The Tale of the Rabbit#1
Long, long ago, just as kings ruled over their own kingdoms, there were Dragon Kings in the underwater world, each governing one of the four seas of east, west, south, and north. This story takes place around the late Goryeo period. The Gwangni King, who ruled the southern sea, built a new palace beneath the waters called Yeongdeokjeon.
When the palace was completed, he chose an auspicious day and invited the Dragon Kings of the east, west, and north seas to a grand feast. To the beat of drums, flutes were played, beautiful songs rose into the air, and the tables were filled with rare delicacies from the sea and fine liquor. Everyone was in high spirits, enjoying the music, offering food to one another, and reveling so freely that they lost all sense of time. Only after several days did the feast finally come to an end.
But alas, perhaps they had celebrated too much. After the banquet was over, the Dragon King fell ill. He lay in bed groaning, and no matter what treatment was tried, nothing worked. Days passed, and he could not rise from his bed.
The officials of the underwater palace cared for him with the utmost devotion, trying every kind of medicine the sea could offer, but nothing had any effect. Thinking perhaps he had simply drunk too much and fallen ill from wine, they made him drink water, but that did no good. They fed him sea cucumber, said to restore vitality, but that too failed. They tried pike eel for the lungs, crucian carp for indigestion, and every other remedy they could think of, but his condition did not improve. No matter what medicine they used or how earnestly they nursed him, the illness only grew worse. Now there was nothing left to do but pray to heaven.
“Please save our Dragon King.”
“Please save our Dragon King.”
All of them prayed with one heart, again and again.
Then one day, something miraculous happened. Five-colored clouds covered the Dragon Palace, and from within the clouds came a deep and resonant voice, while a fragrant scent spread in every direction. At last, parting the clouds, an Immortal descended into the palace, and his appearance was anything but ordinary. He wore a light blue robe like drifting mist, a moon-shaped ornament at his waist, and in one hand he held a white feather fan.
The Immortal stepped lightly onto the floor, bowed before the Dragon King, and sat down with composure. Though ill, the Dragon King was delighted and asked respectfully,
“I am deeply grateful that an Immortal from heaven has come all this way. I have fallen sick, and so I could not go out to receive you myself.”
“I was boating on the Milky Way and was on my way elsewhere after receiving a letter from another Immortal, when I heard that Your Majesty had long been suffering, so I stopped by. I would like to hear about the nature of your illness.”
The Dragon King welcomed him warmly and explained.
“It seems that the illness I happened to contract has sunk into my very bones. I have tried every medicine said to be effective, but nothing has worked. I had resigned myself to death. Please examine me carefully and tell me what remedy I should take.”
The Immortal rolled up his sleeves and examined the Dragon King here and there. After falling into thought for a long while, he finally spoke.
“Your Majesty’s noble body is unlike that of human beings. Your eyes are bright, yet they do not see stones or cliffs. You hear through the two horns upon your head. The reverse scale beneath your chin rises when you are angered. In your mouth you hold a wish-fulfilling jewel by which you command transformations at will. A body such as yours cannot be healed by the needles or medicines used for human beings. Long ago, a man named Shennong is said to have tasted hundreds of herbs and discovered remedies for all manner of illness, but there is no medicine among them suited to Your Majesty. Your scales are so hard that no needle could pierce them, and since you do not eat food cooked over fire, you cannot take medicinal decoctions either. Having carefully reasoned through the matter, I believe that only the liver of a thousand-year-old rabbit can cure you.”
The Dragon King was greatly puzzled.
“How could a rabbit’s liver possibly serve as medicine?”
“The rabbit absorbs the energy of the dawn sun, and when the elixir of immortality is pounded on the moon, it absorbs the energy of the moon as well. Receiving equally the essences of sun and moon, its vital force strengthens the liver. In traditional medicine, the eyes are connected with the liver, and the rabbit is famed for its bright eyes. That is proof enough that its liver is exceptionally strong. If Your Majesty eats a rabbit’s liver, not only will your illness vanish at once, you will live in health for a very long time. But if you cannot obtain it, then no physician, however skilled, will be able to cure you. You must secure a rabbit’s liver by whatever means necessary.”
