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鞛戨硠
"臁挫灛鞕€ 靻岆└鞚� 鞀攧氅挫劀霃� 鞎勲雼れ毚 瓴疥硠"霛茧姅 鞁偓鞙勳洂雼潣 瓴╈艾鞚� 氚涭潃 鞛戧皜 顷滉皶鞚� '鞛戨硠'鞚� 響滌牅鞛戩溂搿� 頃� 2018 鞝�12須� 旯€鞙犾爼氍疙暀靸� 靾橃儊鞛戫拡歆戩澊 於滉皠霅橃棃雼�. 頃滉淡氍疙暀靷棎 霘滊牱頃� 氚滌瀽旆ゼ 雮复 靻岇劋臧赌 旯€鞙犾爼鞚� 氍疙暀鞝� 鞐呾爜瓿� 鞝曥嫚鞚� 旮半Μ旮� 鞙勴暣 鞝滌爼霅� 旯€鞙犾爼氍疙暀靸侅潃, 歆€雮� 頃� 頃� 霃欖晥 氍胳槇歆€鞐� 氚滍憸霅� 氇摖 欷�.雼幐靻岇劋 臧€鞖措嵃 臧€鞛� 霙办柎雮� 鞛戫拡鞚� 靹犽硠頃橃棳 鞁滌儊頃挫槰, 順勳灛 頃滉淡氍疙暀鞚� 鞚橂 鞛堧姅 頋愲鞚� 歆氺柎氤措姅 瓿勱赴臧€ 霅橃柎鞕旊嫟.
鞝婌潃 韽夒臧€霌れ潣 鞓堨嫭鞚� 韱淀暣 鞀る 韼胳潣 欷�.雼幐靻岇劋霌れ澊 氤胳嫭鞐� 鞓瀽瓿� 靻岇劋臧赌 鞓れ爼頋�, 鞝勳儊甑臣 氍疙暀韽夒臧€ 旯€霃欖嫕 靹� 氇呾潣 氤胳嫭 鞁偓鞙勳洂鞚� 旃橃棿頃� 雲检潣 雭濎棎 2018 鞝�12須� 旯€鞙犾爼氍疙暀靸� 靾橃儊鞛戩溂搿� 顷滉皶鞚� 靻岇劋 '鞛戨硠'鞚� 靹犾爼霅橃棃雼�.
靾橃儊鞛� '鞛戨硠'鞚€ 瓴毟鞚� 鞏措姁 雮� 氩れ箻鞐愳劀 鞛犾嫓 鞛犾澊 霌れ棃雼り皜 旯柎雮橁碃 氤措媹 雸堨偓霝岇澊 霅橃柎氩勲Π 頃� 鞐劚鞐� 甏€頃� 鞚挫暭旮办澊雼�. 雸堨溂搿� 氕夓硱歆� 鞙§嫚鞚� 鞝愳爯 雲轨晞 靷澕歆€電� 鞖措獏. 攴鸽煱 鞖措獏 靻嶌棎靹� 攴鸽厐鞚� 靷鹅棎 鞏巾瀸 甏€瓿勲摛瓿� 鞛戨硠頃橂姅 瓿检爼鞚� 雼晞頃橁碃 鞁滌嫭 鞏措Π 氍胳灔鞙茧 攴鸽牑雴撿晿雼�. 鞁滉皠鞚� 頋愲ゴ氅� 氍茧 頋橂煬 雲轨晞 靷澕歆€瓿� 毵� 鞖措獏. 鞚戈皠瓿� 鞚戈皠 鞎勲媽 瓴冹潣 瓴疥硠, 靷蛾臣 欤届潓鞚� 瓴疥硠, 臁挫灛鞕€ 靻岆└鞚� 瓴疥硠 攴� 氚涭晞霌れ澕 靾橂皷鞐� 鞐嗠姅 臁挫灛鞚� 鞊胳摳頃� 鞖措獏鞐� 甏€頃� 顷滉皶鞚€ 靻岇劋鞚� 靹滌偓毳� 牍岆牑 鞎勲雼店碃 鞀攧瓴� 鞛槃頃措啌鞎橂嫟.
靾橃儊鞛� 鞕胳棎霃� 臧曧檾旮胳潣 '靻�', 甓岇棳靹犾潣 '頋皶頃� 毵堨潓', 旯€順滌鞚� '霃欕劋 靷瀸'霃� 雸堨棳瓴臣 鞛戫拡鞚措嫟. 霕愴暅 鞚挫姽鞖办潣 '靻岆彅鞚� 頃橂；氚�', 鞝曥澊順勳潣 '鞏鸽媹', 鞝曥霃堨潣 'Light from Anywhere(牍涭潃 鞏措敂鞐愳劀雮� 鞓嫟)' 霕愴暅 頃滉淡 靻岇劋 鞛レ棎靹� 欤茧頃� 毵岉暅 靾橃瀾鞚措嫟.
鞝婌潃 韽夒臧€霌れ潣 鞓堨嫭鞚� 韱淀暣 鞀る 韼胳潣 欷�.雼幐靻岇劋霌れ澊 氤胳嫭鞐� 鞓瀽瓿� 靻岇劋臧赌 鞓れ爼頋�, 鞝勳儊甑臣 氍疙暀韽夒臧€ 旯€霃欖嫕 靹� 氇呾潣 氤胳嫭 鞁偓鞙勳洂鞚� 旃橃棿頃� 雲检潣 雭濎棎 2018 鞝�12須� 旯€鞙犾爼氍疙暀靸� 靾橃儊鞛戩溂搿� 顷滉皶鞚� 靻岇劋 '鞛戨硠'鞚� 靹犾爼霅橃棃雼�.
靾橃儊鞛� '鞛戨硠'鞚€ 瓴毟鞚� 鞏措姁 雮� 氩れ箻鞐愳劀 鞛犾嫓 鞛犾澊 霌れ棃雼り皜 旯柎雮橁碃 氤措媹 雸堨偓霝岇澊 霅橃柎氩勲Π 頃� 鞐劚鞐� 甏€頃� 鞚挫暭旮办澊雼�. 雸堨溂搿� 氕夓硱歆� 鞙§嫚鞚� 鞝愳爯 雲轨晞 靷澕歆€電� 鞖措獏. 攴鸽煱 鞖措獏 靻嶌棎靹� 攴鸽厐鞚� 靷鹅棎 鞏巾瀸 甏€瓿勲摛瓿� 鞛戨硠頃橂姅 瓿检爼鞚� 雼晞頃橁碃 鞁滌嫭 鞏措Π 氍胳灔鞙茧 攴鸽牑雴撿晿雼�. 鞁滉皠鞚� 頋愲ゴ氅� 氍茧 頋橂煬 雲轨晞 靷澕歆€瓿� 毵� 鞖措獏. 鞚戈皠瓿� 鞚戈皠 鞎勲媽 瓴冹潣 瓴疥硠, 靷蛾臣 欤届潓鞚� 瓴疥硠, 臁挫灛鞕€ 靻岆└鞚� 瓴疥硠 攴� 氚涭晞霌れ澕 靾橂皷鞐� 鞐嗠姅 臁挫灛鞚� 鞊胳摳頃� 鞖措獏鞐� 甏€頃� 顷滉皶鞚€ 靻岇劋鞚� 靹滌偓毳� 牍岆牑 鞎勲雼店碃 鞀攧瓴� 鞛槃頃措啌鞎橂嫟.
靾橃儊鞛� 鞕胳棎霃� 臧曧檾旮胳潣 '靻�', 甓岇棳靹犾潣 '頋皶頃� 毵堨潓', 旯€順滌鞚� '霃欕劋 靷瀸'霃� 雸堨棳瓴臣 鞛戫拡鞚措嫟. 霕愴暅 鞚挫姽鞖办潣 '靻岆彅鞚� 頃橂；氚�', 鞝曥澊順勳潣 '鞏鸽媹', 鞝曥霃堨潣 'Light from Anywhere(牍涭潃 鞏措敂鞐愳劀雮� 鞓嫟)' 霕愴暅 頃滉淡 靻岇劋 鞛レ棎靹� 欤茧頃� 毵岉暅 靾橃瀾鞚措嫟.
224 pages, Paperback
First published September 9, 2021
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77828 people want to read
About the author
Han Kang
56听books9,690听followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author by this name in the 欧宝娱乐 database.
靻岇劋臧赌 顷滉皶
Han Kang was born in 1970 in South Korea. She is the author of The Vegetarian, winner of the International Booker Prize, as well as Human Acts, The White Book, Greek Lessons, and We Do Not Part. In 2024, she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature 鈥渇or her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.鈥�
靻岇劋臧赌 顷滉皶
Han Kang was born in 1970 in South Korea. She is the author of The Vegetarian, winner of the International Booker Prize, as well as Human Acts, The White Book, Greek Lessons, and We Do Not Part. In 2024, she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature 鈥渇or her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.鈥�
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 2,535 reviews
May 20, 2025
鈥�History is like a horror story鈥�鈥�
鈥�
While I often marvel at the ductility of language to be drawn out and directed towards abstract meaning, rarely have I found such an impressive dexterity with dynamic metaphor as is offered in Han Kang鈥檚 We Do Not Part. You鈥檒l never think of snow the same again. The Nobel laureate鈥檚 most recent novel functions like a memorial to a nearly forgotten massacre while confronting unspeakable horrors of history and the limitations of art to bear their witness and continuously spirals back to metaphorical musings on snow. Kang鈥檚 imagery glistens upon every page and speaks loudly in such a quiet novel, taking on a multifaceted pliability able to simultaneously reach into all the novel鈥檚 multitudinous theme as expressions of silence, accumulating history, gathering terror and more as snowfall binds each detail of the novel into an overarching landscape as stark and chilling as the blizzard which besets the narrator. Kang鈥檚 use of snow resists a singular purpose and is but one of We Do Not Part鈥檚 elusive qualities that elevates the ambiguous and nightmarish dreamscapes in which we find the present forever haunted by history. What arrives is as profound as it is profoundly unsettling, an unflinching portrait of unearthed atrocities and the whispers of the past that offer shades of Pedro Paramo from Mexican author . A poetic powerhouse of a novel, translated into English by and , We Do Not Part stares in the face of horror and history in search of the human within them.
鈥�As the snow lands on the wet asphalt, each flake seems to falter for a moment. Then, like a trailing sentence at the close of a conversation, like the dying fall of a final cadence, like fingertips cautiously retreating before ever landing on a shoulder, the flakes sink into the slick blackness and are soon gone.鈥�
Imagine winning the Nobel Prize and knowing your masterpiece has yet to be revealed to the English speaking world. Han Kang, who was not only the first South Korean to be awarded the prize but also the first Asian woman, has a striking gift for 鈥�intense poetic prose,鈥� as the Nobel committee wrote, 鈥�that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.鈥� The same could serve as a one-line description for We Do Not Part. The prose elegantly crafts the most sinister of atmospheres where silence is 鈥�taut as fabric in an embroidery hoop,鈥� night is 鈥�a sea of ink,鈥� or the massacred masses are like 鈥�blackened trees鈥� or 鈥�pillars of ashes鈥� as Kang plunges us into the bloody wounds of history and 鈥�past the zone where the pressure bears down like thunder and living creatures no longer emit light.鈥� Imagery repeats like a refrain, with snow, birds, candles, trees, and snow weaving through the pages. There are passages that feel like they could have come from a horror novel, an effect that highlights power as a violent beast that recalls the works of . For example:
Largely taking place on Jeju Island, a request from an old friend brings the narrator, Kyungha, into the recorded histories of the when the government put down a general strike and uprising on the island, killing around 30,000 civilians and forcing 40,000 to flee to Japan as part of an "eradication campaign" and anti-communist crackdown.
Jeju Island
Information about the uprising was and the island became a popular tourist attractions. Groups such as , however, have tried to draw attention to the previously silenced slaughter stating 鈥�it is crucial to deliver the message that we will no longer keep silent against the state violence and that we won鈥檛 let this happen again.鈥� This too can be said of We Do Not Part where bearing witness even amidst creative failure is at the heart of Kang鈥檚 story.
鈥�Life was exceedingly vulnerable, I realized. The flesh, organs, bones, breaths passing before my eyes all held within them the potential to snap, to cease鈥攕o easily, and by a single decision.鈥�
In a 2017 Kang discussed how her work is bid to understand the 鈥�face of universal humanity that is revealed in the history of this world.鈥� The face staring back, we find, is bathed in blood and writhing in fear:
Kang concludes that 鈥�The last line of defense by which human beings can remain human is the complete and true perception of another鈥檚 suffering,鈥� which requires action 鈥�which goes beyond simple compassion for the suffering of others, [and] is demanded of us at every moment.鈥� This calls to mind the art memorial attempted by Kyungha and Inseon in order to bear witness to the history, though their inability to complete it brushes on the past censorship, and an inability to truly reckon with violent power. Creative failure also thwarts Kyungha鈥檚 novel on the 1980 which was violently suppressed by the South Korean military and claimed the lives of 2,300 citizens (this was the focus of Kang鈥檚 earlier novel, ) as the weight of the horrors send Kyungha spiraling into self-isolation. Abandoned by even her family who 鈥�couldn鈥檛 bear to witness鈥� her in this state, she attempts to re-emerge into the 鈥�lived-in world鈥� only to find the past has many more ghosts afoot.
Citizens arrested by the military awaiting execution on Jeju.
鈥�At some point, as the materials piled up and began to take on a clearer form, I could feel myself changing. To the point where it seemed nothing one human being did to another could ever shock me again.鈥�
While she shares a former project with her narrator, Kang certainly does not share the lack of creativity that assails Kyungha. Told in three sections not unlike her breakout novel, The Vegetarian, though while that novel moved between different narrators this retains the same overall narrator while still reading with a rotation of unique styles and textures. Old newspaper clippings, diary entries, and letters whisper their histories with 鈥�the faintest of voices鈥� as Kyungha discovers the lengthy research into the atrocity and documentations compiled by Inseon鈥檚 now deceased mother. It is a postmodern novel at its stylistic heart, though one with no interest in announcing itself as such with the bells and whistles that tend to accompany western novels of the genre. Making strong use of imagery, foreshadowing, and an unnerving sense of foreboding that tremors across every page, Kang compounds a cavalcade of impressions of the massacre, of the 鈥�children killed in the name of extermination,鈥� and it鈥檚 emotionally devastating aftermath that afflicts people for decades, each individually small and light but accumulating into a heavy, heart wrenching mass. Just like the falling snow.
鈥�The thing is, every time it snows, it comes back. I try not to think about it, but it keeps coming back.鈥�
An entire dissertation could be written on Kang鈥檚 use of dynamic metaphor and her depictions of snow in We Do Not Part. Her grasp on figurative language masquerading as pastoral imagery is simply exquisite. 鈥�If the distance between the clouds and the ground were infinite,鈥� Kyungha muses, 鈥�the snowflakes too would grow to infinity.鈥� . Snow accumulated in meaning as much as it does upon the ground here, becoming a symbol of silence, history, death, time, memory, and even individual lives that can suddenly dissolve. It is 鈥�a snow that seemed to have been falling for decades鈥攏o, centuries,鈥� Kang writes, an amalgamating power of individual moments in history forming a giant history of trauma, and she asks us to witness it. Both as individual flakes and the whole overpowering and deadly mass.
鈥�This brief consent, I realized, held the entire weight of her life.鈥�
The novel also confronts us with questions on the limitations of bearing witness. Such a task is of the utmost importance in art, to give a voice to mass suffering, to educate and speak against the propagative erasure of power, to champion empathy in the face of indifference, and to give physical memorial as an act both of remembrance and warning against allowing history to repeat itself. Yet to what extent can art truly stand as testimony? , poet and author of Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning, questions this in her article , citing 鈥檚 observations that art depicting bodies in pain can be fetishized similarly as art depicting bodies in the nude. 鈥�To make art representing another victim鈥檚 pain can be ethically thorny,鈥� Hong writes:
Such was the case with the poem by
where it鈥檚 use in memorial ceremony became a way to quickly dip into procedural homage that left audiences patting themselves on the back for going through the motions without earnestly interrogating the horrors of history. As Cathy Park Hong writes:
The ethics of art as memorial have long been a debate amongst artists and scholars of the Holocaust. feared representations would 鈥� 鈥榙omesticate it, rendering it familiar and in some sense even tolerable.鈥� , a philosopher who wrote published extensively on the ethical questions around artistic representation of the Holocaust, concludes that art 鈥�must be judged against the criterion of respectful silence that should be our first response to it鈥� but also that despite its appropriateness, silence cannot convey the horrors and that art must at least attempt to 鈥�overcome the inadequacy of language鈥� which representing the enormous moral weight. But at the heart of all the discourse 鈥�is the duty to be responsible,鈥� historian Katherine Biber concludes in her piece .
Surely nobody is accusing Kang of disrespect or not being the right person for the task, but it is interesting to consider and in light of the discourse one can see just how brilliant and respectful We Do Not Part truly is. It is a brutal and bleak novel, yet ultimately we see how the friendship of the two women and their efforts to bear witness champion the human spirit and their attempts to bear witness asks us to consider how we can exist amidst atrocity and move forward with such a history of suffering without neglecting the lessons of the past and respecting the victims. This feels especially pertinent in a world where the populace often fails to learn from the past and are exploited by tyrants in order to wield power over the people and 'all power is violence over people,' as the Jesus figure states in 's masterpiece, The Master and Margarita. A censorship of history or refusing to allow the horrors of the past to be told under the manipulative wailings that it causes people to dislike their country is what gives atrocities the green light. To deny history is to teach subservience and having to discover the horrors of my own country only instilled anger that it was swept under the rug in shame instead of taught as a buttress against recurrence. Love is not subservience, love must be equal, free, and a catalyst of truth, and if one wishes to love their country ' exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually,' as the great once said.
鈥�Who would bury people in such a place?鈥�
A masterpiece of a novel, We Do Not Part gives voice to the hauntings of history, the unnecessary suffering of the many at the behest of the powerful, and the spirit of humanity in times of crises and in the face of unspeakable horror. It is a slow burn that grows in intensity and glows in beauty through Kang鈥檚 poetic prose. Proving herself a worthy Nobel laureate, this is a novel that will embed in you and we are all better for it.
5/5
'I don鈥檛 want to live face down on the ground like you.'
Jeju 4.3 Peace Park, memorial for those who went missing during the Jeju Uprising.
鈥�
While I often marvel at the ductility of language to be drawn out and directed towards abstract meaning, rarely have I found such an impressive dexterity with dynamic metaphor as is offered in Han Kang鈥檚 We Do Not Part. You鈥檒l never think of snow the same again. The Nobel laureate鈥檚 most recent novel functions like a memorial to a nearly forgotten massacre while confronting unspeakable horrors of history and the limitations of art to bear their witness and continuously spirals back to metaphorical musings on snow. Kang鈥檚 imagery glistens upon every page and speaks loudly in such a quiet novel, taking on a multifaceted pliability able to simultaneously reach into all the novel鈥檚 multitudinous theme as expressions of silence, accumulating history, gathering terror and more as snowfall binds each detail of the novel into an overarching landscape as stark and chilling as the blizzard which besets the narrator. Kang鈥檚 use of snow resists a singular purpose and is but one of We Do Not Part鈥檚 elusive qualities that elevates the ambiguous and nightmarish dreamscapes in which we find the present forever haunted by history. What arrives is as profound as it is profoundly unsettling, an unflinching portrait of unearthed atrocities and the whispers of the past that offer shades of Pedro Paramo from Mexican author . A poetic powerhouse of a novel, translated into English by and , We Do Not Part stares in the face of horror and history in search of the human within them.
鈥�As the snow lands on the wet asphalt, each flake seems to falter for a moment. Then, like a trailing sentence at the close of a conversation, like the dying fall of a final cadence, like fingertips cautiously retreating before ever landing on a shoulder, the flakes sink into the slick blackness and are soon gone.鈥�
Imagine winning the Nobel Prize and knowing your masterpiece has yet to be revealed to the English speaking world. Han Kang, who was not only the first South Korean to be awarded the prize but also the first Asian woman, has a striking gift for 鈥�intense poetic prose,鈥� as the Nobel committee wrote, 鈥�that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.鈥� The same could serve as a one-line description for We Do Not Part. The prose elegantly crafts the most sinister of atmospheres where silence is 鈥�taut as fabric in an embroidery hoop,鈥� night is 鈥�a sea of ink,鈥� or the massacred masses are like 鈥�blackened trees鈥� or 鈥�pillars of ashes鈥� as Kang plunges us into the bloody wounds of history and 鈥�past the zone where the pressure bears down like thunder and living creatures no longer emit light.鈥� Imagery repeats like a refrain, with snow, birds, candles, trees, and snow weaving through the pages. There are passages that feel like they could have come from a horror novel, an effect that highlights power as a violent beast that recalls the works of . For example:
鈥�The front door and windows rattle. Maybe it isn鈥檛 the wind. Maybe someone鈥檚 actually there. Maybe they鈥檝e come to drag out whoever鈥檚 inside. To slash and burn To fit with target vests and tie up against trees. Against that black tree as it brandishes its saw-blade arms.鈥�
Largely taking place on Jeju Island, a request from an old friend brings the narrator, Kyungha, into the recorded histories of the when the government put down a general strike and uprising on the island, killing around 30,000 civilians and forcing 40,000 to flee to Japan as part of an "eradication campaign" and anti-communist crackdown.
