Min Character Analysis

“Work gives a man dignity; stealing takes it away,” he often said.

Tree-ear felt as though the sun had suddenly dimmed. The night before, sleep had not come easily. He had imagined himself at the wheel, a beautiful pot growing from the clay before him. Perhaps, he thought now, if he chopped enough wood quickly, there would still be time at the end of the day . . .

“Eat well, work well,” she said.

I’m not really deceiving anyone, he argued to himself. And I haven’t asked for more food—it should make no difference to her which bowl . . .

But once the process had been repeated three times, subsequent drainings did not seem to make a difference—at least, not to Tree-ear. He would squeeze his eyes shut, hold his breath, and rub the clay between his fingers, trying desperately to detect whatever was different about a fifth or sixth draining. What was it that Min felt? Why couldn’t Tree-ear feel it himself?

Tree-ear loved the symmetry of the prunus vases that grew on Min’s wheel.

“Our son, Hyung-gu, died of fever when he was about your age,” she said. “These clothes I made for him, but they were never worn.”

“If a man is keeping an idea to himself, and that idea is taken by stealth or trickery—I say it is stealing. But once a man has revealed his idea to others, it is no longer his alone. It belongs to the world.”

[…]

An image floated out of the darkness into Tree-ear’s mind—that of himself with his eye pressed to the knothole of Kang’s shed.

Stealth.

He could not yet tell Min of Kang’s idea.

“The melon shape is common enough now—I see it often,” Kim said. Tree-ear could hardly breathe. Did this mean that the man did not care for the piece?

“And yet this work is unmistakable,” he continued.

Foxes were dreaded animals. They were not large or fierce, like the bears and tigers that roamed the mountainsides, but they were known to be fiendishly clever. Some people even believed that foxes possessed evil magic. It was said that a fox could lure a man to his doom, trick him into coming to its den, where somehow he would be fed to its offspring.

Even to say the word made a trickle of fear run down Tree-ear’s spine.

The old fool! he thought. He does not wish the emissary to see the imperfect glaze . . . his pride keeps him from a royal commission. The fool . . .

Tree-ear’s eyes filled with tears. He bent to pick up another piece of laundry. Ajima meant something like “Auntie”; it was a term of great affection, reserved only for older kinswomen. Tree-ear was kin to no one, and yet Min’s wife wished for him to call her Ajima.

The potter’s voice was low, but shook with the effort of control. “The potter’s trade goes from father to son. I had a son once. My son, Hyung-gu. He is gone now. It is him I would have taught. You—”

Tree-ear saw the potter’s eyes, fierce with grief and rage. Min choked out the last words: “You are not my son.”

It’s not my fault! Tree-ear wanted to shout. He wanted to run all the way back to Min and scream the words. It’s not my fault you lost your son, not my fault that I am an orphan! Why must it be father to son?

“Because he is proud, Tree-ear,” she said. “He does not wish to be fed out of pity.”

Tree-ear kicked a small stone at his feet. Why was it that pride and foolishness were so often close companions?

Could it be? He had fallen asleep! He had slept for who knew how long, with a fox nearby—and he had survived!

Tree-ear laughed out loud, and the sound of his laughter reminded him of his friend. We are afraid of the things we do not know—just because we do not know them, Tree-ear thought, pleased with himself. He must remember the idea; Crane-man would be interested in discussing it.

Across one side of the shard ran a shallow groove, evidence of the vase’s melon shape. Part of an inlaid peony blossom with its stem and leaves twined along the groove. And the glaze still shone clear and pure, untouched by the violence that had just been done it.

“My master works slowly.”

The emissary nodded solemnly. “As well he should.”

“We would like to give you a new name. Would it be agreeable to you if we were to call you Hyung-pil from now on?”

Tree-ear ducked his head quickly, recalling that the son of Min had been called Hyung-gu. A name that shared a syllable! It was an honor bestowed on siblings. No longer would Tree-ear go by the name of an orphan.