No sooner had the Immortal finished speaking than he rose from his seat, stepped outside, and vanished in an instant. Only the clear sound of a flute remained in the air.
The Dragon King thought to himself that this was indeed a grave matter. Rabbits were beasts of the human world. No matter how wondrous his powers, he was still, after all, only king of the waters. The liver of a rabbit living in the mountains on land was not something easily procured.
After much worry, the Dragon King gave an order.
“Summon all my officials.”
Once the Dragon King’s command had been issued, who would dare hesitate? The entire underwater palace burst into commotion as the officials came bouncing and hurrying in. Civil officials lined up to the east, military officials to the west, with the highest-ranking standing at the front. One by one they entered and prostrated themselves before the Dragon King. From the Left Chancellor Turtle and the Right Chancellor Carp, to the ministers, generals, scholars, and magistrates in charge of every department, all the fish-officials of the underwater court gathered at once, and the whole place reeked of fish.
Left Chancellor Turtle and Right Chancellor Carp Boast of Their Lineages
The Dragon King looked down upon the officials lying prostrate and asked,
“Do you know the duty that must be observed between king and subject?”
Left Chancellor Turtle stepped forward and replied,
“My family has long been famous for its numinous powers. In ancient times, when the sage-king Yu of China was controlling the floods, it is said that he learned the methods of water management from the markings on the back of a turtle that emerged from the Luo River. And when the Zhou dynasty chose the site of its capital, it too was decided through turtle divination. Thus the merits accumulated by my ancestors fill the history books, and I know in full the duty that must be observed between king and subject.”
The Dragon King asked again,
“And what makes a loyal subject?”
“A loyal subject must not spare his life for the sake of his lord. In ancient China, when Lord Wen of Jin was starving, his retainer Jie Zitui cut flesh from his own thigh and fed it to him. And in the Han dynasty, Ji Xin, a loyal official, offered himself up as if he were the emperor, allowing himself to be burned alive in order to save his besieged ruler. Thus when hardship befalls one’s lord, one must be ready to do whatever is necessary. That is what loyalty means.”
After hearing Turtle’s words, the Dragon King asked once more,
“Would there be such a loyal subject here in our underwater court?”
Right Chancellor Carp, thinking it would be a disgrace to remain silent, quickly stepped forward and answered,
“My family has long been known for its devotion to learning. In China, the son of Confucius was named Li, meaning carp, and the phrase ‘ascending through the dragon gate’ is also connected to our kind. It comes from the legend that if a carp succeeds in swimming upstream through the fierce currents at Dragon Gate on the upper Yellow River, it becomes a dragon. That is why the examination for selecting outstanding talent came to be called the Dragon Gate. And there is also the tale of the famous filial son Wang Xiang, who in the depths of winter tried to catch fish through the frozen river for his stepmother, whereupon the ice cracked and two carp leapt out. Reflecting on history, I have realized one thing: just as only in a fierce wind can one tell which grass is strongest, so too only when the state faces difficulty can one know who the truly loyal subjects are.”
After hearing both officials, the Dragon King said,
“My illness is grave and difficult to cure. The Immortal physician has said that unless I eat a rabbit’s liver, I shall surely die. Who among you will bring me a rabbit and save my life?”
Officials Shift Responsibility onto One Another
The Minister of Studies, Croaker, immediately stepped forward and said,
“I do not know what sort of beast a rabbit is, but the history books say it lives in the mountains. Grant us three thousand swift soldiers, and send General Whale to capture one.”
Whale, hearing this, grew angry.
“The land is not the same as the water. How are underwater soldiers supposed to fight on land? Your judgment is pitifully shallow, yet whenever difficulty arises, you push it onto the military men. It is truly exasperating.”
Croaker was too embarrassed to answer. Then Scholar Hairtail spoke.
“A rabbit is only a small animal. Send a letter to the king of the mountains and ask him to present a few rabbits as tribute.”