Jeju Island
Information about the uprising was and the island became a popular tourist attractions. Groups such as , however, have tried to draw attention to the previously silenced slaughter stating 鈥�it is crucial to deliver the message that we will no longer keep silent against the state violence and that we won鈥檛 let this happen again.鈥� This too can be said of We Do Not Part where bearing witness even amidst creative failure is at the heart of Kang鈥檚 story.
鈥�Life was exceedingly vulnerable, I realized. The flesh, organs, bones, breaths passing before my eyes all held within them the potential to snap, to cease鈥攕o easily, and by a single decision.鈥�
In a 2017 Kang discussed how her work is bid to understand the 鈥�face of universal humanity that is revealed in the history of this world.鈥� The face staring back, we find, is bathed in blood and writhing in fear:
鈥�I wanted to ask what it is that makes human beings harm others so brutally, and how we ought to understand those who never lose hold of their humanity in the face of violence.鈥�
Kang concludes that 鈥�The last line of defense by which human beings can remain human is the complete and true perception of another鈥檚 suffering,鈥� which requires action 鈥�which goes beyond simple compassion for the suffering of others, [and] is demanded of us at every moment.鈥� This calls to mind the art memorial attempted by Kyungha and Inseon in order to bear witness to the history, though their inability to complete it brushes on the past censorship, and an inability to truly reckon with violent power. Creative failure also thwarts Kyungha鈥檚 novel on the 1980 which was violently suppressed by the South Korean military and claimed the lives of 2,300 citizens (this was the focus of Kang鈥檚 earlier novel, ) as the weight of the horrors send Kyungha spiraling into self-isolation. Abandoned by even her family who 鈥�couldn鈥檛 bear to witness鈥� her in this state, she attempts to re-emerge into the 鈥�lived-in world鈥� only to find the past has many more ghosts afoot.
Citizens arrested by the military awaiting execution on Jeju.
鈥�At some point, as the materials piled up and began to take on a clearer form, I could feel myself changing. To the point where it seemed nothing one human being did to another could ever shock me again.鈥�
While she shares a former project with her narrator, Kang certainly does not share the lack of creativity that assails Kyungha. Told in three sections not unlike her breakout novel, The Vegetarian, though while that novel moved between different narrators this retains the same overall narrator while still reading with a rotation of unique styles and textures. Old newspaper clippings, diary entries, and letters whisper their histories with 鈥�the faintest of voices鈥� as Kyungha discovers the lengthy research into the atrocity and documentations compiled by Inseon鈥檚 now deceased mother. It is a postmodern novel at its stylistic heart, though one with no interest in announcing itself as such with the bells and whistles that tend to accompany western novels of the genre. Making strong use of imagery, foreshadowing, and an unnerving sense of foreboding that tremors across every page, Kang compounds a cavalcade of impressions of the massacre, of the 鈥�children killed in the name of extermination,鈥� and it鈥檚 emotionally devastating aftermath that afflicts people for decades, each individually small and light but accumulating into a heavy, heart wrenching mass. Just like the falling snow.
鈥�The thing is, every time it snows, it comes back. I try not to think about it, but it keeps coming back.鈥�
An entire dissertation could be written on Kang鈥檚 use of dynamic metaphor and her depictions of snow in We Do Not Part. Her grasp on figurative language masquerading as pastoral imagery is simply exquisite. 鈥�If the distance between the clouds and the ground were infinite,鈥� Kyungha muses, 鈥�the snowflakes too would grow to infinity.鈥� . Snow accumulated in meaning as much as it does upon the ground here, becoming a symbol of silence, history, death, time, memory, and even individual lives that can suddenly dissolve. It is 鈥�a snow that seemed to have been falling for decades鈥攏o, centuries,鈥� Kang writes, an amalgamating power of individual moments in history forming a giant history of trauma, and she asks us to witness it. Both as individual flakes and the whole overpowering and deadly mass.
鈥�This brief consent, I realized, held the entire weight of her life.鈥�
The novel also confronts us with questions on the limitations of bearing witness. Such a task is of the utmost importance in art, to give a voice to mass suffering, to educate and speak against the propagative erasure of power, to champion empathy in the face of indifference, and to give physical memorial as an act both of remembrance and warning against allowing history to repeat itself. Yet to what extent can art truly stand as testimony? , poet and author of Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning, questions this in her article , citing 鈥檚 observations that art depicting bodies in pain can be fetishized similarly as art depicting bodies in the nude. 鈥�To make art representing another victim鈥檚 pain can be ethically thorny,鈥� Hong writes:
鈥�Images of suffering can arouse our horror, simulating an illusive identification between us and the victim or 鈥渁 fantasy of witness鈥� before we are conveniently deposited back into our lives so that someone else鈥檚 trauma becomes our personalized catharsis.鈥�
Such was the case with the poem by
where it鈥檚 use in memorial ceremony became a way to quickly dip into procedural homage that left audiences patting themselves on the back for going through the motions without earnestly interrogating the horrors of history. As Cathy Park Hong writes:
鈥�Rather than an act of rememberance, the recitation of 鈥淒eath Fugue鈥� turned into a mantra to ward off difficult engagement with the past. But this is how it is when a poem becomes commemorative. It 鈥╞ecomes all pious gesture and drained of meaning. When a poem becomes commemorative, it dies.鈥�
The ethics of art as memorial have long been a debate amongst artists and scholars of the Holocaust. feared representations would 鈥� 鈥榙omesticate it, rendering it familiar and in some sense even tolerable.鈥� , a philosopher who wrote published extensively on the ethical questions around artistic representation of the Holocaust, concludes that art 鈥�must be judged against the criterion of respectful silence that should be our first response to it鈥� but also that despite its appropriateness, silence cannot convey the horrors and that art must at least attempt to 鈥�overcome the inadequacy of language鈥� which representing the enormous moral weight. But at the heart of all the discourse 鈥�is the duty to be responsible,鈥� historian Katherine Biber concludes in her piece .
Surely nobody is accusing Kang of disrespect or not being the right person for the task, but it is interesting to consider and in light of the discourse one can see just how brilliant and respectful We Do Not Part truly is. It is a brutal and bleak novel, yet ultimately we see how the friendship of the two women and their efforts to bear witness champion the human spirit and their attempts to bear witness asks us to consider how we can exist amidst atrocity and move forward with such a history of suffering without neglecting the lessons of the past and respecting the victims. This feels especially pertinent in a world where the populace often fails to learn from the past and are exploited by tyrants in order to wield power over the people and 'all power is violence over people,' as the Jesus figure states in 's masterpiece, The Master and Margarita. A censorship of history or refusing to allow the horrors of the past to be told under the manipulative wailings that it causes people to dislike their country is what gives atrocities the green light. To deny history is to teach subservience and having to discover the horrors of my own country only instilled anger that it was swept under the rug in shame instead of taught as a buttress against recurrence. Love is not subservience, love must be equal, free, and a catalyst of truth, and if one wishes to love their country ' exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually,' as the great once said.
鈥�Who would bury people in such a place?鈥�
A masterpiece of a novel, We Do Not Part gives voice to the hauntings of history, the unnecessary suffering of the many at the behest of the powerful, and the spirit of humanity in times of crises and in the face of unspeakable horror. It is a slow burn that grows in intensity and glows in beauty through Kang鈥檚 poetic prose. Proving herself a worthy Nobel laureate, this is a novel that will embed in you and we are all better for it.
5/5
'I don鈥檛 want to live face down on the ground like you.'
Jeju 4.3 Peace Park, memorial for those who went missing during the Jeju Uprising.
March 3, 2025
I don鈥檛 want to box this book in as just a tale about the Jeju Island April 3rd Massacre. If you鈥檙e expecting a history lesson packed with facts, you might end up more confused than enlightened. Han Kang鈥檚 writing is all about the people - especially women - and it鈥檚 drenched in raw emotions. The way she paints the scene using weather, objects, and imagery really grabs you and doesn鈥檛 let go.
Instead of fixating on a 鈥渕assacre of civilians,鈥� it seems Han Kang is more interested in diving into the deep, lasting pain that survivors have had to carry. The book actually blends together 2 separate massacres in Korean history.
Potential Spoilers Ahead
It all kicks off with a dream - black trees, heavy snow, and seawater - that Han Kang actually experienced after finishing her earlier work, Human Acts, about the 1980 Gwangju Uprising. That haunting shadow follows the character Kyungha, who鈥檚 tormented by nightmares. Imagine lying in an overheated apartment, sweating through cold showers, drifting in and out of sleep while drowning in relentless, scalding nightmares. That鈥檚 how the uprising subtly weaves its way into her life.
As the story shifts into winter, Kyungha gets a call from an old friend, Inseon, who lives on Jeju Island. Inseon, having injured her finger while woodworking and now in a Seoul hospital, urgently needs help to care for her pet white bird, Ama. After battling through heavy snow and nearly impossible roads, Kyungha finally arrives at the wooden house - only to find Ama dead. This journey sets the stage for the first part of the novel, filled with Kyungha鈥檚 memories of Inseon, her rebellious past, her small but vivid family tales, and even hints of films about Vietnamese comfort women and the early days of Korean massacres.
The second part shifts into this almost surreal space between life and death. In a cabin buffeted by a blizzard, Inseon - who was supposed to be in a hospital - returns to narrate another horror: the Jeju Island Massacre (1948-1950) alongside the Korean War. 30,000 civilians died in the first year and nearly 300,000 in the second, including Inseon鈥檚 own family. These painful memories, pieced together from old newspapers, letters, and her mother Jeongsim鈥檚 fragmented recollections, build a raw tapestry of historical grief.
Then comes a brief third part that centers on a promise running throughout the book. Kyungha once mentioned to Inseon that maybe planting those dreamlike black trees and photographing their snow-covered stumps would help banish her nightmares. Inseon, already on that path, shows Kyungha the land set aside for that project. When Kyungha felt like giving up, Inseon reminded her, 鈥淏ut I鈥檝e already started.鈥� Through this long, winding narrative, it becomes clear that Inseon鈥檚 quest is really about honoring those who died under brutal, dictatorial oppression.
Looking back after finishing the book, I realized something poignant: Inseon鈥檚 desperate call for Kyungha to save the pet was already too late - the bird was dead. Just like trying to undo history, some things can鈥檛 be fixed, though at least Kyungha made sure the bird got a proper farewell. Despite years of government silence and denial, the pain of the past still lingers, with families never stopping their search for missing loved ones.
There are some truly gut-wrenching moments in the book. For example, before we even learn that Inseon鈥檚 mother was a survivor, she casually mentions keeping a saw under her mattress to fend off nightmares - a detail that later hits you with its deep symbolic pain. Then there鈥檚 that disturbing scene where a young mother, in an attempt to help her bleeding sister, bites off her own finger and forces it into her sister鈥檚 mouth - a grim image that stays with you. And later, Inseon herself has to endure having her stitched finger pricked every few minutes in the hospital, a painful reminder that sometimes, suffering is just part of being alive.
I believe Han Kang spent over 7 years crafting this book not to lay out a historical account but to capture and preserve the raw, unfiltered pain of the past. The scene where Inseon gets her finger treated struck me the most - it showed a calm, resilient strength in the midst of suffering. It reminded me that while some people might have seemingly peaceful lives, others are battling storms we never see. Life is this quiet sorrow we all endure moment by moment, and in the grand scheme of things, goodbyes and endings don鈥檛 change that. The past lingers, unforgotten.
All in all, this is a captivating book with a lasting impact. It makes you feel what it鈥檚 like for those who suffer so deeply that even breathing can hurt, yet somehow, they still find the strength to move forward.
5 / 5 stars
Instead of fixating on a 鈥渕assacre of civilians,鈥� it seems Han Kang is more interested in diving into the deep, lasting pain that survivors have had to carry. The book actually blends together 2 separate massacres in Korean history.
Potential Spoilers Ahead
It all kicks off with a dream - black trees, heavy snow, and seawater - that Han Kang actually experienced after finishing her earlier work, Human Acts, about the 1980 Gwangju Uprising. That haunting shadow follows the character Kyungha, who鈥檚 tormented by nightmares. Imagine lying in an overheated apartment, sweating through cold showers, drifting in and out of sleep while drowning in relentless, scalding nightmares. That鈥檚 how the uprising subtly weaves its way into her life.
As the story shifts into winter, Kyungha gets a call from an old friend, Inseon, who lives on Jeju Island. Inseon, having injured her finger while woodworking and now in a Seoul hospital, urgently needs help to care for her pet white bird, Ama. After battling through heavy snow and nearly impossible roads, Kyungha finally arrives at the wooden house - only to find Ama dead. This journey sets the stage for the first part of the novel, filled with Kyungha鈥檚 memories of Inseon, her rebellious past, her small but vivid family tales, and even hints of films about Vietnamese comfort women and the early days of Korean massacres.
The second part shifts into this almost surreal space between life and death. In a cabin buffeted by a blizzard, Inseon - who was supposed to be in a hospital - returns to narrate another horror: the Jeju Island Massacre (1948-1950) alongside the Korean War. 30,000 civilians died in the first year and nearly 300,000 in the second, including Inseon鈥檚 own family. These painful memories, pieced together from old newspapers, letters, and her mother Jeongsim鈥檚 fragmented recollections, build a raw tapestry of historical grief.
Then comes a brief third part that centers on a promise running throughout the book. Kyungha once mentioned to Inseon that maybe planting those dreamlike black trees and photographing their snow-covered stumps would help banish her nightmares. Inseon, already on that path, shows Kyungha the land set aside for that project. When Kyungha felt like giving up, Inseon reminded her, 鈥淏ut I鈥檝e already started.鈥� Through this long, winding narrative, it becomes clear that Inseon鈥檚 quest is really about honoring those who died under brutal, dictatorial oppression.
Looking back after finishing the book, I realized something poignant: Inseon鈥檚 desperate call for Kyungha to save the pet was already too late - the bird was dead. Just like trying to undo history, some things can鈥檛 be fixed, though at least Kyungha made sure the bird got a proper farewell. Despite years of government silence and denial, the pain of the past still lingers, with families never stopping their search for missing loved ones.
There are some truly gut-wrenching moments in the book. For example, before we even learn that Inseon鈥檚 mother was a survivor, she casually mentions keeping a saw under her mattress to fend off nightmares - a detail that later hits you with its deep symbolic pain. Then there鈥檚 that disturbing scene where a young mother, in an attempt to help her bleeding sister, bites off her own finger and forces it into her sister鈥檚 mouth - a grim image that stays with you. And later, Inseon herself has to endure having her stitched finger pricked every few minutes in the hospital, a painful reminder that sometimes, suffering is just part of being alive.
I believe Han Kang spent over 7 years crafting this book not to lay out a historical account but to capture and preserve the raw, unfiltered pain of the past. The scene where Inseon gets her finger treated struck me the most - it showed a calm, resilient strength in the midst of suffering. It reminded me that while some people might have seemingly peaceful lives, others are battling storms we never see. Life is this quiet sorrow we all endure moment by moment, and in the grand scheme of things, goodbyes and endings don鈥檛 change that. The past lingers, unforgotten.
All in all, this is a captivating book with a lasting impact. It makes you feel what it鈥檚 like for those who suffer so deeply that even breathing can hurt, yet somehow, they still find the strength to move forward.
5 / 5 stars
May 12, 2025
han kang hive...it's our time.
i found the vegetarian remarkable, but i've loved the solemn reflections on human violence that han kang has published since even more.
this book is deep and still and quiet, hugely emotional in the smallest strokes. it sneaks up on the reader in so many ways, and when i finished, i just sat with it.
it's stayed with me since.
bottom line: as exquisite as only han kang can be.
(thanks to the publisher for the e-arc)
i found the vegetarian remarkable, but i've loved the solemn reflections on human violence that han kang has published since even more.
this book is deep and still and quiet, hugely emotional in the smallest strokes. it sneaks up on the reader in so many ways, and when i finished, i just sat with it.
it's stayed with me since.
bottom line: as exquisite as only han kang can be.
(thanks to the publisher for the e-arc)
October 13, 2024
I remembered... everyone who's ever suffered similar fates regardless of place...
Hit with bullets.
Hit with cudgels.
Lives severed by blades.
How agonizing it must have been
What Han does in this book is articulate a harrowing story but to express it through a delicately lucid and austere prose. Strikingly, she allows this novel to take on the allusive techniques more usually found in poetry, and shows herself (again) as an exquisite craftsperson of this dense and sophisticated mode of storytelling.
The explicit story is an excavation of the Jeju 4.3 massacre of 1948 in South Korea and the trauma that has ensued on both a personal and national level. The story thematises issues of suffering, intergenerational pain and the unending nature of loss and absence, and attempts towards memorialisation as both a move towards some kind of partial healing as well as acknowledgement of history and the way the past always has a presence in our present.
But what really raises this book in my personal pantheon, is the craft. Han uses metaphors and symbolism to great effect without overloading the text. Snow, birds, trees contain a multiplicity of meanings, some of which also perform as intertexts to Han's other works. Strikingly, they also have shifting values: snow is white and pure and peaceful, even as it is a potential giveaway of a father and daughter's footsteps as they try to find refuge in a cave from the militias seeking their death. It acts as a symbol for the covering over of inconvenient history that governments seek to eradicate from memory; and it figures disappearance as material flakes hit the damp ground and dissolve, representing the absence of family relations and executed bodies thrown into the sea to be swept away. It is especially powerful as a figure for reiteration: the natural cycle of snow-water-mist and the way that reflects humanity's inability to get past violence, war and struggle: 'Who's to say the snow dusting my hands now isn't the same snow that had gathered on their faces?' This sense of haunting, of the intersection of time, is one which permeates the book.
The other system of imagery which worked so well for me is that of bloody fingers: Inseon cuts off her fingertips when working on an art installation as memorialisation piece; in the hospital a nurse has to stick needles into her open wounds in order to keep the nerves alive. But this also recalls moments of torture and also instances of love and desperation: Inseon's mother cut her own fingers to drop warm blood into her dying sister in an attempt to keep her alive, and would prick Inseon's finger with a needle and rub her belly when she had disturbed nightmares. These sorts of dualities of imagery give a gorgeous coherence to the book on a sub-textual level and involve the reader in the hermeneutics of the text.
The title, We Do Not Part in English, is both the title of the art project being contemplated within the story as a monument to the massacre but also refers to the way in which human connections endure: at the heart of the narrative is the friendship of the two women, Kyungha and Inseon, who tell this story as alternate voices with Kyungha as main narrator and Inseon as inserts, but there is also the implication of the lasting remembrance of the executed who do not disappear from personal or collective memories - and the book itself is, on one level an act of artistic recollection and memorialisation. While the immediate concern is with a specific incident in the history of Korea, there is a sense that Han is also thinking more widely of other histories of mass executions, atrocities and, possibly, genocide. Like Sebald, she widens the margins of her story to take a view on humanity's inescapable, apparently, inhumaneness - but does this through a consummate artistry that offers some kind of hope or, at least, doesn't end in complete despair.
I received an ARC of this (thank you, Penguin and Netgalley!) just days before Han was awarded the 2024 Nobel Prize for Literature and this is a fine book to introduce her to potentially new audiences.
October 3, 2024
Han Kang鈥檚 intense, intricate narrative has the feel of a ghost story, forged from unsettling encounters with the spectres of South Korea鈥檚 turbulent past. Han opens with an eerie sequence, taken from the dreams that partly inspired her to write this. Author Kyungha 鈥� a version of Han 鈥� is living in isolation, tormented by debilitating headaches and destabilising nightmares. Recurring nightmares she attributes to the disturbing content of research undertaken for a recent book about the Gwangju uprising 鈥� similar to Han鈥檚 Human Acts. Macabre fantasies dominate Kyungha鈥檚 sleeping and, increasingly, waking thoughts. She鈥檚 unable to move freely through surrounding streets, visualising soldiers poised to swoop, intent on capturing her and inflicting searing pain. But Kyungha鈥檚 attempts to retreat from the outside world are abruptly curtailed by a summons from old friend, Inseon.
