with her own values rather than mimicking others’ approaches.
Whether depicting the humiliation of self-introductions in a ukulele class or the quiet triumph of speaking truth to power, Sohn captures the peculiar mixture of absurdity and poignancy that characterizes modern life. “Counterattacks at Thirty” reminds us that even in a world that deems most people ordinary, the search for meaning and connection remains extraordinary.
For readers seeking a nuanced exploration of contemporary Korean society or anyone who has ever felt invisible in their own life, “Counterattacks at Thirty” offers both recognition and possibility. Like the rainbow-colored oil slick Jihye discovers in a puddle near the novel’s end, beauty and significance can be found in the most unexpected places—if only we’re willing to look down instead of always up.