The Dragon King asked again,
“Very well, suppose you write the letter. Who is to deliver it to the king of the mountains?”
At this, someone suggested that General Byeoldeok Crab should carry the letter. Hearing this, Byeoldeok Crab became so furious that bubbles only frothed from his mouth.
“The realm of water and the realm of the mountains are different worlds. Even if Your Majesty sends a letter, why would the ruler of the mountains grant such a request? Let the one who wrote the letter carry it himself.”
The military officials, long resentful of being looked down upon by the civil officials, seized this chance to pour out what had long been bottled up inside. To the Dragon King, it seemed a great quarrel between civil and military factions was about to erupt.
The Dragon King lifted his face sharply and asked the White-Robed Chancellor Perch,
“We must obtain a rabbit’s liver at once, yet the civil and military officials do nothing but squabble over precedence. I no longer know whom to send. Without regard for whether he is civil or military, recommend a subject fit for the task.”
Perch was a man who had given up ambitions for office, choosing instead to live leisurely in scenic places and devote himself to study. The officials of the underwater court called him “the gentleman of rivers and lakes,” respected him greatly, and summoned him whenever important matters arose to seek his opinion. Though he held no office, he always took part in affairs of national importance, and so he was known as the White-Robed Chancellor.
“People say there is no one who knows a ruler’s subjects better than the ruler himself. Let Your Majesty name the one you wish to send, and I shall tell you whether he is suited to the task.”
At Perch’s reply, the Dragon King fell into deep thought. But each time the Dragon King named someone, Perch supplied a reason why that candidate would not do.
“What of General Clam? His shell is hard. Might he not be suitable?”
“He might seem so. But he has an old feud with the snipe, and if the two began fighting, only the fisherman would profit.” This refers to the old Chinese tale in which the clam and the snipe fight each other only to be caught by a fisherman—the story behind the saying “the fisherman profits while the two sides contend.”
“What about Catfish? He has a dignified appearance.”
“These days, people often catch fish by scattering prickly ash powder into the water. He could never go near freshwater.”
“Sea bream has long wished to become a minister. What if I send him, promising him promotion when he returns?”
“That would be like sending ingredients for a steamed dish. He would only end up offering himself to be eaten.”
“Tadpole is full of lofty ambitions. Might he not do?”
“The road is long. A month or two would pass. By then he would have become a frog, forgotten all about his tadpole days, and who knows where he would leap off to.”
What you have just heard is the story of Sugungga, or The Tale of the Rabbit. It is a work that took shape in written form out of a pansori performance tradition popular among commoners in the late Joseon period.
But let us pause for a moment and return to the very first sentence of the story.
“Just as kings ruled over their own kingdoms, there were Dragon Kings in the underwater world, each governing one of the four seas of east, west, south, and north.”
This is not merely background information. It is closer to a worldview proposed by the narrator. Just as there are kings in the human world, there are Dragon Kings in the underwater world. There are Immortals in the heavens, Dragon Kings in the sea, and animals upon the land. This world does not have to be understood solely as a vertical structure of domination. It may also be described as a horizontal division in which each being fulfills its role within its own proper realm. Interestingly, the basic principle behind the creation of Hangul offers a concise summary of this worldview. The fundamental elements of Hangul vowels are three: a dot symbolizing heaven, a horizontal line symbolizing earth, and a vertical line symbolizing the human being. This is called cheonjiin—heaven, earth, and human. It is the idea that heaven, earth, and human beings each occupy their proper place and together constitute the world. If there is any true principle of this world, then it must apply equally in heaven, on earth, and among human beings.
This “horizontal division” appears in the story in a very subtle way. The Immortal who comes to visit the ailing Dragon King speaks to him using honorific language, and the Dragon King likewise addresses the Immortal with honorifics. The king of the sea and the Immortal of heaven raise one another up. This does not mean there is no hierarchy, but rather that hierarchy here does not operate as domination and subordination.