Inseon鈥檚 settled in her childhood home on Jeju Island but a serious accident鈥檚 brought her to a specialist treatment centre in Seoul. Inseon needs a favour, alone in Jeju is her small bird Ama, likely to die if Kyungha can鈥檛 reach her in time. Through blustering winds and a seemingly-incessant snowstorm, Kyungha sets out on a gruelling trek to Inseon鈥檚 house. An existential journey leading her away from the desolation of Gwangju towards the traumascape of Inseon鈥檚 Jeju. Inseon鈥檚 experiences of Jeju are shaped by her mother鈥檚. Jeongsim, Inseon鈥檚 mother, survived what鈥檚 known as Jeju 4:3 or 鈥淪a-Sam.鈥� But most of her family died and her brother was disappeared.
Jeju 4:3 points to massacres that took place in April, 1948. But the killings weren鈥檛 confined to April, Jeju 4:3 encompasses atrocities that stretched back into preceding months and continued in the months ahead. A political uprising sparked by developments involving the governing of South Korea, and the policies of the US administration then overseeing it, was brutally suppressed by a grouping of soldiers, police, and right-wing militias. Ostensibly a hunt for 鈥渓eft-wing鈥� guerrilla units, the underlying goal was to eradicate 鈥渓eftists.鈥� Around 30,000 people were eventually slaughtered, roughly 10% of Jeju鈥檚 population 鈥� a place considered overrun by 鈥渃ommie鈥� subversives and sympathisers. During this 鈥渟corched earth鈥� campaign whole villages were razed to the ground. No form of terror was considered too extreme, from torture to gang-rape to mass murder - victims included children and new-born babies.
The legacy of Jeju 4:3 dominates the later stages of Han鈥檚 narrative. At Inseon鈥檚 house, Kyungha鈥檚 confronted with distressing documentation compiled by Jeongsim and later added to by Inseon. And Kyungha realises the devastating scenes invading her dreams originated on Jeju. When Kyungha comes face to face with Inseon, still in Seoul yet somehow simultaneously on Jeju, the boundary between real and imagined fractures. Han interweaves surreal episodes featuring Kyungha and Inseon with extracts from the testimonies of Jeju 4:3 survivors 鈥� building on existing oral histories. Haunted individuals, they鈥檙e tortured by the knowledge that somewhere, in mass graves yet to be discovered, lie the unclaimed bodies of family members from grandfathers to grandmothers, uncles, siblings or cousins.
Although it鈥檚 fine as a standalone, Han鈥檚 narrative鈥檚 shot through with traces of earlier work. Most obviously Kyungha鈥檚 writing, and Han鈥檚 subject matter, form a bridge to Human Acts; while the symbolic use of trees and plants echoes aspects of The Vegetarian. Snow and snow-related imagery surfaces throughout 鈥� so much so it feels a little overworked at times. Han鈥檚 use of snow recalls passages from The White Book - as well as untranslated pieces set in snowy landscapes 鈥� conjuring notions of mortality and loss. But here, for Han, snow鈥檚 also intended to represent 鈥渟oftness and light,鈥� tempering the 鈥渄arkness鈥� of her meditations on genocide and mass killing.
Although Han鈥檚 exploration of these topics stems from Jeju 4:3, she also references the extermination of suspected 鈥渞eds鈥� on the mainland in Busan and Daegu. But she goes beyond these too, invested in questions of what might drive humans in do barbaric things, and what distinguishes those who do from those who don鈥檛 or won鈥檛. She鈥檚 equally interested in potential methods for addressing the past: how to heal history鈥檚 wounds: the transformation of individual mourning into a collective response possessing active political force; opportunities for solidarity and the co-creation of rituals which open up possibilities for remembrance that goes beyond gesture. Han鈥檚 comments about the novel, together with its conclusion, suggest cautious optimism. Unlike Human Acts which steered her towards despair, she found writing this cathartic.
The translation reads smoothly, although there鈥檚 not always a marked distinction between sections in Jeju dialect and those in standard Korean, the incorporation of terms of address used on Jeju offers some clues 鈥� for instance 鈥渁bang鈥� for father instead of 鈥渁beoji.鈥� The structure and texture of the novel sometimes reminded me of Greek Lessons although it鈥檚 more collage-like. Austere, understated prose is interrupted by bursts of arresting lyricism, oneiric sequences are juxtaposed with sharply-focused, docu-style accounts. Although it wasn鈥檛 a problem for me, I think the pacing might be an issue for some. The novel took Han several years to complete. The first half initially appeared in serial form in a quarterly magazine, as a result some elements may seem slightly repetitive, excessively detailed, and/or drawn-out compared to the rest of the book. Personally, I found the rhythm of the earlier sections hypnotic. I liked Han鈥檚 willingness to experiment, even when I didn鈥檛 think it quite paid off. But overall, I found this immensely powerful and incredibly compelling. Translated by e. yaewon & Paige Aniyah Morris.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Hamish Hamilton for the ARC
Inseon鈥檚 settled in her childhood home on Jeju Island but a serious accident鈥檚 brought her to a specialist treatment centre in Seoul. Inseon needs a favour, alone in Jeju is her small bird Ama, likely to die if Kyungha can鈥檛 reach her in time. Through blustering winds and a seemingly-incessant snowstorm, Kyungha sets out on a gruelling trek to Inseon鈥檚 house. An existential journey leading her away from the desolation of Gwangju towards the traumascape of Inseon鈥檚 Jeju. Inseon鈥檚 experiences of Jeju are shaped by her mother鈥檚. Jeongsim, Inseon鈥檚 mother, survived what鈥檚 known as Jeju 4:3 or 鈥淪a-Sam.鈥� But most of her family died and her brother was disappeared.
Jeju 4:3 points to massacres that took place in April, 1948. But the killings weren鈥檛 confined to April, Jeju 4:3 encompasses atrocities that stretched back into preceding months and continued in the months ahead. A political uprising sparked by developments involving the governing of South Korea, and the policies of the US administration then overseeing it, was brutally suppressed by a grouping of soldiers, police, and right-wing militias. Ostensibly a hunt for 鈥渓eft-wing鈥� guerrilla units, the underlying goal was to eradicate 鈥渓eftists.鈥� Around 30,000 people were eventually slaughtered, roughly 10% of Jeju鈥檚 population 鈥� a place considered overrun by 鈥渃ommie鈥� subversives and sympathisers. During this 鈥渟corched earth鈥� campaign whole villages were razed to the ground. No form of terror was considered too extreme, from torture to gang-rape to mass murder - victims included children and new-born babies.
The legacy of Jeju 4:3 dominates the later stages of Han鈥檚 narrative. At Inseon鈥檚 house, Kyungha鈥檚 confronted with distressing documentation compiled by Jeongsim and later added to by Inseon. And Kyungha realises the devastating scenes invading her dreams originated on Jeju. When Kyungha comes face to face with Inseon, still in Seoul yet somehow simultaneously on Jeju, the boundary between real and imagined fractures. Han interweaves surreal episodes featuring Kyungha and Inseon with extracts from the testimonies of Jeju 4:3 survivors 鈥� building on existing oral histories. Haunted individuals, they鈥檙e tortured by the knowledge that somewhere, in mass graves yet to be discovered, lie the unclaimed bodies of family members from grandfathers to grandmothers, uncles, siblings or cousins.
Although it鈥檚 fine as a standalone, Han鈥檚 narrative鈥檚 shot through with traces of earlier work. Most obviously Kyungha鈥檚 writing, and Han鈥檚 subject matter, form a bridge to Human Acts; while the symbolic use of trees and plants echoes aspects of The Vegetarian. Snow and snow-related imagery surfaces throughout 鈥� so much so it feels a little overworked at times. Han鈥檚 use of snow recalls passages from The White Book - as well as untranslated pieces set in snowy landscapes 鈥� conjuring notions of mortality and loss. But here, for Han, snow鈥檚 also intended to represent 鈥渟oftness and light,鈥� tempering the 鈥渄arkness鈥� of her meditations on genocide and mass killing.
Although Han鈥檚 exploration of these topics stems from Jeju 4:3, she also references the extermination of suspected 鈥渞eds鈥� on the mainland in Busan and Daegu. But she goes beyond these too, invested in questions of what might drive humans in do barbaric things, and what distinguishes those who do from those who don鈥檛 or won鈥檛. She鈥檚 equally interested in potential methods for addressing the past: how to heal history鈥檚 wounds: the transformation of individual mourning into a collective response possessing active political force; opportunities for solidarity and the co-creation of rituals which open up possibilities for remembrance that goes beyond gesture. Han鈥檚 comments about the novel, together with its conclusion, suggest cautious optimism. Unlike Human Acts which steered her towards despair, she found writing this cathartic.
The translation reads smoothly, although there鈥檚 not always a marked distinction between sections in Jeju dialect and those in standard Korean, the incorporation of terms of address used on Jeju offers some clues 鈥� for instance 鈥渁bang鈥� for father instead of 鈥渁beoji.鈥� The structure and texture of the novel sometimes reminded me of Greek Lessons although it鈥檚 more collage-like. Austere, understated prose is interrupted by bursts of arresting lyricism, oneiric sequences are juxtaposed with sharply-focused, docu-style accounts. Although it wasn鈥檛 a problem for me, I think the pacing might be an issue for some. The novel took Han several years to complete. The first half initially appeared in serial form in a quarterly magazine, as a result some elements may seem slightly repetitive, excessively detailed, and/or drawn-out compared to the rest of the book. Personally, I found the rhythm of the earlier sections hypnotic. I liked Han鈥檚 willingness to experiment, even when I didn鈥檛 think it quite paid off. But overall, I found this immensely powerful and incredibly compelling. Translated by e. yaewon & Paige Aniyah Morris.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Hamish Hamilton for the ARC
May 10, 2025
Recuerdo aquellas despreciables palabras de alguien a qui茅n no nombrar茅 por no manchar esta p谩gina: 鈥渁lgunos se han acordado de su padre, parece ser, cuando hab铆a subvenciones para encontrarle鈥�. A gentuza como esta es a la que le podr铆a venir bien la lectura de libros como este si no fuera porque estos individuos no han sido ni podr谩n ser nunca personas decentes.
鈥滵espu茅s de una d茅cada de llevarlos en silencio en nuestros corazones, pronto llegar谩 el d铆a en el que los deudos de las v铆ctimas podamos reencontrarnos con nuestros a帽orados difuntos y estos alcancen por fin el descanso eterno鈥�
Pero si a estas alturas de la vida no podemos sorprendernos de nada de lo que un ser humano es capaz de hacerle a otro ser humano, c贸mo nos van a sorprender las barbaridades que puedan decir. Aun as铆, no podemos ni debemos mostrarnos impasibles ante ellas ni dejar de denunciarlas. As铆 lo cree tambi茅n Han Kang que, como ya hiciera en 芦Actos humanos禄, deja aqu铆 constancia de otra persecuci贸n y matanza atroz que se perpetr贸 en la remota isla coreana de Jeju con el benepl谩cito y el est铆mulo de EE.UU., y de la b煤squeda tiempo despu茅s por parte de sus familiares de los restos de sus muertos.
鈥淣o es casualidad que aquel invierno fueran asesinadas treinta mil personas en esta isla, y en el verano del a帽o siguiente, otras doscientas mil en el resto del pa铆s. El gobierno militar estadounidense orden贸 poner fin al comunismo a toda costa, masacrando de ser preciso a los trescientos mil habitantes que compon铆an por aquel entonces la poblaci贸n de Jeju鈥� No solo se autoriz贸, sino que se recompens贸 la atrocidad de disparar a los beb茅s en la cabeza, lo que hizo que ascendieran a mil quinientos los ni帽os menores de diez amos muertos por heridas de bala鈥�
Pero todo esto se cuenta de una forma po茅tica y muy hermosa en la on铆rica (quiz谩 no sea este el adjetivo adecuado) segunda parte, dominada por la nieve, el fr铆o y la oscuridad, mientras que la realista primera parte transcurre en sus primeros cap铆tulos durante un verano luminoso y ardiente. A pesar del realismo de esta primera parte, un sue帽o, m谩s bien una pesadilla, es la que no deja vivir a Gyeonhga, su protagonista, (en la segunda parte es la realidad, m谩s bien una pesadilla, la que se adentra en su sue帽o, o quiz谩s sea otra cosa). En un principio, ella cree que la pesadilla est谩 provocada por el libro que escribi贸 sobre la matanza de Gwangju (l茅ase 芦Actos humanos禄), a lo que ve imposible decir adi贸s, aunque es posible que todo pudiera acabar si realiza una performance sobre esa pesadilla que le atormenta.
鈥淓sas pesadillas me robaron la vida. No dejaron que quedara a mi lado ni un solo ser vivo鈥�
Gyeonhga est谩 sola y es v铆ctima de una profunda depresi贸n, no est谩 claro si ha sido abandonada por su familia (tiene una hija) o fue ella quien la abandon贸, todo esto se nos oculta, nada conocemos de su historia personal, solo sabemos de su sufrimiento actual y de su posible idea de acabar con su vida.
鈥溾€� un cuerpo despojado de su caparaz贸n que se arrastra despacio como una babosa sobre el filo de un cuchillo. Un cuerpo que desea vivir. Un cuerpo hendido y cortado. Un cuerpo que se escabulle, se abraza y se aferra. Un cuerpo que se arrodilla. Un cuerpo que ruega. Un cuerpo del que no para de supurar algo como sangre, pus o l谩grimas鈥�
De forma inesperada, recibe una llamada de Inseon, fot贸grafa y antigua compa帽era y amiga, que la sacar谩 de su desolaci贸n. Inseon est谩 en el hospital recuper谩ndose dolorosamente de unas heridas en las manos que se hizo ejerciendo su nuevo oficio de carpintera. All铆 le pide que vaya sin demora a su casa y cuide de su cotorra que, sin comida ni bebida, debe estar a punto de morir. Una terrible tormenta de nieve convierte su viaje en una odisea, un viaje que la transportar谩 muchos a帽os atr谩s para descubrir, de la mano de la madre de Inseon y su familia, una muestra m谩s de la crueldad humana en una peque帽a aldea de la isla de Jeju.
February 16, 2025
鈥淟ife was exceedingly vulnerable, I realized. The flesh, the organs, bones, breaths passing before my eyes all held within them the potential to snap, to cease 鈥� so easily, and by a single decision.鈥�
I can鈥檛 think of any better way to describe this book than to say it was haunting. Both the surreal and the disturbing images are right there in front of me still, whether my eyes are open or closed. It鈥檚 odd, but as I sit here I realize that I can鈥檛 quite picture Kyungha, the narrator, or Inseon, her friend. Yet everything else is so vivid. Perhaps Kyungha and Inseon are a bit otherworldly. Part of a dream. One that the reader finds herself inside of. Kyungha is also unsure of that blurred line between reality and dream, or maybe nightmare would be a better word for it.
鈥淚n the sudden lull, I feel as if I鈥檝e opened the door to a dream within a dream and stepped inside.鈥�
鈥淚 say quietly, Dreams are terrifying things. No 鈥� they鈥檙e humiliating. They reveal things about you that you weren鈥檛 even aware of鈥︹€�
After an injury lands her in the hospital, Inseon makes a request of Kyungha. She asks her to travel to her home on the island of Jeju to feed and water her bird, Ama, before it is too late. Kyungha makes her way there amid a snowstorm. At this point, the snow plays a major role in the story, both in a literal and figurative way. The story alternates between the present moment when Kyungha is at Inseon鈥檚 home and in the past. A horror that is a deeply disturbing part of Korean history is slowly revealed in a very personal way. The images mix and mingle with the present time. The crimes and injustices of the past are wound tightly with the here and now. They become a part of us, whether we want them to or not.
鈥淪now had an unreality to it. Was this because of its pace or its beauty? There was an accompanying clarity to snow as well, especially slow, drifting snow. What was and wasn鈥檛 important were made distinct. Certain facts became chillingly apparent. Pain, for one.鈥�
We Do Not Part is simultaneously a story of a loving friendship and the chilling aftereffects of the unspeakable acts that humans are capable of doing to one another. Let鈥檚 not ignore the fact that these actions happened in recent history. We most certainly are not immune to committing such violence now. As much as it might seem easier to keep one鈥檚 head in the sand, we can鈥檛 afford to do so. History tells us this repeatedly.
This is my second Han Kang novel and I鈥檝e no doubt she鈥檚 well deserving of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Her prose soars and her subject matter is relevant, highly compelling and deeply revealing of human nature in its various forms 鈥� both the good and the evil. I felt a little less grounded while reading this novel compared to my experience with The Vegetarian. Yet, it鈥檚 an important book and one that I can highly recommend.
鈥淗ow does one endure it?
Without a fire raging in one鈥檚 chest.
Without a you to return to and embrace.鈥�
I can鈥檛 think of any better way to describe this book than to say it was haunting. Both the surreal and the disturbing images are right there in front of me still, whether my eyes are open or closed. It鈥檚 odd, but as I sit here I realize that I can鈥檛 quite picture Kyungha, the narrator, or Inseon, her friend. Yet everything else is so vivid. Perhaps Kyungha and Inseon are a bit otherworldly. Part of a dream. One that the reader finds herself inside of. Kyungha is also unsure of that blurred line between reality and dream, or maybe nightmare would be a better word for it.
鈥淚n the sudden lull, I feel as if I鈥檝e opened the door to a dream within a dream and stepped inside.鈥�
鈥淚 say quietly, Dreams are terrifying things. No 鈥� they鈥檙e humiliating. They reveal things about you that you weren鈥檛 even aware of鈥︹€�
After an injury lands her in the hospital, Inseon makes a request of Kyungha. She asks her to travel to her home on the island of Jeju to feed and water her bird, Ama, before it is too late. Kyungha makes her way there amid a snowstorm. At this point, the snow plays a major role in the story, both in a literal and figurative way. The story alternates between the present moment when Kyungha is at Inseon鈥檚 home and in the past. A horror that is a deeply disturbing part of Korean history is slowly revealed in a very personal way. The images mix and mingle with the present time. The crimes and injustices of the past are wound tightly with the here and now. They become a part of us, whether we want them to or not.
鈥淪now had an unreality to it. Was this because of its pace or its beauty? There was an accompanying clarity to snow as well, especially slow, drifting snow. What was and wasn鈥檛 important were made distinct. Certain facts became chillingly apparent. Pain, for one.鈥�
We Do Not Part is simultaneously a story of a loving friendship and the chilling aftereffects of the unspeakable acts that humans are capable of doing to one another. Let鈥檚 not ignore the fact that these actions happened in recent history. We most certainly are not immune to committing such violence now. As much as it might seem easier to keep one鈥檚 head in the sand, we can鈥檛 afford to do so. History tells us this repeatedly.
This is my second Han Kang novel and I鈥檝e no doubt she鈥檚 well deserving of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Her prose soars and her subject matter is relevant, highly compelling and deeply revealing of human nature in its various forms 鈥� both the good and the evil. I felt a little less grounded while reading this novel compared to my experience with The Vegetarian. Yet, it鈥檚 an important book and one that I can highly recommend.
鈥淗ow does one endure it?
Without a fire raging in one鈥檚 chest.
Without a you to return to and embrace.鈥�
April 16, 2025
People say 'light as snow'. But snow has its own heft, which is the weight of this drop of water.
People say 'light as a bird'. But birds too have听their听weight.
雸堨矘霟� 臧€氤嶋嫟瓿� 靷瀸霌れ潃 毵愴暅雼�. 攴鸽煬雮� 雸堨棎霃� 氍搓矊臧€ 鞛堧嫟, 鞚� 氍茧癌鞖鸽韥�.
靸堨矘霟� 臧€氤嶋嫟瓿犽弰 毵愴暅雼�. 頃橃毵� 攴戈矁霌れ棎瓴岆弰 氍搓矊臧€ 鞛堧嫟.
Forthcoming in 2025, from the deserving winner of the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature for her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.
We Do Not Part (2025) is the translation by e. yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris of 鞛戨硠頃橃 鞎婋姅雼� by 顷滉皶 (Han Kang), and a book that epitomises the prose and themes that led the Nobel Committee to choose here as the new Nobel lauraete (see below for their more detailed take).
This novel won the Prix M茅dicis 茅tranger for its French translation and the English version must be a strong contender for a double-win for Han Kang in the International Booker.
