Counterattacks at Thirty: Finding the meaning of life in the margins of the world

It's strange to see yourself in a character, not in a big, heroic way, but in the quiet, unspoken truth of how average you are. Here, I recognised a certain gloomy solace in being woven into the unseen fabric of daily existence. 

From the very first pages of 'Counterattacks at Thirty' by Sohn Won-Pyung, it wraps you in the atmosphere of the soul-numbing hum of the office, the weary dance of social convention, and those faint, stubborn whispers of disobedience that you dare not voice too loudly. 

Written by the author of the bestselling novel, 'Almond', the new release follows Jihye, a depressed administrative worker who has mastered the art of endurance in a hostile workspace. 

However, her life takes a twist when the new intern, Lee Gyuok, arrives–who takes delight in orchestrating small acts of revenge. What unfolds is a beloved tale of friendship and unity.

Sohn Won-pyung's prose captures the disenchantment of a generation muddling through the dissonance between the lives they were promised and the stubbornly ordinary reality they inhabit.

Jihye's name itself is a masterstroke– so overwhelmingly common in Korea that it becomes a label for a million faces. It's the literary equivalent of 'Jane Doe' for a society that churns out identities on a conveyor belt, only to swallow them whole. 

From the schoolyard to the soul-destroying cubicle, to be 'Kim Jihye' is to be an echo; a poignant, daily reminder of how easily one can be lost in the crowd. 

However, the name, meaning "the wise one", has a stronger connection to the book's title. Turning thirty is often seen as a milestone — an age shaped by experience and the hard-earned wisdom that comes with it. It suggests a character who is using the lessons learned from her twenties to navigate her thirties with greater insight and purpose.

However, the mature and wise age of thirty is juxtaposed with rebellion and disobedience–which seems very unlike the image of Jihye we are presented in the beginning. 

Here, resistance is a series of small, almost comically futile acts. It's a small, defiant gesture against the Goliath of systemic corruption– a flyer left on a desk, a halting protest muttered in the break room. 

It feels more like whispering into a storm than a revolution–a tired, understood acknowledgement that the game is rigged. Even so, you can't help but laugh sarcastically in solidarity at its own ridiculousness.

The corruption itself isn't a distant villain. It's the mundane grease in the gears of society, a rotten foundation everyone is forced to build upon, and a reality Jihye must endure. The portrayal of corporate overlords and their casual puppetry over ordinary lives is both amusing and utterly infuriating. 

It lays bare the grotesque comedy of a society polished with a high shine on the surface, while quietly rotting from within. Yet, the characters don't succumb to bitterness; they navigate it all with a sarcastic humour that provides the book with its strangely warming, human heart.

Furthermore, Jihye's journey is the antithesis of a dramatic breakthrough. It is a slow, grinding process of survival. Moving on with life becomes the small, almost imperceptible decision to get out of bed, to endure another day, to keep waltzing delicately between resignation and a flicker of hope. It is the quiet, uncelebrated heroism of endurance– the ability to keep walking the same dreary path, all while carrying the ghost of your younger, brighter self and its unmet dreams.

Jihye's life is essentially tangled in a web of socialising for a promotion, societal expectations, and her own quietly slipping ambitions. We witness her clumsy stabs at rebellion, her moments of fragile connection with friends, and her internal reckoning with a world that seems to reward only conformity.

The book's true strength, however, is its voice, which is laced with sharp observation and a sarcasm that never solidifies into outright cynicism. Sohn Won-pyung's prose captures the profound disenchantment of a generation muddling through the dissonance between the lives they were promised and the stubbornly ordinary reality they inhabit. 

There's a beautiful, painful irony in Jihye's commonness: we're all urged to be unique and special, while the machinery of society is designed to sand down our edges, leaving behind a nation of placeholders named 'Kim Jihye.'

So, why should you read it? It is a masterful, tender, and ironically warm capture of the soul-crushing reality of modern life. It's for anyone who has ever felt like a background character in their own story, desperately searching for a moment of meaning in the margins. 

Ultimately, the name Kim Jihye is not just a label; it's a direct statement about the character's most vital asset: her mind. It tells the audience that her "counterattacks" will be brilliant, calculated, and ultimately victorious.