To understand this, one must briefly explain the structure of honorifics in Korean. Korean contains both endings that raise the listener and endings that lower the speaker. By choosing which ending to use, the speaker defines the nature of the relationship. To speak in honorifics is to declare, in effect, “I recognize you as someone worthy of respect within this relationship.” That the Dragon King and the Immortal speak honorifically to one another means that they recognize each other as possessing equal authority within their own respective realms.
Now let us turn to the setting.
The story is set in the “late Goryeo period.” But this is curious. Sugungga flourished in the late Joseon period. Why, then, would its author choose to set the story hundreds of years earlier rather than in his own time?
A first hypothesis is simple enough: to avoid direct criticism of contemporary power. If one mocks the king of one’s own day, punishment follows; if one mocks a Dragon King of the Goryeo period, no one can object. Temporal and spatial distance becomes a protective screen for satire.
A second hypothesis is more interesting. Perhaps the author was thinking something like this: “What I am about to describe is not a problem of Joseon alone. It existed in Goryeo, it exists in Joseon, and it will likely exist thereafter as well.” In other words, rather than recording the events of one particular age, the work seeks to capture a pattern that repeats across ages. If that is so, then the text begins to resemble an observational report on the principles governing human collective behavior.
Let us look at the scene in which the Immortal diagnoses the Dragon King’s illness.
The Immortal says, “Your Majesty’s noble body is unlike that of human beings. A body such as yours cannot be healed by the needles or medicines used for human beings.”
This short passage touches on a debate that has run through the history of medicine for thousands of years: the problem of universality and particularity.
Let us imagine a scenario that may help us understand this tension, something that might plausibly have unfolded in the history of East Asian medicine. A physician prescribes a remedy, but it does not work. Why not? Perhaps because different people have different constitutions. So human beings are divided into four types: Taeeumin, Taeyangin, Soeumin, Soyangin. Now a prescription is made specifically for a Soeumin patient. Yet still it does not work. Perhaps the error lies in the season: it is winter, but the physician has prescribed something suited to summer. So another axis is added, that of the seasons. As each new axis is added, the prescription becomes more precise.
This is an imagined sequence, to be sure, but it is not so far from the logic of medicine operating according to principle. When one treatment does not fit, one divides more finely, and then more finely still, searching for the place where principle and case coincide. The content of that principle in East Asian medicine may not be describable in the language of modern science. But what is interesting is that remedies derived according to such principles sometimes do in fact heal. The explanation for why they heal may differ, but the fact of healing itself can still be confirmed. Modern medicine does not ignore this problem either. Precision medicine, personalized treatment, and therapies based on individual genomic analysis all move in this direction. Recognizing the limits of universal prescriptions, they proceed by considering individual conditions alongside general rules.
The scene in which the Immortal diagnoses the Dragon King follows precisely this structure. The Immortal first recognizes that the Dragon King is not human, that he is a being to whom universal remedies do not apply. Then he narrows the axes according to principle. The direction of reasoning itself is not mistaken. The problem lies in the conclusion to which that reasoning arrives.
“Having carefully reasoned through the matter, I believe that only the liver of a thousand-year-old rabbit can cure you.”
There is one word that matters more than any other in this entire story: principle.
The word recurs throughout the narrative, and each time it appears, it fails a little more.
Principle was one of the central concepts of Neo-Confucianism, the dominant ideology of Joseon. The idea was that all things in the world possess a reason why they must be as they are—that is, a principle. If one grasps principle, one can make correct judgments; if one follows principle, the world will function as it ought.
By the late Joseon period, however, cracks had begun to appear in this faith. People grew aware that no matter how much one discussed principle, real problems remained unsolved. As a counterforce to this, the Silhak tradition emerged. Practical Learning thinkers asked a different question: “Leaving principle aside, what is it that actually works?”
What I take to be the central context of Sugungga is precisely this tension between principle and empirical effectiveness. This is a story in which those who believe in principle are defeated, one after another, by a small rabbit that possesses no principle at all. To trace the failure of principle from beginning to end—this, I think, is the most important point from which to view the work.