The novel can be thought of as part of a trilogy linked by trauma, and by images of snow, with the powerful 靻岆厔鞚� 鞓嫟 (2014), translated as Human Acts (2016) by Deborah Smith and the exquisitely poetic 頋� (2016), translated by Smith as The White Book (2017). I also believe this novel was originally going to be a short-story, the third of a a 'Snow Trilogy' with the two short stories, yet to appear in English, 雸� 頃� 靻§澊臧€ 雲闺姅 霃欖晥 (2015) ['While A Snowflake Melts'] and 鞛戨硠 (2018) ['Farewell'], as the narrator of this novel comments:
I'd written a story titled 'Farewell', a story about a woman of snow who melts away under sleet. But that can't be my actual, final farewell.
Han Kang herself has described this book as 歆€攴鬼暅 靷瀾鞐� 雽€頃� 靻岇劋 - a novel about profound love, and one that followed on from her experience after writing 靻岆厔鞚� 鞓嫟 (Human Acts) as explained in the autobiographical opening to We Do Not Part.
We Do Not Part is narrated by Kyungha (瓴巾晿), a novelist, and the initial sections follow the author's own biography. Kyungha, like the author, completed a novel in 2014 based on the massacre that followed the ('鞓れ澕韺�' as the events are simply known in Korea, i.e. May 18), in 顷滉皶's case 靻岆厔鞚� 鞓嫟 / Human Acts. But far from purging each of visions of violence they were haunted by further dreams:
Having decided to write about mass killings and torture, how could I have so naively - brazenly - hoped to soon shirk off the agony of it, to so easily be bereft听of听its听traces?
頃欖偞瓿� 瓿犽鞐� 雽€頃� 鞊瓣赴搿� 毵堨潓毹轨棃鞙茧┐靹�, 鞏胳牋臧€ 瓿犿喌鞚� 肟岆Μ旃� 靾� 鞛堨潉 瓯半澕瓿�, 氇摖 頋旍爜霌れ潉 靻愳壗瓴� 鞐潬 靾� 鞛堨潉 瓯半澕瓿�, 鞏措柣瓴� 雮橂姅 攴疙啝搿� 靾滌頃橁矊-牖旊粩鞀る熃瓴�-氚旊澕瓿� 鞛堨棃雿� 瓴冹澕旯�?
For both Kyungha, and 顷滉皶, this took the form of a very specific visual image, which opens the novel:
Sparse snow was falling.
I stood on flat land that edged up a low hill. Along the brow of this hill听and听down听its visible face to the seam of the plain, thousands of black tree trunks jutted from the earth. They varied in height, like a crowd of people ranging in age, and were about as thick as railway sleepers, though nowhere near as straight. Stooped and listing, they gave the impression of a thousand men, women and haggard children huddling in the snow.
Was this a graveyard? I wondered. Are these gravestones?
I walked past the torsos听鈥撎齮reetops lopped off, exposed cross sections stippled with snowflakes that resembled salt crystals; I passed the prostrating barrows behind them. My feet stilled as I noticed the sensation of water underfoot. That鈥檚 strange, I thought. Within moments the water was up to my ankles. I looked back. What I saw astonished me: the far horizon turned out to be the shoreline. And the sea was crashing in.
The words tumbled from my lips: Who would bury people in听such听a听place?
She realises that this image isn't of Gwangju, and over time it leads her to another infamous massacre earlier in Korea's post World War II history, in the aftermath of the (鞝滌＜ 4路3 靷贝), with up to 30,000, men, women and children, slaughtered by the US-backed mainland government forces, around 10% of the population, and a similar number fleeing to Japan.
In Korea this story was largely supressed during the military dictatorship, and the first literary treatment was in the 1978 novel by 順勱赴鞓� (Hyun Ki-youn) - Aunt Suni or Sun-i Samch'on in its English translations - which at the time it was published led to censorship and punishment of the author. There is, I think, a neat nod to this work when Kyungha's friend Inseon (鞚胳劆) explains how to converse with Jeju people:
Inseon had told me to address older people here as samchun. Only outsiders say ajossi or ajumoni, halmoni or haraboji, she said. If you start off by calling them samchun, even if you can't string together a sentence in Jeju-mal, they're likely to be less guarded, thinking you've lived on the island for a good while.
The other key character in the story is Inseon, a colleague from Kyungha's first job, like the author as a reporter at a magazine, over time a close friend, and an artist and film maker.
The novel rather jumps around in time but we learn than Inseon and Kyungha had conceived of an art-project which would be hosted on some land in the mountains of Jeju which Inseon had inherited, where they would replicate Kyungha's vision by planting one hundred black logs to resemble, and remember, those who lost their lives in 1948:
I wanted to ask you听鈥撎齱hat if we did something about it together? I asked Inseon. What if you and I were to plant logs in a field, dress them in black ink and film them under falling snow?
Well, we鈥檇 have to get started before autumn ends, Inseon answered after listening to all I had to say. She was dressed in the black hanbok of mourning, her chin-length hair tied back with a white rubber band and her face earnest and composed. She said to plant ninety-nine logs in a field, we had to be sure the ground wasn鈥檛 frozen. She suggested we gather people to help with the planting by mid November at the latest, and said we could use the abandoned tract of land she鈥檇 inherited from her father, which no one used. Does the ground freeze here too? I asked. Of course, the uplands are frozen throughout the winter, she said.
An actual memorial in the village of Bukchon, where the events of 靾涤澊靷检磳 / Sun-i Samch'on are set.
Crucially Inseon's family home is away from the coast, as during October 1948 the government/mainland authorities decreed: 鈥淲e impose quarantine on the area further inland than 5km from the coastline of Jeju Island and in the mountainous area from October 20 to the end of military action to sweep the unpatriotic extremists who committed unpardonable atrocities hiding in Mt. Halla鈥�, with those in the interior subject to military action and execution. As explained , "of the 82 mid-mountain villages that existed at the time of Jeju 4路3, 35 had 100 or more residents killed."
But the right time to complete the project never quite comes, and Kyungha decides to abandon it, the two friends drifting apart. However, one December day she receives a simple text message from Inseon that simply reads Kyunghaya (瓴巾晿鞎�), the 'ya' a suffix used with close acquaintances. Inseon is in a hospital in Seoul, having severed her fingers in an accident in her Jeju studio, and asks Kyungha to visit her urgently.
It transpires that Inseon had been continuing with the project, indeed the accident came while working on the wood. She was rushed to hospital on the mainland for an operation to reattach her fingers, and she is desparate for Kyungha to go, that very day, to Inseon's Jeju home to feed the remaining one of her two pet birds, who she is convinced will not last another day without water and food.
Travelling to Jeju, Kyungha is caught in a snowstorm, which, give the journey involves the airport bus around the island to, what I think is the south-east of the island near to Pyoseon Beach, followed by a local bus inland to the mid-slopes of Hallasan, and then a further trek which would take 30 minutes at the best of times, places her trip in some jeopardy, and indeed during the final leg of the journey she falls down a slope, losing consciousness briefly:
This path I鈥檝e landed on and slipped down by accident, this bed of earth in which I am lying, is most likely the dried-up stream. A thin layer of ice must have set over its channel, a pile of snow heaped up over that. There are hardly any rivers or creeks on this volcanic island, and only occasionally during heavy rains or heavy snow do flowing streams appear. The village used to be divided along the border of this ephemeral stream, Inseon once told me on a walk. A cluster of forty houses, give or take, had stood on the other side, and when the evacuation orders went out in 1948, they were all set on fire, the people in them slaughtered, the village听incinerated.
She eventually recovers (or at least the novel narrates that she does) and finds Inseon's home, only to find that the bird she has come to save has already passed away, and she buries it, with the snow still falling heavily in the garden.
But the next day, when she awakens late in the afternoon, the bird seems to be back - and then she is also visited by Inseon, who she factually knows can not be there as she is still in the hospital. The second half of the novel takes on a dream-like quality as Kyung-ha is led by Inseon through various memories and archives of her family's history and the events in Jeju, which took place when Inseon's mother was 13:
She told me about how, when she was young, soldiers and police had murdered everyone in her village. My mum had been in her last year of elementary school and my aunt was seventeen. The two of them had been away on an errand at a distant cousin鈥檚 house, which was how they managed to avoid the same fate. The next day, having heard the news, the听sisters returned to the village and wandered the grounds of the elementary school all afternoon. Searching for the bodies of their father and mother, their older brother and eight year old sister. They looked over the bodies that had fallen every which way on top of one another and found that, overnight, a thin layer of snow had covered and frozen upon each face. They couldn鈥檛 tell anyone apart because of the snow, and since my aunt couldn鈥檛 bring herself to brush it away with her bare hands, she used a handkerchief to wipe each face clean. [...] That day, she came to understand something clearly. That when people died, their bodies went cold. Snow remained on their cheeks, and a thin layer of bloody ice set over听their听faces.
Inseon's great-uncle was arrested and then lost in the prison system, likely executed at the (瓴届偘 旖旊皽韸戈磻靷� 頃欖偞 靷贝) although rumours persisted of escapees, and Inseon's mother went on to marry someone who did survive imprisonment. Inseon's mother also led a campaign to discover what happened to those caught up in the events, and her archives, which we explore with Kyungha and Inseon, also speak to events such as the (氤措弰鞐半Ч 頃欖偞), with Inseon's own films covering other atrocities, including those inflicted by Korean troops in Vietnam.
But at the heart of the story is the profound love which the author highlights of Inseon's mother for her family and between the two friends. And the symbolism of the snow:
The snow that fell over this island and also in other ancient, faraway places could all have condensed together inside those clouds. When, at five years old, I reached out to touch my first snow in G鈥�, and when, at thirty, I was caught in a sudden rain shower that left me drenched as I biked along the riverside in Seoul, when the snow obscured the faces of the hundreds of children, women and elders on the schoolyard here on Jeju seventy years ago, when muddy water flooded the chicken coop as hens and baby chicks flapped their wings and rain ricocheted off the gleaming brass pump 鈥� who's to say those raindrops and crumbling snow crystals and thin layers of bloodied ice are not one and the same, that the snow settling over me now isn't that very water?
Another powerful work from an author now recognised, via the Nobel, as one of the world's finest living writers.
Thanks to the publisher via Netgalley for the ARC
From the author's Nobel Prize speech
In the notebook I kept while working on that book, I made these notes:
Life seeks to live. Life is warm.
To die is to grow cold. To have snow settle over one鈥檚 face rather than melt.
To kill is to make cold.
Humans in history and humans in the cosmos.
The wind and the ocean currents. The circular flow of water and air that connects the
entire world. We are connected. I pray that we are connected.
The novel is made up of three parts. If the first part is a horizontal journey that follows the narrator, Kyungha, from Seoul to her friend Inseon鈥檚 home in the Jeju uplands through heavy snow towards the pet bird she has been tasked with saving, then the second part follows a vertical path that leads Kyungha and Inseon down to one of humanity鈥檚 darkest nights 鈥� to the winter of 1948 when civilians on Jeju were slaughtered 鈥� and into the ocean鈥檚 depths. In the third and final part, the two light a candle at the bottom of the sea.
Though the novel is pulled forwards by the two friends, just as they take turns holding the candle, its true protagonist and the person linked to both Kyungha and Inseon is Inseon鈥檚 mother, Jeongsim. She who, having survived the massacres on Jeju, has fought to recover even a fragment of her loved one鈥檚 bones so that she can hold a proper funeral. She who refuses to stop mourning. She who bears pain and stands against oblivion. Who does not bid farewell. In attending to her life, which had for so long seethed with pain and love of an equal density and heat, I think the questions I was asking were these: To what extent can we love? Where is our limit? To what degree must we love in order to remain human to the end?
From the Nobel Committee's bio-bibliography
Another highlight is the late work, 鞛戨硠頃橃 鞎婋姅雼� (鈥淲e Do Not Part鈥�) from 2021, which in terms of its imagery of pain is closely connected to The White Book. The story unfolds in the shadow of a massacre that took place in the late 1940s on South Korea鈥檚 Jeju Island, where tens of thousands of people, among them children and the elderly, were shot on suspicion of being collaborators. The book portrays the shared mourning process undertaken by the narrator and her friend Inseon, who both, long after the event, bear with them the trauma associated with the disaster that has befallen their relatives. With imagery that is as precise as it is condensed, Han Kang not only conveys the power of the past over the present, but also, equally powerfully, traces the friends鈥� unyielding attempts to bring to light what has fallen into collective oblivion and transform their trauma into a joint art project, which lends the book its title. As much about the deepest form of friendship as it is about inherited pain, the book moves with great originality between the nightmarish images of the dream and the inclination of witness literature to speak the truth.
People say 'light as a bird'. But birds too have听their听weight.
雸堨矘霟� 臧€氤嶋嫟瓿� 靷瀸霌れ潃 毵愴暅雼�. 攴鸽煬雮� 雸堨棎霃� 氍搓矊臧€ 鞛堧嫟, 鞚� 氍茧癌鞖鸽韥�.
靸堨矘霟� 臧€氤嶋嫟瓿犽弰 毵愴暅雼�. 頃橃毵� 攴戈矁霌れ棎瓴岆弰 氍搓矊臧€ 鞛堧嫟.
Forthcoming in 2025, from the deserving winner of the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature for her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.
We Do Not Part (2025) is the translation by e. yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris of 鞛戨硠頃橃 鞎婋姅雼� by 顷滉皶 (Han Kang), and a book that epitomises the prose and themes that led the Nobel Committee to choose here as the new Nobel lauraete (see below for their more detailed take).
This novel won the Prix M茅dicis 茅tranger for its French translation and the English version must be a strong contender for a double-win for Han Kang in the International Booker.
The novel can be thought of as part of a trilogy linked by trauma, and by images of snow, with the powerful 靻岆厔鞚� 鞓嫟 (2014), translated as Human Acts (2016) by Deborah Smith and the exquisitely poetic 頋� (2016), translated by Smith as The White Book (2017). I also believe this novel was originally going to be a short-story, the third of a a 'Snow Trilogy' with the two short stories, yet to appear in English, 雸� 頃� 靻§澊臧€ 雲闺姅 霃欖晥 (2015) ['While A Snowflake Melts'] and 鞛戨硠 (2018) ['Farewell'], as the narrator of this novel comments:
I'd written a story titled 'Farewell', a story about a woman of snow who melts away under sleet. But that can't be my actual, final farewell.
Han Kang herself has described this book as 歆€攴鬼暅 靷瀾鞐� 雽€頃� 靻岇劋 - a novel about profound love, and one that followed on from her experience after writing 靻岆厔鞚� 鞓嫟 (Human Acts) as explained in the autobiographical opening to We Do Not Part.
We Do Not Part is narrated by Kyungha (瓴巾晿), a novelist, and the initial sections follow the author's own biography. Kyungha, like the author, completed a novel in 2014 based on the massacre that followed the ('鞓れ澕韺�' as the events are simply known in Korea, i.e. May 18), in 顷滉皶's case 靻岆厔鞚� 鞓嫟 / Human Acts. But far from purging each of visions of violence they were haunted by further dreams:
Having decided to write about mass killings and torture, how could I have so naively - brazenly - hoped to soon shirk off the agony of it, to so easily be bereft听of听its听traces?
頃欖偞瓿� 瓿犽鞐� 雽€頃� 鞊瓣赴搿� 毵堨潓毹轨棃鞙茧┐靹�, 鞏胳牋臧€ 瓿犿喌鞚� 肟岆Μ旃� 靾� 鞛堨潉 瓯半澕瓿�, 氇摖 頋旍爜霌れ潉 靻愳壗瓴� 鞐潬 靾� 鞛堨潉 瓯半澕瓿�, 鞏措柣瓴� 雮橂姅 攴疙啝搿� 靾滌頃橁矊-牖旊粩鞀る熃瓴�-氚旊澕瓿� 鞛堨棃雿� 瓴冹澕旯�?
For both Kyungha, and 顷滉皶, this took the form of a very specific visual image, which opens the novel:
Sparse snow was falling.
I stood on flat land that edged up a low hill. Along the brow of this hill听and听down听its visible face to the seam of the plain, thousands of black tree trunks jutted from the earth. They varied in height, like a crowd of people ranging in age, and were about as thick as railway sleepers, though nowhere near as straight. Stooped and listing, they gave the impression of a thousand men, women and haggard children huddling in the snow.
Was this a graveyard? I wondered. Are these gravestones?
I walked past the torsos听鈥撎齮reetops lopped off, exposed cross sections stippled with snowflakes that resembled salt crystals; I passed the prostrating barrows behind them. My feet stilled as I noticed the sensation of water underfoot. That鈥檚 strange, I thought. Within moments the water was up to my ankles. I looked back. What I saw astonished me: the far horizon turned out to be the shoreline. And the sea was crashing in.
The words tumbled from my lips: Who would bury people in听such听a听place?
She realises that this image isn't of Gwangju, and over time it leads her to another infamous massacre earlier in Korea's post World War II history, in the aftermath of the (鞝滌＜ 4路3 靷贝), with up to 30,000, men, women and children, slaughtered by the US-backed mainland government forces, around 10% of the population, and a similar number fleeing to Japan.
In Korea this story was largely supressed during the military dictatorship, and the first literary treatment was in the 1978 novel by 順勱赴鞓� (Hyun Ki-youn) - Aunt Suni or Sun-i Samch'on in its English translations - which at the time it was published led to censorship and punishment of the author. There is, I think, a neat nod to this work when Kyungha's friend Inseon (鞚胳劆) explains how to converse with Jeju people:
Inseon had told me to address older people here as samchun. Only outsiders say ajossi or ajumoni, halmoni or haraboji, she said. If you start off by calling them samchun, even if you can't string together a sentence in Jeju-mal, they're likely to be less guarded, thinking you've lived on the island for a good while.
The other key character in the story is Inseon, a colleague from Kyungha's first job, like the author as a reporter at a magazine, over time a close friend, and an artist and film maker.
The novel rather jumps around in time but we learn than Inseon and Kyungha had conceived of an art-project which would be hosted on some land in the mountains of Jeju which Inseon had inherited, where they would replicate Kyungha's vision by planting one hundred black logs to resemble, and remember, those who lost their lives in 1948:
I wanted to ask you听鈥撎齱hat if we did something about it together? I asked Inseon. What if you and I were to plant logs in a field, dress them in black ink and film them under falling snow?
Well, we鈥檇 have to get started before autumn ends, Inseon answered after listening to all I had to say. She was dressed in the black hanbok of mourning, her chin-length hair tied back with a white rubber band and her face earnest and composed. She said to plant ninety-nine logs in a field, we had to be sure the ground wasn鈥檛 frozen. She suggested we gather people to help with the planting by mid November at the latest, and said we could use the abandoned tract of land she鈥檇 inherited from her father, which no one used. Does the ground freeze here too? I asked. Of course, the uplands are frozen throughout the winter, she said.
An actual memorial in the village of Bukchon, where the events of 靾涤澊靷检磳 / Sun-i Samch'on are set.
Crucially Inseon's family home is away from the coast, as during October 1948 the government/mainland authorities decreed: 鈥淲e impose quarantine on the area further inland than 5km from the coastline of Jeju Island and in the mountainous area from October 20 to the end of military action to sweep the unpatriotic extremists who committed unpardonable atrocities hiding in Mt. Halla鈥�, with those in the interior subject to military action and execution. As explained , "of the 82 mid-mountain villages that existed at the time of Jeju 4路3, 35 had 100 or more residents killed."
But the right time to complete the project never quite comes, and Kyungha decides to abandon it, the two friends drifting apart. However, one December day she receives a simple text message from Inseon that simply reads Kyunghaya (瓴巾晿鞎�), the 'ya' a suffix used with close acquaintances. Inseon is in a hospital in Seoul, having severed her fingers in an accident in her Jeju studio, and asks Kyungha to visit her urgently.
It transpires that Inseon had been continuing with the project, indeed the accident came while working on the wood. She was rushed to hospital on the mainland for an operation to reattach her fingers, and she is desparate for Kyungha to go, that very day, to Inseon's Jeju home to feed the remaining one of her two pet birds, who she is convinced will not last another day without water and food.
Travelling to Jeju, Kyungha is caught in a snowstorm, which, give the journey involves the airport bus around the island to, what I think is the south-east of the island near to Pyoseon Beach, followed by a local bus inland to the mid-slopes of Hallasan, and then a further trek which would take 30 minutes at the best of times, places her trip in some jeopardy, and indeed during the final leg of the journey she falls down a slope, losing consciousness briefly:
This path I鈥檝e landed on and slipped down by accident, this bed of earth in which I am lying, is most likely the dried-up stream. A thin layer of ice must have set over its channel, a pile of snow heaped up over that. There are hardly any rivers or creeks on this volcanic island, and only occasionally during heavy rains or heavy snow do flowing streams appear. The village used to be divided along the border of this ephemeral stream, Inseon once told me on a walk. A cluster of forty houses, give or take, had stood on the other side, and when the evacuation orders went out in 1948, they were all set on fire, the people in them slaughtered, the village听incinerated.