“Work gives a man dignity; stealing takes it away,” he often said.

Tree-ear felt as though the sun had suddenly dimmed. The night before, sleep had not come easily. He had imagined himself at the wheel, a beautiful pot growing from the clay before him. Perhaps, he thought now, if he chopped enough wood quickly, there would still be time at the end of the day . . .

“Eat well, work well,” she said.

I’m not really deceiving anyone, he argued to himself. And I haven’t asked for more food—it should make no difference to her which bowl . . .

But once the process had been repeated three times, subsequent drainings did not seem to make a difference—at least, not to Tree-ear. He would squeeze his eyes shut, hold his breath, and rub the clay between his fingers, trying desperately to detect whatever was different about a fifth or sixth draining. What was it that Min felt? Why couldn’t Tree-ear feel it himself?

Tree-ear loved the symmetry of the prunus vases that grew on Min’s wheel.

“Our son, Hyung-gu, died of fever when he was about your age,” she said. “These clothes I made for him, but they were never worn.”

“If a man is keeping an idea to himself, and that idea is taken by stealth or trickery—I say it is stealing. But once a man has revealed his idea to others, it is no longer his alone. It belongs to the world.”

[…]

An image floated out of the darkness into Tree-ear’s mind—that of himself with his eye pressed to the knothole of Kang’s shed.

Stealth.

He could not yet tell Min of Kang’s idea.

“The melon shape is common enough now—I see it often,” Kim said. Tree-ear could hardly breathe. Did this mean that the man did not care for the piece?

“And yet this work is unmistakable,” he continued.

Foxes were dreaded animals. They were not large or fierce, like the bears and tigers that roamed the mountainsides, but they were known to be fiendishly clever. Some people even believed that foxes possessed evil magic. It was said that a fox could lure a man to his doom, trick him into coming to its den, where somehow he would be fed to its offspring.

Even to say the word made a trickle of fear run down Tree-ear’s spine.

The old fool! he thought. He does not wish the emissary to see the imperfect glaze . . . his pride keeps him from a royal commission. The fool . . .

Tree-ear’s eyes filled with tears. He bent to pick up another piece of laundry. Ajima meant something like “Auntie”; it was a term of great affection, reserved only for older kinswomen. Tree-ear was kin to no one, and yet Min’s wife wished for him to call her Ajima.

The potter’s voice was low, but shook with the effort of control. “The potter’s trade goes from father to son. I had a son once. My son, Hyung-gu. He is gone now. It is him I would have taught. You—”

Tree-ear saw the potter’s eyes, fierce with grief and rage. Min choked out the last words: “You are not my son.”

It’s not my fault! Tree-ear wanted to shout. He wanted to run all the way back to Min and scream the words. It’s not my fault you lost your son, not my fault that I am an orphan! Why must it be father to son?

“Because he is proud, Tree-ear,” she said. “He does not wish to be fed out of pity.”

Tree-ear kicked a small stone at his feet. Why was it that pride and foolishness were so often close companions?

Could it be? He had fallen asleep! He had slept for who knew how long, with a fox nearby—and he had survived!

Tree-ear laughed out loud, and the sound of his laughter reminded him of his friend. We are afraid of the things we do not know—just because we do not know them, Tree-ear thought, pleased with himself. He must remember the idea; Crane-man would be interested in discussing it.

Across one side of the shard ran a shallow groove, evidence of the vase’s melon shape. Part of an inlaid peony blossom with its stem and leaves twined along the groove. And the glaze still shone clear and pure, untouched by the violence that had just been done it.

“My master works slowly.”

The emissary nodded solemnly. “As well he should.”

“We would like to give you a new name. Would it be agreeable to you if we were to call you Hyung-pil from now on?”

Tree-ear ducked his head quickly, recalling that the son of Min had been called Hyung-gu. A name that shared a syllable! It was an honor bestowed on siblings. No longer would Tree-ear go by the name of an orphan.