Let us look more closely at the Immortal’s reasoning.
“The rabbit absorbs the energy of the dawn sun, and when the elixir of immortality is pounded on the moon, it absorbs the energy of the moon as well. Receiving equally the essences of sun and moon, its vital force strengthens the liver. In traditional medicine, the eyes are connected with the liver, and the rabbit is famed for its bright eyes. That is proof enough that its liver is exceptionally strong.”
Let us break the structure of this logic apart.
The rabbit is associated with the moon → the moon is associated with immortality → therefore the rabbit is associated with immortality.
The rabbit has bright eyes → the eyes are connected to the liver → therefore the rabbit’s liver must be strong.
Earlier I spoke of the logic of principle as something that becomes more precise by adding axes and refining distinctions. Here, however, it begins to move in another direction entirely: it mistakes association for causation. There is an intuition at work here that things which resemble one another must be connected. This is what we might call the similarity heuristic. And when one perceives patterns even where no real pattern exists, that is what is called apophenia.
This is not a problem unique to one age or region. In the second century, the Roman physician Galen argued that walnuts were good for the brain. The reason was simple: walnuts look like the brain. This logic remained seriously entertained in European medicine all the way into the sixteenth century. The illusion that like heals like was a common error of humanity at large.
The Immortal’s principle becomes increasingly precise, only to fall at the final step into the trap of resemblance. Yet to the people of that time, the argument would have sounded perfectly persuasive. And it is precisely that persuasiveness which sets all the subsequent events in motion.
Now let us turn to the moment when the Dragon King gives his order and the officials come flooding in.
“The whole underwater palace grew noisy as the officials came bouncing and hurrying in. From the Left Chancellor Turtle and the Right Chancellor Carp to all the fish-officials of the underwater court, they gathered at once, and the smell of fish filled the air.”
Here I want to pause over one question: who is the narrator of this story?
The narrator is not a fish. If he were, he would not perceive the fishy smell as fishy. For a being born and raised underwater, the smell of fish would be like air itself. Yet the narrator describes the gathering of the officials by saying that “the smell of fish filled the air.” That is the smell as perceived by a human nose. The narrator is clearly viewing this scene through human senses.
Even if a lion could speak, we would not be able to understand it. Language operates within a form of life, and where forms of life differ, understanding between beings may become impossible. Yet the narrator of Sugungga moves in exactly the opposite direction. He translates the world of fish into human language, but does not conceal the trace of that translation. The word “fishy smell” is that trace. In that single word, the narrator reveals himself as an observer.
This is one of the defining features of the pansori-based novel form. The one who conveys the tale is not a being inside the story. He is a human being standing before an audience, peering into another world and telling of what he sees.
Now consider the scene in which Turtle and Carp boast of their lineages.
The Dragon King asks, “Do you know the duty that must be observed between king and subject?”
To this question, Turtle does not answer by explaining loyalty. Instead, he begins by boasting of his ancestry: the turtle from the Luo River, the divinatory turtle of the Zhou dynasty. Carp does the same: the fact that Confucius’s son had a name meaning carp, the legend of the Dragon Gate.
Asked how loyalty should be practiced, they respond by recounting how important their ancestors were in history. This may seem deeply frustrating, but the logical structure of the age itself may well have been built in just this way.
Within the ideological foundation of Joseon, the grounds for correct judgment lay in gosa—historical precedents, tales of the past. The sages acted thus, the worthy men of history acted thus, therefore we too must act thus. This is how principle operates. Rather than analyzing a present problem in terms of present reality, one secures legitimacy by comparing it to past examples.
This structure is highly stable, because precedent appears already to have been verified. But it is also powerfully rigid. Asked what loyalty is, one answers not with the substance of loyalty but with a list of loyal ancestors.
And this rigidity repeats throughout the whole story. The officials are armed with principle and precedent, yet no one actually wishes to go and fetch the rabbit. Those who know the most principle are the first to evade responsibility.
And amid all this, what sort of figure was the one who eventually stepped forward, volunteered, and won approval?