She eventually recovers (or at least the novel narrates that she does) and finds Inseon's home, only to find that the bird she has come to save has already passed away, and she buries it, with the snow still falling heavily in the garden.
But the next day, when she awakens late in the afternoon, the bird seems to be back - and then she is also visited by Inseon, who she factually knows can not be there as she is still in the hospital. The second half of the novel takes on a dream-like quality as Kyung-ha is led by Inseon through various memories and archives of her family's history and the events in Jeju, which took place when Inseon's mother was 13:
She told me about how, when she was young, soldiers and police had murdered everyone in her village. My mum had been in her last year of elementary school and my aunt was seventeen. The two of them had been away on an errand at a distant cousin鈥檚 house, which was how they managed to avoid the same fate. The next day, having heard the news, the听sisters returned to the village and wandered the grounds of the elementary school all afternoon. Searching for the bodies of their father and mother, their older brother and eight year old sister. They looked over the bodies that had fallen every which way on top of one another and found that, overnight, a thin layer of snow had covered and frozen upon each face. They couldn鈥檛 tell anyone apart because of the snow, and since my aunt couldn鈥檛 bring herself to brush it away with her bare hands, she used a handkerchief to wipe each face clean. [...] That day, she came to understand something clearly. That when people died, their bodies went cold. Snow remained on their cheeks, and a thin layer of bloody ice set over听their听faces.
Inseon's great-uncle was arrested and then lost in the prison system, likely executed at the (瓴届偘 旖旊皽韸戈磻靷� 頃欖偞 靷贝) although rumours persisted of escapees, and Inseon's mother went on to marry someone who did survive imprisonment. Inseon's mother also led a campaign to discover what happened to those caught up in the events, and her archives, which we explore with Kyungha and Inseon, also speak to events such as the (氤措弰鞐半Ч 頃欖偞), with Inseon's own films covering other atrocities, including those inflicted by Korean troops in Vietnam.
But at the heart of the story is the profound love which the author highlights of Inseon's mother for her family and between the two friends. And the symbolism of the snow:
The snow that fell over this island and also in other ancient, faraway places could all have condensed together inside those clouds. When, at five years old, I reached out to touch my first snow in G鈥�, and when, at thirty, I was caught in a sudden rain shower that left me drenched as I biked along the riverside in Seoul, when the snow obscured the faces of the hundreds of children, women and elders on the schoolyard here on Jeju seventy years ago, when muddy water flooded the chicken coop as hens and baby chicks flapped their wings and rain ricocheted off the gleaming brass pump 鈥� who's to say those raindrops and crumbling snow crystals and thin layers of bloodied ice are not one and the same, that the snow settling over me now isn't that very water?
Another powerful work from an author now recognised, via the Nobel, as one of the world's finest living writers.
Thanks to the publisher via Netgalley for the ARC
From the author's Nobel Prize speech
In the notebook I kept while working on that book, I made these notes:
Life seeks to live. Life is warm.
To die is to grow cold. To have snow settle over one鈥檚 face rather than melt.
To kill is to make cold.
Humans in history and humans in the cosmos.
The wind and the ocean currents. The circular flow of water and air that connects the
entire world. We are connected. I pray that we are connected.
The novel is made up of three parts. If the first part is a horizontal journey that follows the narrator, Kyungha, from Seoul to her friend Inseon鈥檚 home in the Jeju uplands through heavy snow towards the pet bird she has been tasked with saving, then the second part follows a vertical path that leads Kyungha and Inseon down to one of humanity鈥檚 darkest nights 鈥� to the winter of 1948 when civilians on Jeju were slaughtered 鈥� and into the ocean鈥檚 depths. In the third and final part, the two light a candle at the bottom of the sea.
Though the novel is pulled forwards by the two friends, just as they take turns holding the candle, its true protagonist and the person linked to both Kyungha and Inseon is Inseon鈥檚 mother, Jeongsim. She who, having survived the massacres on Jeju, has fought to recover even a fragment of her loved one鈥檚 bones so that she can hold a proper funeral. She who refuses to stop mourning. She who bears pain and stands against oblivion. Who does not bid farewell. In attending to her life, which had for so long seethed with pain and love of an equal density and heat, I think the questions I was asking were these: To what extent can we love? Where is our limit? To what degree must we love in order to remain human to the end?
From the Nobel Committee's bio-bibliography
Another highlight is the late work, 鞛戨硠頃橃 鞎婋姅雼� (鈥淲e Do Not Part鈥�) from 2021, which in terms of its imagery of pain is closely connected to The White Book. The story unfolds in the shadow of a massacre that took place in the late 1940s on South Korea鈥檚 Jeju Island, where tens of thousands of people, among them children and the elderly, were shot on suspicion of being collaborators. The book portrays the shared mourning process undertaken by the narrator and her friend Inseon, who both, long after the event, bear with them the trauma associated with the disaster that has befallen their relatives. With imagery that is as precise as it is condensed, Han Kang not only conveys the power of the past over the present, but also, equally powerfully, traces the friends鈥� unyielding attempts to bring to light what has fallen into collective oblivion and transform their trauma into a joint art project, which lends the book its title. As much about the deepest form of friendship as it is about inherited pain, the book moves with great originality between the nightmarish images of the dream and the inclination of witness literature to speak the truth.
May 11, 2025
Han Kang is the master of the sledgehammer blow and this time takes us into Korean history and a massacre on the island of Jeju, where 30.000 people died in the 1940s. Snow is perpetually falling, people are silent and nightmares recur while human lives seem as fragile as bird's hearts
Why is the world so violent and painful?
And yet how can the world be this beautiful?
From the Nobel prize lecture:
An author, seemingly loosely modelled on as writer of , has recurring dreams about graves close to the sea, under barren trees covered by snow. starts of dark and atmospheric, with oppressive heat in Seoul and the aftermath of a divorce. People feel unmoored in the novel, and there is little true connection, with the main character always responsible for arranging breakfast and dinner for her family, even while working and writing a novel. It is an interesting segway into autofiction for the author.
Our main character, Kyungha, visits a documentary maker annex carpenter on Jeju, Inseon, who had an accident with a circle saw. Being pricked every three minutes, day or night, the bloody scenes in the hospital are only a runway to a stark, if poetic portrayal of more horrors. Kyungha travels to Jeju, the scene of a massacre () and a snow storm. Her travels feel both like by , in how hell is seemingly a cold place with ever falling snow, and also reminded me in a sense of by in setting.
The way Han Kang brings the dead to life is incredible. Wrenching scenes of kids of 12 and 16 wiping the snow mixed with blood from faces of corpses to find loved ones, people being executed in groups of ten to empty prisons, a scene where a young girl seems unharmed but is actually pierced through the chin by a bullet; intensely grim exactly because they are not fictitious.
The writing reminds us how desensitised we are for big numbers and headlines in the news, and how impressive how newly minted Nobel Laureate Han Kang manages to make these kind of events personal, claustrophobic and yet also in a sense healing.
Very impressive and probably together with my favourite novel of the author I have read. I can't put it better than the author herself what an ode this is to human resilience and also a charge against what humans can do against each other:
... its true protagonist and the person linked to both Kyungha and Inseon is Inseon鈥檚 mother, Jeongsim. She who, having survived the massacres on Jeju, has fought to recover even a fragment of her loved one鈥檚 bones so that she can hold a proper funeral. She who refuses to stop mourning. She who bears pain and stands against oblivion. Who does not bid farewell. In attending to her life, which had for so long seethed with pain and love of an equal density and heat, I think the questions I was asking were these: To what extent can we love? Where is our limit? To what degree must we love in order to remain human to the end?
Why is the world so violent and painful?
And yet how can the world be this beautiful?
From the Nobel prize lecture:
An author, seemingly loosely modelled on as writer of , has recurring dreams about graves close to the sea, under barren trees covered by snow. starts of dark and atmospheric, with oppressive heat in Seoul and the aftermath of a divorce. People feel unmoored in the novel, and there is little true connection, with the main character always responsible for arranging breakfast and dinner for her family, even while working and writing a novel. It is an interesting segway into autofiction for the author.
Our main character, Kyungha, visits a documentary maker annex carpenter on Jeju, Inseon, who had an accident with a circle saw. Being pricked every three minutes, day or night, the bloody scenes in the hospital are only a runway to a stark, if poetic portrayal of more horrors. Kyungha travels to Jeju, the scene of a massacre () and a snow storm. Her travels feel both like by , in how hell is seemingly a cold place with ever falling snow, and also reminded me in a sense of by in setting.
The way Han Kang brings the dead to life is incredible. Wrenching scenes of kids of 12 and 16 wiping the snow mixed with blood from faces of corpses to find loved ones, people being executed in groups of ten to empty prisons, a scene where a young girl seems unharmed but is actually pierced through the chin by a bullet; intensely grim exactly because they are not fictitious.
The writing reminds us how desensitised we are for big numbers and headlines in the news, and how impressive how newly minted Nobel Laureate Han Kang manages to make these kind of events personal, claustrophobic and yet also in a sense healing.
Very impressive and probably together with my favourite novel of the author I have read. I can't put it better than the author herself what an ode this is to human resilience and also a charge against what humans can do against each other:
... its true protagonist and the person linked to both Kyungha and Inseon is Inseon鈥檚 mother, Jeongsim. She who, having survived the massacres on Jeju, has fought to recover even a fragment of her loved one鈥檚 bones so that she can hold a proper funeral. She who refuses to stop mourning. She who bears pain and stands against oblivion. Who does not bid farewell. In attending to her life, which had for so long seethed with pain and love of an equal density and heat, I think the questions I was asking were these: To what extent can we love? Where is our limit? To what degree must we love in order to remain human to the end?
January 17, 2025
[4.5 stars] One could say We Do Not Part is an amalgam of Han Kang鈥檚 previous works: the surrealism of The Vegetarian, the examination of traumatic historical events in Human Acts, and the poetic starkness of The White Book. Here she dips into autofiction and shines a light on the atrocities committed on Jeju Island in 1948.
The book begins with a dream. Evoking woodcut prints, the white snow falls on bent and blackened tree stumps evoking the image of human form. The dark sea rolls in, threatening the trees (or are they people?) as Kyungha, our narrator, anxiously watches. She awakens to a sweltering day in Seoul, a sharp contrast in both weather and mood. Her nightmares have haunted her since she began researching a book she published four years prior about an uprising that resulted in countless deaths. But she feels unsure if these dreams are connected to that event, or something else...
Kyungha's longtime friend Inseon texts her asking for help, immediately. She's in a hospital in Seoul after an accidental while woodworking, coincidentally on a project the two had conceived together years ago but never saw to fruition. Inseon asks Kyungha to return to her Jeju Island home to feed her pet bird who was left behind in the wake of Inseon's accident. Kyungha arrives on the island in the midst of a snowstorm that obscures not only her vision but the story's grasp on reality. From there we move into an almost dreamlike state with the characters as past and present unfold together, woven into a tale that attempts to illuminate and reflect on the harsh realities of their nation.
Kang has explored the human body throughout her oeuvre. She seems to have a fixation on how the human form can both bring forth life and quickly snatch it away. The remnants of humans lost to acts of violence permeate this story. But so too do the shallow breaths, the radiant heat from blushed cheeks, the crunch of snow under feet. These vivid images pull the reader along, like stills in a slideshow.
There also seems to be a fascination with recording history, a theme I notice popping up in many novels I've read in the last year or so. From newspaper clippings, documentary films, journal entries, letters, and novels (such as this one), there's an attempt through the characters, and seemingly Kang herself, to put a pin in history in some way. To fix the eye on something we so easily can look away from, or refuse to ever see at all. Many times our narrator forces herself to look, at wounded fingers, unfathomable separations, in the name of remembering.
At one point a character says something about love being an agony. That to love is to make oneself vulnerable: physically, emotionally, spiritually. And yet there seems to be no other option. Humans continually seek out love in all its various forms. Those are on display here: from mother and daughter, to brother and sister, friend to friend. The partings we experience in life don't seem to be as tangible as they feel. Perhaps there's something more threading us together, across time and space, through history and the present, in blood and snow.
The book begins with a dream. Evoking woodcut prints, the white snow falls on bent and blackened tree stumps evoking the image of human form. The dark sea rolls in, threatening the trees (or are they people?) as Kyungha, our narrator, anxiously watches. She awakens to a sweltering day in Seoul, a sharp contrast in both weather and mood. Her nightmares have haunted her since she began researching a book she published four years prior about an uprising that resulted in countless deaths. But she feels unsure if these dreams are connected to that event, or something else...
Kyungha's longtime friend Inseon texts her asking for help, immediately. She's in a hospital in Seoul after an accidental while woodworking, coincidentally on a project the two had conceived together years ago but never saw to fruition. Inseon asks Kyungha to return to her Jeju Island home to feed her pet bird who was left behind in the wake of Inseon's accident. Kyungha arrives on the island in the midst of a snowstorm that obscures not only her vision but the story's grasp on reality. From there we move into an almost dreamlike state with the characters as past and present unfold together, woven into a tale that attempts to illuminate and reflect on the harsh realities of their nation.
Kang has explored the human body throughout her oeuvre. She seems to have a fixation on how the human form can both bring forth life and quickly snatch it away. The remnants of humans lost to acts of violence permeate this story. But so too do the shallow breaths, the radiant heat from blushed cheeks, the crunch of snow under feet. These vivid images pull the reader along, like stills in a slideshow.
There also seems to be a fascination with recording history, a theme I notice popping up in many novels I've read in the last year or so. From newspaper clippings, documentary films, journal entries, letters, and novels (such as this one), there's an attempt through the characters, and seemingly Kang herself, to put a pin in history in some way. To fix the eye on something we so easily can look away from, or refuse to ever see at all. Many times our narrator forces herself to look, at wounded fingers, unfathomable separations, in the name of remembering.
At one point a character says something about love being an agony. That to love is to make oneself vulnerable: physically, emotionally, spiritually. And yet there seems to be no other option. Humans continually seek out love in all its various forms. Those are on display here: from mother and daughter, to brother and sister, friend to friend. The partings we experience in life don't seem to be as tangible as they feel. Perhaps there's something more threading us together, across time and space, through history and the present, in blood and snow.
June 29, 2024
Of beni -bir kez daha- mahvettin Han Kang. G眉ney Koreli yazar son kitab谋 Veda Etmiyorum'da t谋pk谋 脟ocuk Geliyor'daki gibi 眉lkesinin karanl谋k bir d枚nemine bak谋yor, hatta bence bu kitab谋 脟ocuk Geliyor'un 眉st眉ne okumal谋 zira metin, o kitab谋 yazd谋臒谋 d枚nemde ya艧ad谋klar谋n谋 anlatmas谋yla ba艧l谋yor.
陌nsan谋 okurken t眉keten, i莽inden can谋n谋 莽eken bu kitaplar谋 yazarken Kang ne hale geliyor acaba diye d眉艧眉n眉yordum, sorunun cevab谋n谋 da al谋yoruz bu kitapla. Ya艧anm谋艧 onca vah艧eti, d枚k眉len onca kan谋, 枚len 莽ocuklar谋, katledilen insanlar谋 yazmak i莽in ara艧t谋rma yapar ve sonra onlardan edebiyat dev艧irirken sahiden sa臒l谋臒谋ndan feragat ediyor, ruhunun bir k谋sm谋n谋 teslim ediyormu艧.
Bu kitapta da benzer bir 艧ey ya艧anm谋艧 olmal谋, zira ola臒an眉st眉 ac谋kl谋 bir hikaye okuyoruz. Yazar bu kez bizi 1948'e, Jeju ayaklanmas谋na g枚t眉r眉yor. 14 ila 60 bin ki艧inin Kom眉nist olmak su莽lamas谋yla 枚ld眉r眉ld眉臒眉 bir ayaklanma bu, kitab谋 okuyana kadar bilmiyordum, 枚臒renmi艧 oldum.
G眉n眉m眉zde ba艧layan hikaye, anlat谋c谋m谋z谋n yak谋n arkada艧谋 陌nson'un kendi anne ve babas谋n谋n ge莽mi艧ini ara艧t谋r谋rken memleketi Jeju Adas谋'n谋n tarihini kaz谋maya ba艧lamas谋 ve bizzat kendi ebeveynlerinin bu kanl谋 katliamdan paylar谋na d眉艧eni ald谋klar谋n谋 枚臒renmesiyle ge莽mi艧e uzan谋yor. Anlat谋c谋m谋z, 陌nson ve onun annesinin, 眉莽 kad谋n谋n g枚z眉nden bak谋yoruz tarihe ve zaman谋n dibine, dibine, dibine do臒ru iniyoruz Han Kang'谋n rehberli臒inde. Ge莽mi艧le bug眉n眉 枚yle bir birbirine ilmekliyor ki, 眉zerinden ge莽en 80 senede olay谋n deh艧etinin bir gram azalmad谋臒谋n谋 iliklerinde hissediyor insan okurken. 陌lmekledi臒i 艧ey sadece ge莽mi艧le bug眉n de臒il; r眉yayla ger莽ek, haf谋zayla unutulma, travmayla sevgi. Bir arada var olabilen, birbirini yanl谋艧lamayan aksine m眉mk眉n k谋lan 艧eyler. 脰l眉 莽ocuklar谋n yerine inad谋na ya艧at谋lan 莽ocuklar. Zay谋f, yenik g枚z眉ken insanlar谋n sab谋rl谋 m眉cadeleleri. Ne 莽ok, ne 莽ok 艧ey var bu romanda.
Ve tabii kar鈥� Bu roman谋 k谋艧谋n karlar alt谋nda okumal谋yd谋m belki ama Han Kang 枚yle atmosferik yaz谋yor ki, nerede, ne ko艧ulda okursan谋z okuyun i莽inde bulundu臒unuz odaya zaten ya臒acak o kar, tenimde hissettim resmen o bitmeyen kar tanelerini.
脟ok, 莽ok, 莽ok iyi bir roman Veda Etmiyorum. Han Kang da 莽a臒谋m谋z谋n en b眉y眉k yazarlar谋ndan biri bence.
陌nsan谋 okurken t眉keten, i莽inden can谋n谋 莽eken bu kitaplar谋 yazarken Kang ne hale geliyor acaba diye d眉艧眉n眉yordum, sorunun cevab谋n谋 da al谋yoruz bu kitapla. Ya艧anm谋艧 onca vah艧eti, d枚k眉len onca kan谋, 枚len 莽ocuklar谋, katledilen insanlar谋 yazmak i莽in ara艧t谋rma yapar ve sonra onlardan edebiyat dev艧irirken sahiden sa臒l谋臒谋ndan feragat ediyor, ruhunun bir k谋sm谋n谋 teslim ediyormu艧.
Bu kitapta da benzer bir 艧ey ya艧anm谋艧 olmal谋, zira ola臒an眉st眉 ac谋kl谋 bir hikaye okuyoruz. Yazar bu kez bizi 1948'e, Jeju ayaklanmas谋na g枚t眉r眉yor. 14 ila 60 bin ki艧inin Kom眉nist olmak su莽lamas谋yla 枚ld眉r眉ld眉臒眉 bir ayaklanma bu, kitab谋 okuyana kadar bilmiyordum, 枚臒renmi艧 oldum.
G眉n眉m眉zde ba艧layan hikaye, anlat谋c谋m谋z谋n yak谋n arkada艧谋 陌nson'un kendi anne ve babas谋n谋n ge莽mi艧ini ara艧t谋r谋rken memleketi Jeju Adas谋'n谋n tarihini kaz谋maya ba艧lamas谋 ve bizzat kendi ebeveynlerinin bu kanl谋 katliamdan paylar谋na d眉艧eni ald谋klar谋n谋 枚臒renmesiyle ge莽mi艧e uzan谋yor. Anlat谋c谋m谋z, 陌nson ve onun annesinin, 眉莽 kad谋n谋n g枚z眉nden bak谋yoruz tarihe ve zaman谋n dibine, dibine, dibine do臒ru iniyoruz Han Kang'谋n rehberli臒inde. Ge莽mi艧le bug眉n眉 枚yle bir birbirine ilmekliyor ki, 眉zerinden ge莽en 80 senede olay谋n deh艧etinin bir gram azalmad谋臒谋n谋 iliklerinde hissediyor insan okurken. 陌lmekledi臒i 艧ey sadece ge莽mi艧le bug眉n de臒il; r眉yayla ger莽ek, haf谋zayla unutulma, travmayla sevgi. Bir arada var olabilen, birbirini yanl谋艧lamayan aksine m眉mk眉n k谋lan 艧eyler. 脰l眉 莽ocuklar谋n yerine inad谋na ya艧at谋lan 莽ocuklar. Zay谋f, yenik g枚z眉ken insanlar谋n sab谋rl谋 m眉cadeleleri. Ne 莽ok, ne 莽ok 艧ey var bu romanda.
Ve tabii kar鈥� Bu roman谋 k谋艧谋n karlar alt谋nda okumal谋yd谋m belki ama Han Kang 枚yle atmosferik yaz谋yor ki, nerede, ne ko艧ulda okursan谋z okuyun i莽inde bulundu臒unuz odaya zaten ya臒acak o kar, tenimde hissettim resmen o bitmeyen kar tanelerini.
脟ok, 莽ok, 莽ok iyi bir roman Veda Etmiyorum. Han Kang da 莽a臒谋m谋z谋n en b眉y眉k yazarlar谋ndan biri bence.
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April 30, 2025This book is full of shadows, the after-images of shadows, and the memories those after-images leave in the mind.
In preparation for a 21st century documentary about the massacre of hundreds of men, women, and children on the mountainous island of Jeju in South Korea in the 1950s, a documentarist sets up her camera to check the lighting and acoustics for the space she's chosen for a reading of a decades-old testimony from someone who witnessed one of the massacres.
Quite by accident, the sun casts the wavering shadow of a tree's branches onto the wall behind her. The camera picks up the flickering shadows perfectly but the documentarist herself, who is reading out the testimony, is almost completely out of the frame, and the words that are recorded are accompanied only by those wavering shadows.
That's only one of the delicate scenes in this book about two women in the 21st century who are searching for ways to commemorate the victims of the Jeju atrocities as well as honour the testimony of those who witnessed such events or who witnessed the after-shadow of the carnage, having arrived on the devastating scenes agonizingly but mercifully late.
As you might imagine, bearing witness for the witnesses is a traumatic process for the two women concerned. One of them eventually becomes a victim of the witness-bearing, and the other arrives agonizingly late to rescue what her friend holds most dear.
Like the camera angle that had swung off-centre in the documentary scene described earlier, the 21st century part of this story itself veers off on a slant. Distinct details move out of the frame, the time and the place, who may be alive and who may be dead. The two women, so engaged with their project in the morning light of the early chapters, become but flickering candlelight shadows to one another in the later ones鈥攋ust as the lost family members became shadows for the survivors of the massacres and just as those survivors in turn became inaccessible shadows for the people with whom they tried to make new lives.
I think Han Kang has found a very effective and poetic way to address the almost impossible task of bearing witness for the witnesses, to echo Jewish poet Paul Celan's line: "No one bears witness for the witness".
While reading this Han Kang book, I re-read a short book I've owned for years, (Conversation on the Mountain), a prose-poem by Celan about a possible meeting on a mountain path with his fellow Jew, Theodor Adorno.
In real life, the two had disagreed about Adorno's famous statement that "to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric", though I believe Adorno recanted that later.
Celan's prose-poem is full of silence and flickering shadows, shadows from the sun and shadows from candlelight, and the two people who meet on the mountain path to discuss the trauma of being survivors, were never in fact present: they met only in Celan's mind.
But in the silence of my mind, Han Kang's and Paul Celan's books have really had a meeting, and I've been a witness to their conversation. I'm still reeling from the impact of all that witnessing.
In preparation for a 21st century documentary about the massacre of hundreds of men, women, and children on the mountainous island of Jeju in South Korea in the 1950s, a documentarist sets up her camera to check the lighting and acoustics for the space she's chosen for a reading of a decades-old testimony from someone who witnessed one of the massacres.
Quite by accident, the sun casts the wavering shadow of a tree's branches onto the wall behind her. The camera picks up the flickering shadows perfectly but the documentarist herself, who is reading out the testimony, is almost completely out of the frame, and the words that are recorded are accompanied only by those wavering shadows.
That's only one of the delicate scenes in this book about two women in the 21st century who are searching for ways to commemorate the victims of the Jeju atrocities as well as honour the testimony of those who witnessed such events or who witnessed the after-shadow of the carnage, having arrived on the devastating scenes agonizingly but mercifully late.
As you might imagine, bearing witness for the witnesses is a traumatic process for the two women concerned. One of them eventually becomes a victim of the witness-bearing, and the other arrives agonizingly late to rescue what her friend holds most dear.
Like the camera angle that had swung off-centre in the documentary scene described earlier, the 21st century part of this story itself veers off on a slant. Distinct details move out of the frame, the time and the place, who may be alive and who may be dead. The two women, so engaged with their project in the morning light of the early chapters, become but flickering candlelight shadows to one another in the later ones鈥攋ust as the lost family members became shadows for the survivors of the massacres and just as those survivors in turn became inaccessible shadows for the people with whom they tried to make new lives.
I think Han Kang has found a very effective and poetic way to address the almost impossible task of bearing witness for the witnesses, to echo Jewish poet Paul Celan's line: "No one bears witness for the witness".
While reading this Han Kang book, I re-read a short book I've owned for years, (Conversation on the Mountain), a prose-poem by Celan about a possible meeting on a mountain path with his fellow Jew, Theodor Adorno.
In real life, the two had disagreed about Adorno's famous statement that "to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric", though I believe Adorno recanted that later.
Celan's prose-poem is full of silence and flickering shadows, shadows from the sun and shadows from candlelight, and the two people who meet on the mountain path to discuss the trauma of being survivors, were never in fact present: they met only in Celan's mind.
But in the silence of my mind, Han Kang's and Paul Celan's books have really had a meeting, and I've been a witness to their conversation. I'm still reeling from the impact of all that witnessing.
February 2, 2025
Fascinating author. Han Kang writes about the impact of massacres with the same authenticity with which Svetlana Alexievich gathers testimonies about tragedies. There are also other connections with her previous works here. That鈥檚 why I would recommend starting the journey into Han Kang鈥檚 world somewhere else.
March 8, 2025
It is, of course, stupid to say this of someone who writes in a language you cannot read other than in translation, and a language so linguistically distant from your own, but this woman writes the most beautiful prose. As others have said, it is almost poetic. And yet, always simple, always heartbreakingly honest, always confronting.
This is a stunning novel 鈥� and while I would dearly love to provide you with all of the spoilers I can think of, I鈥檓 not going to do that. Other than to say that she smashes together the universal and the particular in ways that take your breath away. The universal being the extermination of 鈥榬eds鈥�, or rather 鈥榗ould be reds鈥�, and the obligations of friendship. If this was all this book was, it would still be a masterpiece 鈥� but it is this and so much more. There are images in this that will haunt you long after you have finished it. To me, her hiding the blood stains 鈥� and the hiding of presumed reds 鈥� is beyond clever, poignant to the point of nearly stopping you from reading on. Masterful.
One of the things I find so utterly fascinating about her writing 鈥� and this has been true of the three books I鈥檝e now read of hers 鈥� is how remarkably tactile they are. From the agony of dismemberment to the touch of a bird鈥檚 talons upon your finger 鈥� I can鈥檛 think of another writer who makes me feel so much while I am reading them. And I guess I mean feel in all senses 鈥� but literally feel the touch of another is what I actually meant to say. This heightened tactile sense is everywhere. Honestly, you would think the books were written by a blind person.
There are images in this 鈥� particularly of snow 鈥� that are deeply moving. And then, what you might take to be a simple description suddenly becomes a remarkable metaphor and then transforms into a major theme of the novel itself. Like I said, this is just masterful writing.
For years now, ever since I went to see Pina Bausch鈥檚 Carnations, I鈥檝e been a bit obsessed with the idea of repetition. Repetition is never a repeating of the same 鈥� or rather, even when it is, it never means the same across its repetitions. This book 鈥榙raws together all of the threads鈥� it is composed of, not least in its images. You could spend a year unpacking these and that would be a year well spent.
Just gorgeous. Yeah, sorry, you鈥檙e probably going to have to read this one. I don鈥檛 want to spoil it for you 鈥� but this is as much a book about ghosts as it is about the living. It is also about the obligations we have for things we didn鈥檛 intend 鈥� or rather that we warned others not to do, but when they are damaged by those things we had put into their heads, we retain a responsibility, despite our having warned them not to do what they subsequently did. I know, that is too vague and too smart 鈥� but I hope you鈥檒l understand what I mean once you have read the book. We do not part 鈥� none of us ultimately part.
This is a stunning novel 鈥� and while I would dearly love to provide you with all of the spoilers I can think of, I鈥檓 not going to do that. Other than to say that she smashes together the universal and the particular in ways that take your breath away. The universal being the extermination of 鈥榬eds鈥�, or rather 鈥榗ould be reds鈥�, and the obligations of friendship. If this was all this book was, it would still be a masterpiece 鈥� but it is this and so much more. There are images in this that will haunt you long after you have finished it. To me, her hiding the blood stains 鈥� and the hiding of presumed reds 鈥� is beyond clever, poignant to the point of nearly stopping you from reading on. Masterful.
One of the things I find so utterly fascinating about her writing 鈥� and this has been true of the three books I鈥檝e now read of hers 鈥� is how remarkably tactile they are. From the agony of dismemberment to the touch of a bird鈥檚 talons upon your finger 鈥� I can鈥檛 think of another writer who makes me feel so much while I am reading them. And I guess I mean feel in all senses 鈥� but literally feel the touch of another is what I actually meant to say. This heightened tactile sense is everywhere. Honestly, you would think the books were written by a blind person.
There are images in this 鈥� particularly of snow 鈥� that are deeply moving. And then, what you might take to be a simple description suddenly becomes a remarkable metaphor and then transforms into a major theme of the novel itself. Like I said, this is just masterful writing.
For years now, ever since I went to see Pina Bausch鈥檚 Carnations, I鈥檝e been a bit obsessed with the idea of repetition. Repetition is never a repeating of the same 鈥� or rather, even when it is, it never means the same across its repetitions. This book 鈥榙raws together all of the threads鈥� it is composed of, not least in its images. You could spend a year unpacking these and that would be a year well spent.
Just gorgeous. Yeah, sorry, you鈥檙e probably going to have to read this one. I don鈥檛 want to spoil it for you 鈥� but this is as much a book about ghosts as it is about the living. It is also about the obligations we have for things we didn鈥檛 intend 鈥� or rather that we warned others not to do, but when they are damaged by those things we had put into their heads, we retain a responsibility, despite our having warned them not to do what they subsequently did. I know, that is too vague and too smart 鈥� but I hope you鈥檒l understand what I mean once you have read the book. We do not part 鈥� none of us ultimately part.
November 22, 2024
鈥楾hat is how death avoided me. Like an asteroid thought to be on a collision course avoids Earth by a hair鈥檚 breadth, hurtling past at a furious velocity that knows neither regret nor hesitation. I had not reconciled with life, but I had to resume living.鈥�
Update : Sept/Oct 2024
Read the English translation finally, and have to bump this one up to a 5*. I was ready for the text to be somewhat 'simplified' (which to me, would compromise some of its 'beauty'), but the translator(s) was so incredibly sensitive in the handling of the text, and ever so meticulous and careful with the syntax, style and diction. It didn鈥檛 feel 鈥榬educed鈥�; it felt 鈥榚levated鈥�. It demands future re-readings.
鈥業t was early November and the tall maple trees were ablaze and glimmering in the sunlight. Beauty鈥攂ut the wiring inside me that would sense beauty was dead or failing. One morning, the first frost of the season covered the half-frozen earth鈥擝rittle autumn leaves as big as young faces tumbled past me, and the limbs of the suddenly denuded plane trees, as their Korean name of buhzeum鈥攆laking skin鈥攕uggests, resembled grey-white flesh stripped raw.鈥�
鈥樷€攊n the areas where the conifers and subtropical broadleaf trees grew together, the wind created an indescribable harmony as it passed through the branches and leaves, its speed and rhythm varying by the type of tree. Sunlight reflected off the lustrous camellia leaves, whose angles shifted from moment to moment. Vines of maple-leaf mountain yam wound around the cryptomeria trunks and climbed them to distant heights, swaying like swing ropes.鈥�
As I was reading this I was also 'reunited' with a friend that I lost touch with for more/less a couple of years which felt like an eternity considering how close we are. The uncanny lies in the moment I (I meant the plane) 'landed' in the country she was in (a fact I wasn't aware of at the time), she instantly reached out to me even though I've not been responding to her texts. When we finally met up (on a later visit), I said I didn't keep in touch because '(adj.) hurt people (verb) hurt', and I didn't like the idea of being a negative presence in her life. Among other lovely things, she replied with something so tender, 'my love for you is unconditional, you know鈥� (debatably a clich茅, but from the right person, it truly hits different). At first I fail to find resonance in Han Kang's portrayal of 'friendship' but the more I read the text, the more things change (or rather, I am the one who is changed).
鈥楽ince that evening, Inseon and I have been friends. We went through all our life milestones together, right up until she moved back to the island鈥攎essaging me at odd moments to tell me she was dropping by. Just do one thing for me? Let me in. And when I did, she would bring her arms around my shoulders, along with a rush of cold wind and the smell of cigarettes鈥擨t feels as though invisible snowflakes fill the space between us. As though the words we鈥檝e swallowed are being sealed in between their myriad melded arms.鈥�
鈥極n the black screen, sporadic points of radiance appeared like ghosts and briefly shimmered: flashes emitted by distant ocean creatures. Occasionally these bioluminescent organisms came into full view on camera, only to emerge back into obscurity. The vertical stretch of sea where the points of light gleamed grew increasingly short. The solid opaque expanse that intersected with it grew overwhelmingly vast. After a while I wondered if the dark was all that remained, but then the camera captured the translucent glow of a giant phantom jellyfish amid what looked like.'
Throughout this year, I was unserious-ly reading books about death and alike without even realising that someone hold dear to heart would have to become so unreachable so suddenly. It's strange to phrase it like so, but I recall strolling the city streets hazy-mindedly in the quiet, too-early mornings (a place I've never been to properly except for when 'transiting flights' which counts for nought in terms of being familiar with it) with another friend who I too hold very close to heart. And he said something to me like 'no offence to the people before, but no 'death' would feel as much or mean as much as this one'. I told him my sentiments echoed his.
One day I'm making another (mutual) friend tear up from guilt from having kept an important secret/info from me (even though he was being a perfectly good friend to another by having done so), the next made him laugh madly when he tells me about how someone we knew from back in school was being inappropriate about a certain matter. I (for a lack of a better phrase) 'understood the mission', and was like don't worry I felt it coming and have very recently asked some to sort it/her out. And I wondered if I was being too 'petty'? But he told me I have every right to be 'petty'. But what does it mean to be 鈥榩etty鈥� or over-sensitive? Why are we made to think that being sterile, deliberately ignorant, and the 鈥榥o fucks given鈥� mask is better? Sure I鈥檓 being biased and subjective about this, but maybe Han Kang鈥檚 鈥榥ovel鈥� already contains those sentiments in the narrative 鈥� tucked in the waves of reverberating tones of histories, memories and raw human feelings. But I was blinded to it, not sensitive to it before because I didn鈥檛 carry the same heart I have during my earlier readings of the text.
Neither I nor my previously mentioned friends have headbutted a tree so far, so at least none of us has gone full-Heathcliff. Heathcliff is not just a character, but an entire vibe. In the second half of Br枚nte鈥檚 novel, he is truly 鈥榞rief鈥� personified. I don鈥檛 think anyone who has a similarly 鈥榙ark鈥� humour can appreciate the magnum opus (or rather just Heathcliff) fully. Another reason her work came to mind was because of how the setting sort of paralleled Han Kang's in terms of isolation, oppression, violence, and among other/more similarities, surely the winter landscapes. said something once along the lines of how some books 鈥榗hoose鈥� you at the right time. While I think 鈥榯iming鈥� is a sadistic fuck far too often, I would like to believe Han Kang鈥檚 book did somehow chose me (for better or worse; but I think for 鈥榖etter鈥� whatever better entails/means) in a similar way that Br枚nte鈥檚 did when I was a clueless child of nine or ten. And in a similar way 鈥� I feel Han Kang feels the same way about softly altering her trajectory of life as a writer and as a person.
鈥樷€攑ine-nut juk鈥擨 took my time with the unduly hot bowl of rice porridge鈥攑eople walked past the window in bodies that looked fragile enough to shatter. Life was exceedingly vulnerable, I realised. The flesh, organs, bones, breaths passing before my eyes all held within them the potential to snap, to cease鈥�.鈥�
鈥楾he twilight pouring into the woods鈥攄arkness grew, the more vividly the vents in the wood-burning stove glowed red. I don鈥檛 know why he hid his illness from me鈥擨nseon started at the bright holes, as if staring hard enough at those gleaming eyes would make words flow out of the stove like molten iron.
We haven鈥檛 parted ways, not yet.鈥�
鈥斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌�
If one can look at a work of literary translation as a transportation of vibes as playfully(?) preached (and also accomplished) by the wonderful Jeremy Tiang (), then I would like for my review to be mostly about vibes (if I can manage that). So I鈥檓 starting it all off with this mini playlist below鈥� a little sonic curation to go with my reviews, why not? In any case, reading this has been the most desperate and chaotic way I鈥檝e ever 鈥榯ried鈥� to read a book/novel, so it would only be appropriate to explain my experience of it all with something as closely desperate and chaotic as possible.
Han Kang鈥檚 historical fiction (I dislike this term, but will have to settle for the low-hanging fruit for now; you鈥檒l know why I鈥檓 not a fan of the term if you like Labatut too) depicts the aftermath/fallout of the Jeju uprising, or rather and simply, the Jeju massacre. About 10% (30,000) of Jeju鈥檚 population was killed, and approximately 15% of the survivors left to find refuge in Japan. Without a doubt a difficult thing to write about, and who else better to write it in the most respectful way than Han Kang? After all, she did brilliantly. That was and still is my favourite Han Kang novel/book. It鈥檚 either that or this. Han Kang's highly sensitive, meticulous way of composing her work/writing is almost unrivalled (or at least a tough contender).
Not a spoiler per say, but the haunting yet silent, cold 鈥榠mage鈥� of the sawed off fingers of one of the characters 鈥� saturated the entire 鈥榤ood鈥� of the novel for me. To me it didn鈥檛 feel like it was just being introduced early/used as something to increase 鈥榮hock value鈥�, but I think there is more to it than that. It was so carefully and cleverly done. I thought it suitable to bring that one up because I thought it one of the highest forms of literary 鈥榓rt鈥� ever crafted. That, juxtaposed with the paragraph about the falling, red camellia petals on snow. Without discounting or disrespecting the beauty of the writing, my personal experience of reading this book, I feel, is almost like walking through an art installation, a living/breathing museum of some kind. This is because it depicts a time in history that I have no connection to, and only know of vaguely. When I think of Jeju, this is definitely not what comes to mind. In fact, (other than it being a go-to 'travel destination', and the legendary women divers) I would actually be reminded of my least distant memory linked to the word and place itself. And that was a very mundane scene of (having just shared a Jeju-grown (allegedly) orange with my mother, and then being vaguely orange-scented entering a shop to quickly buy something) almost bumping into a wavy-haired child in there screaming 鈥業 hate you鈥� (in Korean) repeatedly at a man who is probably his dad; and then the dad and I made meaningless, exhausted eye contact before we went opposite directions and went on with our lives. It all just reminds me of the importance of context; and how each one of us are essentially weavers of our collective memory 鈥� interconnected, interwoven, everlasting 鈥榝abric鈥� of life.
Surely not a book I鈥檒l read only once. For one, the obvious reason 鈥� a brilliant piece of literature, but then also because one of my favourite translators (Emily Yae Won, ) has already gone and translated this particular Han Kang book into English. The publication date is some time in the next year I believe? Call it a lack of patience if you will, but I had to read this. I started with the original Korean text but Han Kang is especially difficult to read (in my opinion, with my deficient familiarity with the Korean language, because for a lack of a better phrase, her writing is akin to something like poetic prose which is something I would adore and appreciate fully in my 鈥榙ominant鈥� language that is English (for better or worse, it just is)). I got the one in Chinese translation because I thought the cover was especially gorgeous. But mostly I read it in French, which should have been my first option anyway if I had been sensible about it. But evidently chaos and desperation dominated my reading experience.
The French translation is by no means a subpar one. It鈥檚 so brilliantly done that it ended up being the finalist for the Prix Femina Etranger 2023; and the winner for the Prix M茅dicis Etranger 2023. The core of the novel, the way I read it/think of it, is an advocate to go against 鈥榝orgetting鈥�. To not stand with the erasure of history (but essentially memory both personal and collective). Because to conveniently/comfortably lean on that and to act on that would be an act of violence (the second act of violence to the first act of violence if there is already one to begin with). Can鈥檛 remember which writer had said this, but the ones who remember more hurt more (and I鈥檓 sure there are many other variations of this said by others). But Han Kang heads on in stronger and illuminates the fact that actually the one who forgets more is the one who hurts others more. The one who is alright with 鈥榝orgetting鈥� is essentially the one who is more tolerant of violence, therefore being the one who sustains the continuance of violence upon others. Nothing to do with amnesia or Alzheimer鈥檚 here, but that should go without saying, but common sense is not so common, or however the clich茅 goes!
Han Kang always makes the focal point of her writing the complexities and beauty of human relationships no matter what it is she writes about or around. Surely someone else must have made the connection, and I鈥檓 not the first one indulging in this revelation, but there is something Sebaldian about Han Kang鈥檚 writing. I鈥檓 thinking of (which I did like, but forgot to catalogue/review, read some time last year) in particular. The emotional and mental fallout of a traumatic event, essentially. So with that lingering thought in mind, I Google-ed 鈥楬an Kang Sebald鈥�, and was led to an article by The Guardian, written by Han Kang, about the 鈥� unsurprisingly, she calls Sebald a writer 鈥榳ho changed her mind鈥� (on what I do not know, perhaps simply in a generally transformative way) 鈥� and she also considers 鈥楾he Emigrants鈥� in particular to be the one she 鈥榗herish(es)鈥� (most of all?). The entire article, I thought to be a thought-provoking and interesting disclosure of her personal thoughts and 鈥榡ourney鈥� as a reader as well as a writer.
If she鈥檚 not the most read one, then Han Kang is surely one of the more often read (South Korean) writers in the Anglosphere (I may have even read somewhere that she鈥檚 more popular or at least read more 鈥榓broad鈥�, or rather 鈥榠n translation鈥� than she is in South Korea), but just imagine how enticing her books will be to fans of Sebald? I do not mean this in a derogatory way (because I, too, am a fan of Sebald). If anything, I only feel a strange and isolated excitement in relation to that. I hope any reader who adores Sebald will give Han Kang a read if they haven鈥檛 already done it. More likely than not that they will appreciate (and even find resonance in) Han Kang鈥檚 work the way I did. But I do specifically mean this one in particular, and also 鈥楬uman Acts鈥� (this, in hindsight, I believe I have under-rated, and should give it another read; I have heard from friends that it is also significantly more 鈥榩rofound鈥� and 鈥榥uanced鈥� in its original, Korean text (but ultimately one can argue that this has to do with an individual preference/taste of literary translation style), but alas I am not so incline towards such acts of biblio-masochism 鈥� to read an entire untranslated Han Kang novel).
And lastly, what strikes me as interesting is how the title of the book is translated slightly differently in every language it has been and will be translated into (which isn鈥檛 anything too extraordinary, but it interests me nonetheless). In English, I believe it has been decided, and will be titled, 鈥榃e Do Not Part鈥�. In Swedish, (to my own understanding) 鈥業 Do Not Say Goodbye鈥�. In Chinese, (again my own 鈥榙irect鈥� understanding of it), 鈥�(To) Forever Not Bid Farewell鈥�. In French, of course, is 鈥業mpossible Goodbyes鈥�, which I feel is the most beautiful translation out of all (and the English one being my least favourite of all 鈥� bit too colloquial to grab a reader鈥檚 attention I would think).
The core 鈥榥ote(s)鈥� of the book (at least the way I read/understand it) is to highlight the importance of the preservation of 鈥榤emories鈥� of violent histories caused by humans upon humans, such as in this case, mass-killings/ a massacre. Some would argue that through this, we would all (as human beings) 鈥榣earn鈥� and refrain from repetition. But evidently, even as I read the book/write my thoughts about it at this moment in time (in different parts of the world) war, massacres and genocides persist. Surely, it makes one think. And perhaps thinking, or rather the persistence of 鈥榟uman thoughts鈥� are those that keep our humanity intact/alive. And this spills over to the 鈥榩hilosophies鈥� of AI (progression/future) in relation to 鈥榗onsciousness鈥� 鈥� about how essentially human 鈥榠magination鈥� is the most 鈥榟uman鈥� thing about being a human.
Not clever enough to go any deeper into that, but I鈥檓 reading by Chen Qiu Fan (who also goes by Stanley Chen) on the side 鈥� and all of that is being touched on/explored brilliantly. Without going on a full-blown tangent here, what I am essentially trying to say is that it is all relevant and related. Not a lack of 鈥榗onscience鈥� (a vague concept that varies slightly/drastically from one person to another) but (more importantly) a lack of 鈥榗onsciousness鈥� is what makes room/a fertile bed for violence (and ultimately poses the largest risk to 鈥榟umanity鈥� especially when including matters such as climate issues as well). And the abundance of evidence makes it all hard to deny. There is also an underlying whiff of 鈥楾ao鈥� (which again I am not clever to go further into but can recommend Ken Liu鈥檚 translation of the text, ). It is a difficult text (at least for me), but luckily there is no shortage of options when it comes to the text in 鈥榯ranslation鈥�. I may be wrong (could鈥檝e easily been another writer) but I am quite sure in one interview, Chen has mentioned that one of the translated texts resonates with him more than the original text (although 鈥楥hinese鈥� is his 鈥榙ominant鈥� language) which I thought was really interesting (bringing it back to the first line of this review, Tiang鈥檚 view on literary translation 鈥� being largely about 鈥榲ibes鈥� 鈥� which is also applicable here). And perhaps if we assume the interchangeability of the word 鈥榬esonate鈥� with 鈥榲ibes鈥� here, then it just means that instead of reading in a single, straightforward manner, to 鈥榲ibe鈥� with a piece of text would be to read with one鈥檚 entire being. And that is not unlike my experience of Han Kang鈥檚 narrative (her historically-leaning ones at least).
February 20, 2025
As will be obvious from the star rating, this did not work for me. The novel has had much greater success with most readers. I found it just okay.
I have nothing but praise for Kang's decision to grapple with the difficult and important subject matter: wartime violence, genocide, cultural destruction, generational trauma, open-ended family loss. Nor will I criticize a Nobel prize-winner's individual style. However, this application of a hazy, poetic narrative to harrowing themes was enervating rather than stimulating.
Truth be told, I was bored much of the time. And the author herself gives voice to my feelings toward the end of the book:
I don't want to open it... No one can force me to wade through those pages. I am under no obligation to comply. But my trembling hands reach out and open the book. I turn page after page.
Snow. Birds. Trees. Snow. Blood. Birds. Trees. Snow.
2.5 stars
I have nothing but praise for Kang's decision to grapple with the difficult and important subject matter: wartime violence, genocide, cultural destruction, generational trauma, open-ended family loss. Nor will I criticize a Nobel prize-winner's individual style. However, this application of a hazy, poetic narrative to harrowing themes was enervating rather than stimulating.
Truth be told, I was bored much of the time. And the author herself gives voice to my feelings toward the end of the book:
I don't want to open it... No one can force me to wade through those pages. I am under no obligation to comply. But my trembling hands reach out and open the book. I turn page after page.
Snow. Birds. Trees. Snow. Blood. Birds. Trees. Snow.
2.5 stars
February 26, 2025
Este es el tercer libro que leo de Han Kang y tambi茅n el que menos me ha gustado. Me encanta como escribe esta autora, pero me parece que despu茅s de tanto que ha escrito, intent贸 cambiar su estilo... y hay algo que se pierde ah铆, todav铆a no tengo muy claro lo que es.
November 1, 2024
Here is another one of Han Kang's books that inspires a passionate review and recommendation, but leaves me gripped with mournful introspection.
We Do Not Part is an ode to friendship, sisterhood, motherhood, and the circular remembrances that connect us to both suffering and survival. The book is divided into three parts, detailing (on the surface) the story of a troubled young woman who travels to Jeju Island to save her injured friend's beloved pet bird, and ends up unpacking the gruesome circumstances of the . Han Kang is well-versed in recounting tragedies and massacres that are forgotten by history (at least outside Korea) in beautiful, poetic, evocative prose. Her writing goes beyond evocative to hypnotic in this work, with the veil between reality and dreams drawn back in an experimental narrative that could have become nonsensical quickly but ended up poignant as it tied together all the threads of the story. Ultimately, the story pierced through my heart, and I know this is one I would go beyond recommending to others. I know I will reread this someday and try to divine meaning through its superbly translated text again.
4.5/5 stars rounded up. A compelling read, repetitive at times, hard-hitting at times. I might like this better than Human Acts, and both can be read as companion novels. No wonder these novels resulted in a Nobel for the author.
Thanks to Netgalley and Random House Publishing Group for a copy of the ARC in exchange for an honest review! We Do Not Part is being published in the US on Jan 21, 2025.
We Do Not Part is an ode to friendship, sisterhood, motherhood, and the circular remembrances that connect us to both suffering and survival. The book is divided into three parts, detailing (on the surface) the story of a troubled young woman who travels to Jeju Island to save her injured friend's beloved pet bird, and ends up unpacking the gruesome circumstances of the . Han Kang is well-versed in recounting tragedies and massacres that are forgotten by history (at least outside Korea) in beautiful, poetic, evocative prose. Her writing goes beyond evocative to hypnotic in this work, with the veil between reality and dreams drawn back in an experimental narrative that could have become nonsensical quickly but ended up poignant as it tied together all the threads of the story. Ultimately, the story pierced through my heart, and I know this is one I would go beyond recommending to others. I know I will reread this someday and try to divine meaning through its superbly translated text again.
4.5/5 stars rounded up. A compelling read, repetitive at times, hard-hitting at times. I might like this better than Human Acts, and both can be read as companion novels. No wonder these novels resulted in a Nobel for the author.
Thanks to Netgalley and Random House Publishing Group for a copy of the ARC in exchange for an honest review! We Do Not Part is being published in the US on Jan 21, 2025.
March 2, 2025
4鈽�
鈥淪tooped and listing, they gave the impression of a thousand men, women and haggard children huddling in the snow.
Was this a graveyard? I wondered. Are these gravestones?鈥�
This is part of Kyungha鈥檚 dream, which is based on a dream the author had that inspired this book. The entire opening segment is almost exactly how the author recounted her dream in an NPR interview.
In the story, Kyungha says she dreamed this not long after her book about a massacre was published. She is suffering in sweltering summer heat with broken air conditioning, and when she finally sleeps, she鈥檚 dreaming snowy scenes that she thinks might be from her future. She sees the tide encroaching on the 鈥榞ravestones鈥� and sites of bones that will be washed away.
Awake, she is so hot that she considers ending her life.
鈥�The previous summer, as my private life began to crumble like a sugar cube dropped in water, back when the real partings that were to follow were only a premonition, I鈥檇 written a story titled 鈥楩补谤别飞别濒濒鈥�, a story about a woman of snow who melts away under sleet. But that can鈥檛 be my actual, final farewell.鈥�
She falls asleep on the floor only to dream so strongly of snow and the 鈥榞raves鈥� that she knows she can鈥檛 give up 鈥� she has to do something about them.
Summer ends, and Kyungha is surprised by a text message from her close friend, Inseon, saying only her name: 鈥楰测耻苍驳丑补鈥�. When she texts back, asking if everything is all right, she receives only: 鈥楥an you come right away?鈥�
Inseon is a filmmaker with a focus on women and war, and the two young women have been planning to do a project together one day, making logs into standing 鈥渢orsos鈥� representing those who were massacred during WWII.
Inseon is now in a Seoul hospital, requiring urgent, continued care, and she presses Kyungha to please please please go to the little village on the island of Jeju where Inseon lives to save her last adored bird and stay in the house until Inseon is released.
The book opens with unbearable heat and moves to an almost unbelievable cold, all with an eerie, moody, haunting quality. There are dreamlike sequences that seem real to Kyungha.
In her NPR interview, Han Kang explains why there was such focus on snow.
鈥淪now; It falls between the sky and the earth and connecting the both. And it falls between the living and the dead, between light and darkness, between silence and memories. And I thought of the connection, the circular flow of water and air. We are all connected over this earth so I had this image of the snow. I wanted the snow to fall from beginning to end and I wanted even my characters to enter into that dream of snow.鈥�
There is a lot of history 鈥� of which I admit I am ignorant. There are stories of horrifying massacres, people hiding in caves in the hills, the sorts of awful stories I鈥檓 more familiar with from Europe during WWII.
Her writing is absolutely compelling. I haven鈥檛 read any of her other work, but I have some idea of why the Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to her.
The facts, the history, the descriptions, the dreamlike quality and moodiness are beautifully drawn, well worth five stars. But 鈥� and for me it is a big 鈥榖ut鈥� - sadly, I was never invested in the characters and their story.
Thanks to #NetGalley and Penguin UK for a copy of #WeDoNotPart for review.
The NPR interview the author:
p.s. 欧宝娱乐 friend Barb has posted a terrific review with illustrations which really help describe the mood and feeling of the story.
/review/show...
鈥淪tooped and listing, they gave the impression of a thousand men, women and haggard children huddling in the snow.
Was this a graveyard? I wondered. Are these gravestones?鈥�
This is part of Kyungha鈥檚 dream, which is based on a dream the author had that inspired this book. The entire opening segment is almost exactly how the author recounted her dream in an NPR interview.
In the story, Kyungha says she dreamed this not long after her book about a massacre was published. She is suffering in sweltering summer heat with broken air conditioning, and when she finally sleeps, she鈥檚 dreaming snowy scenes that she thinks might be from her future. She sees the tide encroaching on the 鈥榞ravestones鈥� and sites of bones that will be washed away.
Awake, she is so hot that she considers ending her life.
鈥�The previous summer, as my private life began to crumble like a sugar cube dropped in water, back when the real partings that were to follow were only a premonition, I鈥檇 written a story titled 鈥楩补谤别飞别濒濒鈥�, a story about a woman of snow who melts away under sleet. But that can鈥檛 be my actual, final farewell.鈥�
She falls asleep on the floor only to dream so strongly of snow and the 鈥榞raves鈥� that she knows she can鈥檛 give up 鈥� she has to do something about them.
Summer ends, and Kyungha is surprised by a text message from her close friend, Inseon, saying only her name: 鈥楰测耻苍驳丑补鈥�. When she texts back, asking if everything is all right, she receives only: 鈥楥an you come right away?鈥�
Inseon is a filmmaker with a focus on women and war, and the two young women have been planning to do a project together one day, making logs into standing 鈥渢orsos鈥� representing those who were massacred during WWII.
Inseon is now in a Seoul hospital, requiring urgent, continued care, and she presses Kyungha to please please please go to the little village on the island of Jeju where Inseon lives to save her last adored bird and stay in the house until Inseon is released.
The book opens with unbearable heat and moves to an almost unbelievable cold, all with an eerie, moody, haunting quality. There are dreamlike sequences that seem real to Kyungha.
In her NPR interview, Han Kang explains why there was such focus on snow.
鈥淪now; It falls between the sky and the earth and connecting the both. And it falls between the living and the dead, between light and darkness, between silence and memories. And I thought of the connection, the circular flow of water and air. We are all connected over this earth so I had this image of the snow. I wanted the snow to fall from beginning to end and I wanted even my characters to enter into that dream of snow.鈥�
There is a lot of history 鈥� of which I admit I am ignorant. There are stories of horrifying massacres, people hiding in caves in the hills, the sorts of awful stories I鈥檓 more familiar with from Europe during WWII.
Her writing is absolutely compelling. I haven鈥檛 read any of her other work, but I have some idea of why the Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to her.
The facts, the history, the descriptions, the dreamlike quality and moodiness are beautifully drawn, well worth five stars. But 鈥� and for me it is a big 鈥榖ut鈥� - sadly, I was never invested in the characters and their story.
Thanks to #NetGalley and Penguin UK for a copy of #WeDoNotPart for review.
The NPR interview the author:
p.s. 欧宝娱乐 friend Barb has posted a terrific review with illustrations which really help describe the mood and feeling of the story.
/review/show...
November 12, 2024
I took far too long to read Kang鈥檚 historical fiction masterpiece, set in South Korea. I started it in September or early October, and fell off the reading cliff into mud. It鈥檚 been a rough few months for me, but I was consistently eager to get back each time to Kang鈥檚 characters, and to what two friends will do when faced with urgency and disaster.
Han Kang is the latest Nobel Prize writer winner, and you feel the gravitas of this kind of award right at the beginning of the book. And how well-deserved it is. I was riveted from first page to last-- the pile-up of tragedies avoided gratuitous narrative, the attempt to manage memories was front and center, and the successes and failures hard. It鈥檚 as if Kang witnessed these events herself, and I felt them viscerally as a reader.
An observer, that鈥檚 who Kang and her characters are, even if she and they lived in a different era. Kang animated the buried, breathed oxygen into what was hidden. Her themes about history are to share it. Covering up, erasing dark times is no way to stop it from happening again. She nails it with no platitudes or false sentiment.
I noticed the word 鈥渃leave鈥� used a lot in the story, the one word that means two opposing actions. It鈥檚 a word I notice when it is present, and Kang had to be purposeful. Check it out each time you read it; it is usually during a high intensity development that it is placed in a sentence.
This author nourishes themes of friendship, of sisterhood love (although the two women aren鈥檛 blood related). Crisis stems from injury and subtly tests their relationship. Then it evolves or devolves into an historical nightmare--an epic, tortuous narrative of a time when people died protecting their place in the world. Ordinary heroes, unsung heroes, but also slaughtered victims. The ones who didn鈥檛 die were left to tell the story of their ancestor鈥檚 tragedies. Oppression, then repression, and, over a half-century later, the buried are revealed.
The two friends, Kyungha and Inseon, tried to find the dead bodies when burial sites are upended during a climate catastrophe. But it鈥檚 a rough landscape.
What will people do to their fellow humans? In the name of genocide, a human construct made to extinguish rather than distinguish ourselves. This is the kind of writing that wins me over. I could select any page and find a beautifully written passage.
鈥淲hat if you and I were to plant logs in a field, dress them in black ink and film them under falling snow?鈥�
All that will make sense as a metaphor to genocide, to harrowing torture in a flux of time. We are in a terrifying era at this moment. When I read about other traumas in history, I try to reach out in some retrospective way. Reading the passionate words of an elegant writer was just the right thing for this moment.
Han Kang is the latest Nobel Prize writer winner, and you feel the gravitas of this kind of award right at the beginning of the book. And how well-deserved it is. I was riveted from first page to last-- the pile-up of tragedies avoided gratuitous narrative, the attempt to manage memories was front and center, and the successes and failures hard. It鈥檚 as if Kang witnessed these events herself, and I felt them viscerally as a reader.
An observer, that鈥檚 who Kang and her characters are, even if she and they lived in a different era. Kang animated the buried, breathed oxygen into what was hidden. Her themes about history are to share it. Covering up, erasing dark times is no way to stop it from happening again. She nails it with no platitudes or false sentiment.
I noticed the word 鈥渃leave鈥� used a lot in the story, the one word that means two opposing actions. It鈥檚 a word I notice when it is present, and Kang had to be purposeful. Check it out each time you read it; it is usually during a high intensity development that it is placed in a sentence.
This author nourishes themes of friendship, of sisterhood love (although the two women aren鈥檛 blood related). Crisis stems from injury and subtly tests their relationship. Then it evolves or devolves into an historical nightmare--an epic, tortuous narrative of a time when people died protecting their place in the world. Ordinary heroes, unsung heroes, but also slaughtered victims. The ones who didn鈥檛 die were left to tell the story of their ancestor鈥檚 tragedies. Oppression, then repression, and, over a half-century later, the buried are revealed.
The two friends, Kyungha and Inseon, tried to find the dead bodies when burial sites are upended during a climate catastrophe. But it鈥檚 a rough landscape.
What will people do to their fellow humans? In the name of genocide, a human construct made to extinguish rather than distinguish ourselves. This is the kind of writing that wins me over. I could select any page and find a beautifully written passage.
鈥淲hat if you and I were to plant logs in a field, dress them in black ink and film them under falling snow?鈥�
All that will make sense as a metaphor to genocide, to harrowing torture in a flux of time. We are in a terrifying era at this moment. When I read about other traumas in history, I try to reach out in some retrospective way. Reading the passionate words of an elegant writer was just the right thing for this moment.
Read
December 5, 2024105th book of 2024.
One of those books that feels impossible to give an arbitrary rating to. On the one hand, Kang has written an incredibly deft novel about the Jeju Massacre in 1948, on the other, she has written an abstract novel that reads like sand falling through your fingers. Considering the novel's 400 page weight, there's not much to be said about where the pages go: a large swathe of the novel details the narrator waiting at a bus stop in a snowstorm, then walking through the snow, in the attempt to save her friend's budgie. The final hundred pages or so details the dreamlike investigation into her friend's family history and the Jeju Uprising. It is a book full of quiet but poignant images: a budgie hushing as soon as a cover is thrown over its cage, endless snowfall, shadows moving on walls, logs of wood painted black, a bus crawling through the snowstorm, missing fingers... These images all drift, like a snowstorm itself, and carry us through the incredibly weightless narrative. Like the movie in the novel that is planned but never made, the novel reads like an assortment of slides or images, hauntingly quiet, that flicker before your eyes. I can't say I 'liked' the book; I was unnerved by it, sometimes confused by it, but ultimately impressed by Kang's ability to write a novel about this diabolical historical event in a seemingly directionless and airy narrative. What persists in my mind most of all are the black logs standing in the snow, the shadows on the walls and the silencing of a bird.
Thank you to Penguin for the advance copy for review. We Do Not Part is published in English in the UK in February 2025.
One of those books that feels impossible to give an arbitrary rating to. On the one hand, Kang has written an incredibly deft novel about the Jeju Massacre in 1948, on the other, she has written an abstract novel that reads like sand falling through your fingers. Considering the novel's 400 page weight, there's not much to be said about where the pages go: a large swathe of the novel details the narrator waiting at a bus stop in a snowstorm, then walking through the snow, in the attempt to save her friend's budgie. The final hundred pages or so details the dreamlike investigation into her friend's family history and the Jeju Uprising. It is a book full of quiet but poignant images: a budgie hushing as soon as a cover is thrown over its cage, endless snowfall, shadows moving on walls, logs of wood painted black, a bus crawling through the snowstorm, missing fingers... These images all drift, like a snowstorm itself, and carry us through the incredibly weightless narrative. Like the movie in the novel that is planned but never made, the novel reads like an assortment of slides or images, hauntingly quiet, that flicker before your eyes. I can't say I 'liked' the book; I was unnerved by it, sometimes confused by it, but ultimately impressed by Kang's ability to write a novel about this diabolical historical event in a seemingly directionless and airy narrative. What persists in my mind most of all are the black logs standing in the snow, the shadows on the walls and the silencing of a bird.
Thank you to Penguin for the advance copy for review. We Do Not Part is published in English in the UK in February 2025.
Read
January 30, 2025This is my first Han Kang book, and I will mostly remember it for the symbolic snow from start to finish. One of nature's most common features, yet here used so many artful ways. That aspect alone tells you it's a work of literary fiction to be reckoned with. Not easy. Demanding your attention. It jumps between characters, location, time. It brings to life a previously unknown page of history (to me), the massacre of people on the island of Jeju at the hands of the US-backed South Korean government. This in 1948.
In addition to the compellingly gruesome descriptions from history, we get the gentle pages depicting a special friendship between two women collaborating on a project called "We Do Not Part." One of them, Inseon, owns birds, who fly up to meet snowflakes pouring down for a special symbolic place in this book. Han Kang is not afraid of walking a line between dream or delusion and reality, either. At times, we lose the compass of reality and wonder when and why it has been placed back in our hands.
Probably a book worth revisiting some year in that it's sure to give more on subsequent readings. Strange that January is almost gone and this is my first completed book, apparently, but maybe fitting. Some dinners are best appreciated deliberately. One doesn't read this book quickly for entertainment, in other words.
In addition to the compellingly gruesome descriptions from history, we get the gentle pages depicting a special friendship between two women collaborating on a project called "We Do Not Part." One of them, Inseon, owns birds, who fly up to meet snowflakes pouring down for a special symbolic place in this book. Han Kang is not afraid of walking a line between dream or delusion and reality, either. At times, we lose the compass of reality and wonder when and why it has been placed back in our hands.
Probably a book worth revisiting some year in that it's sure to give more on subsequent readings. Strange that January is almost gone and this is my first completed book, apparently, but maybe fitting. Some dinners are best appreciated deliberately. One doesn't read this book quickly for entertainment, in other words.
July 7, 2024
Devletlerin utan莽lar谋n谋n faturas谋n谋 d眉nyan谋n neresinde olursa olsun hep bireyler 枚d眉yor. 脺stelik ku艧aklar boyu aktar谋lan bir travmayla. 鈥溑瀠 karanl谋臒谋 delip ge莽mek m眉mk眉n m眉d眉r ki?鈥� Hala her g眉n t眉m d眉nyan谋n g枚z眉 枚n眉nde yap谋lan i艧kencelere, k谋y谋mlara 艧ahit olurken ve g眉n眉n sonunda kaybedenin sadece sivil halk oldu臒unu bile bile ya艧amaya nas谋l devam eder insan? Han Kang鈥櫮眓 莽abas谋n谋 bu anlamda 莽ok k谋ymetli buluyorum. Her kitab谋 bir tokat, her kitab谋 ayr谋 bir sayg谋 duru艧u. Ne yazsa kalbimden vuruyor zaten istisnas谋z.
艦imdilerde bir tatil adas谋 olarak bilinen Jeju Adas谋鈥檔a gidiyoruz bu sefer. Adan谋n 莽ok de臒il yetmi艧 y谋l 枚nce b眉y眉k bir toplu katliama ev sahipli臒i yapm谋艧 olmas谋 ne tuhaf. Tuhaf kelimesi tabii sakil kal谋yor ya艧ananlar谋 ve rakamlar谋 d眉艧眉n眉nce. B枚yle yazarken yaln谋zca bir rakamdan ibaret olan ki艧ilerin 莽oluk 莽ocuk, kad谋n erkek yakla艧谋k otuz bin ki艧i olmas谋 da 枚yle sakil i艧te. Adan谋n n眉fusunun y眉zde onundan bahsediyoruz. D眉艧眉nebiliyor musunuz? Su莽lar谋 kom眉nist olmak. Sanki hi莽bir 艧ey olmam谋艧 gibi insanlar谋 gruplar halinde 枚ld眉r眉p denizde gel gite b谋rakm谋艧lar, maden oyuklar谋na itmi艧ler.
鈥溎皀san insana ne yaparsa yaps谋n art谋k daha fazla 艧a艧谋rmayacakm谋艧谋m gibi gelen bir durum鈥� Kalbimin derinliklerinden bir 艧eylerin 莽oktan s枚k眉l眉p at谋ld谋臒谋, a莽谋lan bo艧lu臒u 谋slatarak 莽谋kan kan谋n art谋k k谋rm谋z谋 olmad谋臒谋, daha fazla 艧iddetle f谋艧k谋rmad谋臒谋 ve parampar莽a kesikte ancak teslimiyetin durdurabilece臒i bir ac谋n谋n titre艧ti臒i bir durum鈥�.鈥�
Bu ay谋p sonsuza kadar s眉rebilirmi艧 gibi diriyken rahat vermedikleri insanlar谋n 枚l眉lerine de rahat vermemi艧ler. Ada halk谋n谋n 枚l眉lerini anmak i莽in dikti臒i an谋t谋 60鈥檒arda y谋km谋艧lar, 78鈥檇e katliam谋 anlatan bir roman谋 yasaklay谋p yazar谋n谋 da hapse atm谋艧lar. 艦眉phesiz hakk谋nda yazmas谋 bir莽ok y枚n眉yle zor bir konu. Fakat bunu bu kad谋ndan ba艧ka b枚yle dokunakl谋, kimseyi incitmeden tokatlayarak kim anlatabilirdi bilmiyorum. Hem ki艧isel hem kolektif haf谋zam谋za bir 莽ivi gibi 莽ak谋yor t眉m sat谋rlar谋. G眉nlerdir kafam谋n i莽inde say谋klamalar halinde d枚n眉p dolan谋yor yazd谋klar谋. Bu kadar ac谋, bunca ahla nas谋l d枚n眉yor bu d眉nya. Tam da benim s谋k s谋k kendi kendime kurdu臒um 艧u c眉mleyi kuruyor kitab谋n bir yerinde: 鈥溎皀an谋lmaz olan, g眉ne艧in her g眉n yeniden do臒mas谋yd谋.鈥�
En etkilendi臒im yanlar谋ndan biri de hep oldu臒u gibi karakterin akl谋 kar谋艧t谋ka benim de kafam谋n bulanmas谋, yazar谋n bir 艧ekilde t眉m o ac谋lar谋 okura da hissettiriyor olmas谋. Kitab谋n ilgin莽 yanlar谋ndan biri de tekrar okunmak i莽in adeta okuru 莽a臒谋rmas谋. Bitireli birka莽 g眉n olmas谋na ra臒men elime ald谋臒谋m her farkl谋 kitapta tekrar beni 莽a臒谋r谋yor sanki. Orman akl谋ma d眉艧眉yor, a臒a莽lar, karakterler, ac谋lar. Kitaptaki orman谋n Gyongha鈥檡谋 莽a臒谋rmas谋 gibi鈥� Han Kang ne yazarsa yazs谋n insan谋n karma艧谋kl谋klar谋n谋, travmalar谋n谋 ve yaralar谋n谋 莽ok sa臒lam anlat谋yor. Dilerim ya艧ayanlar谋n谋n da 枚lenlerinin de ruhu huzur bulur bu topraklar谋n.
Temmuzun bu 莽谋lg谋n s谋ca臒谋nda sizi sanki karlar alt谋nda kalm谋艧 gibi 眉艧眉tecek, zihninizin bir an bile susmas谋na izin vermeden okuyaca臒谋n谋z bu roman谋 ka莽谋rmaman谋z谋 枚neririm.
艦imdilerde bir tatil adas谋 olarak bilinen Jeju Adas谋鈥檔a gidiyoruz bu sefer. Adan谋n 莽ok de臒il yetmi艧 y谋l 枚nce b眉y眉k bir toplu katliama ev sahipli臒i yapm谋艧 olmas谋 ne tuhaf. Tuhaf kelimesi tabii sakil kal谋yor ya艧ananlar谋 ve rakamlar谋 d眉艧眉n眉nce. B枚yle yazarken yaln谋zca bir rakamdan ibaret olan ki艧ilerin 莽oluk 莽ocuk, kad谋n erkek yakla艧谋k otuz bin ki艧i olmas谋 da 枚yle sakil i艧te. Adan谋n n眉fusunun y眉zde onundan bahsediyoruz. D眉艧眉nebiliyor musunuz? Su莽lar谋 kom眉nist olmak. Sanki hi莽bir 艧ey olmam谋艧 gibi insanlar谋 gruplar halinde 枚ld眉r眉p denizde gel gite b谋rakm谋艧lar, maden oyuklar谋na itmi艧ler.
鈥溎皀san insana ne yaparsa yaps谋n art谋k daha fazla 艧a艧谋rmayacakm谋艧谋m gibi gelen bir durum鈥� Kalbimin derinliklerinden bir 艧eylerin 莽oktan s枚k眉l眉p at谋ld谋臒谋, a莽谋lan bo艧lu臒u 谋slatarak 莽谋kan kan谋n art谋k k谋rm谋z谋 olmad谋臒谋, daha fazla 艧iddetle f谋艧k谋rmad谋臒谋 ve parampar莽a kesikte ancak teslimiyetin durdurabilece臒i bir ac谋n谋n titre艧ti臒i bir durum鈥�.鈥�
Bu ay谋p sonsuza kadar s眉rebilirmi艧 gibi diriyken rahat vermedikleri insanlar谋n 枚l眉lerine de rahat vermemi艧ler. Ada halk谋n谋n 枚l眉lerini anmak i莽in dikti臒i an谋t谋 60鈥檒arda y谋km谋艧lar, 78鈥檇e katliam谋 anlatan bir roman谋 yasaklay谋p yazar谋n谋 da hapse atm谋艧lar. 艦眉phesiz hakk谋nda yazmas谋 bir莽ok y枚n眉yle zor bir konu. Fakat bunu bu kad谋ndan ba艧ka b枚yle dokunakl谋, kimseyi incitmeden tokatlayarak kim anlatabilirdi bilmiyorum. Hem ki艧isel hem kolektif haf谋zam谋za bir 莽ivi gibi 莽ak谋yor t眉m sat谋rlar谋. G眉nlerdir kafam谋n i莽inde say谋klamalar halinde d枚n眉p dolan谋yor yazd谋klar谋. Bu kadar ac谋, bunca ahla nas谋l d枚n眉yor bu d眉nya. Tam da benim s谋k s谋k kendi kendime kurdu臒um 艧u c眉mleyi kuruyor kitab谋n bir yerinde: 鈥溎皀an谋lmaz olan, g眉ne艧in her g眉n yeniden do臒mas谋yd谋.鈥�
En etkilendi臒im yanlar谋ndan biri de hep oldu臒u gibi karakterin akl谋 kar谋艧t谋ka benim de kafam谋n bulanmas谋, yazar谋n bir 艧ekilde t眉m o ac谋lar谋 okura da hissettiriyor olmas谋. Kitab谋n ilgin莽 yanlar谋ndan biri de tekrar okunmak i莽in adeta okuru 莽a臒谋rmas谋. Bitireli birka莽 g眉n olmas谋na ra臒men elime ald谋臒谋m her farkl谋 kitapta tekrar beni 莽a臒谋r谋yor sanki. Orman akl谋ma d眉艧眉yor, a臒a莽lar, karakterler, ac谋lar. Kitaptaki orman谋n Gyongha鈥檡谋 莽a臒谋rmas谋 gibi鈥� Han Kang ne yazarsa yazs谋n insan谋n karma艧谋kl谋klar谋n谋, travmalar谋n谋 ve yaralar谋n谋 莽ok sa臒lam anlat谋yor. Dilerim ya艧ayanlar谋n谋n da 枚lenlerinin de ruhu huzur bulur bu topraklar谋n.
Temmuzun bu 莽谋lg谋n s谋ca臒谋nda sizi sanki karlar alt谋nda kalm谋艧 gibi 眉艧眉tecek, zihninizin bir an bile susmas谋na izin vermeden okuyaca臒谋n谋z bu roman谋 ka莽谋rmaman谋z谋 枚neririm.
February 27, 2025
In We Do Not Part, friends Inseon and Kyungha have previously agreed to collaborate on a project but they鈥檝e not seen one other in the past year nor worked on their project.
Kyungha lives in Seoul and Inseon on the island of Jeju.
Inseon becomes hospitalized in Seoul and asks her friend to travel to the island to look after her pet bird, Ama. She had enough food and water to last two days and it鈥檚 the second day when Kyungha makes the trip.
There is a terrific snowstorm and during the trek things in the book become fuzzy between reality, the spiritual world, the past, and the present.
Han Kang鈥檚 novel deals with generational trauma from the 4.3 massacre on Jeju in 1948 as well as the 1980 Gwangju Uprising. The past is a character itself in a way. It plays a huge part in the present.
Pain鈥攑hysical and from memories鈥攊s also a significant factor to the story.
This is not an easy work to describe, and I know I鈥檝e not read a novel like this before. Han Kang forces the reader to slow down; to disengage from one's own reality and to step into the ethereal realm.
Reading We Do Not Part was an evocative and memorable experience. I鈥檓 so grateful that my friend Kim invited me to a buddy read for this book. You can read her thoughtful review here
Kyungha lives in Seoul and Inseon on the island of Jeju.
Inseon becomes hospitalized in Seoul and asks her friend to travel to the island to look after her pet bird, Ama. She had enough food and water to last two days and it鈥檚 the second day when Kyungha makes the trip.
There is a terrific snowstorm and during the trek things in the book become fuzzy between reality, the spiritual world, the past, and the present.
Han Kang鈥檚 novel deals with generational trauma from the 4.3 massacre on Jeju in 1948 as well as the 1980 Gwangju Uprising. The past is a character itself in a way. It plays a huge part in the present.
Pain鈥攑hysical and from memories鈥攊s also a significant factor to the story.
This is not an easy work to describe, and I know I鈥檝e not read a novel like this before. Han Kang forces the reader to slow down; to disengage from one's own reality and to step into the ethereal realm.
Reading We Do Not Part was an evocative and memorable experience. I鈥檓 so grateful that my friend Kim invited me to a buddy read for this book. You can read her thoughtful review here
January 22, 2025
2,5*
Apercebi-me de que a vida era uma coisa extremamente vulner谩vel. A carne, os 贸rg茫os, os ossos, os f么legos que passavam diante dos meus olhos, tinham todos dentro de si o potencial de se quebrar, de cessar 鈥� t茫o facilmente, e bastando uma 煤nica decis茫o.
鈥淒espedidas Imposs铆veis鈥� poderia ser o resultado da jun莽茫o do impressionante 鈥淎tos Humanos鈥� e do decepcionante 鈥淥 Livro Branco鈥�, no entanto, n茫o 茅 t茫o visceral com o primeiro nem t茫o et茅reo como o segundo e da铆 a classifica莽茫o sofr铆vel. Han Kang venceu o Nobel da Literatura de 2024 e, como tal, 茅 a 煤ltima escritora a precisar do meu elogio e ainda bem, porque n茫o tenho nenhum a fazer-lhe excepto o de me ter tornado uma pessoa mais informada, mas isso qualquer livro de n茫o-fic莽茫o o poderia ter competentemente feito sem o embrulhar numa catadupa de compara莽玫es. N茫o 茅 preciso ser-se muito atento para reparar que o 煤nico recurso estil铆stico, o 煤nico adorno liter谩rio, o 煤nico efeito po茅tico que sai da m茫o da autora sul-coreana 茅 a boa da s铆mile. Isso 茅 sinal de uma grande mestria? Para mim, de modo algum.
Borbotos brancos salpicavam as mangas como se fossem gotas de 谩gua. No bolso direito, havia cascas de tangerina que n茫o tinham ainda secado completamente. (鈥�) A luz entrava pela janela, e a neve ca铆a l谩 fora. Em grandes flocos, como p谩ssaros descendo pelo ar em sil锚ncio.
脡 verdade que sou uma leitora muito temperamental, que aquilo que 茅 insignificante para a maioria pode ser uma pedra no meu sapato, e este abuso de analogias sem d煤vida que me condicionou a experi锚ncia, mas n茫o foi a 煤nica circunst芒ncia. H谩 outras de que a autora n茫o tem culpa, que se prendem s贸 comigo, mas s茫o os alicerces de 鈥淒espedidas Imposs铆veis鈥�: os sonhos, os fantasmas, a neve. O que 茅 sonho neste livro? Quem est谩 vivo? Qual 茅 o significado simb贸lico da omnipresente neve? Cada leitor ter谩 a sua interpreta莽茫o e talvez dependa dela o sucesso deste romance.
N茫o sei se 茅 isto que acontece antes de morrermos. Tudo o que alguma vez vivi torna-se cristalino. Nada d贸i j谩. Centenas, milhares de momentos cintilam em un铆ssono, como flocos de neve cujas formas elaboradas s茫o inteiramente vis铆veis. Como isto 茅 poss铆vel, n茫o sei. Todas as minhas dores e alegrias, os desgostos e os amores mais profundos, brilham, n茫o como uma am谩lgama mas num todo constitu铆do por singularidades distintas, cintilando juntas como uma nebulosa gigante.
Kyungha, uma escritora que, 脿 semelhan莽a de Han Kang, publicou um livro sobre o massacre de Gwangju, nunca se conseguiu libertar dos horrores dessa subleva莽茫o e encontra-se num extremo estado de fragilidade psicol贸gica que tamb茅m se manifesta em enxaquecas incapacitantes e pesadelos recorrentes. Quando a sua amiga Inseon, internada devido a um acidente de trabalho, lhe pede que v谩 a sua casa, na ilha de Jeju, para alimentar o seu adorado periquito, Kyungha tem de percorrer a p茅 uma zona rural que mal conhece, sob um forte nev茫o ao anoitecer, a fim de l谩 chegar a tempo de salvar a ave. 脡 a铆 que toma conhecimento do trauma geracional de que sofre a fam铆lia da sua amiga, filha de sobreviventes do massacre de Jeju, que ocorreu entre 1948 e 1954, tendo dizimado cerca de 10% da popula莽茫o da ilha.
Coloquei a m茫o sobre a fotografia dos ossos. Sobre pessoas que j谩 n茫o tinham olhos nem l铆nguas. Sobre pessoas cujos 贸rg茫os e m煤sculos tinham apodrecido. Sobre o que j谩 n茫o era humano 鈥� n茫o. Sobre o que mesmo agora permanecia humano.
脡 curioso que a Coreia do Sul, polida e refulgente como a conhecemos hoje, tenha, como a maioria das na莽玫es, um passado t茫o sangrento e fratricida, e nem me refiro 脿 guerra civil e 脿 divis茫o do pa铆s em dois, mas a tudo o que se passou dentro das suas fronteiras actuais, uma vez mais, vizinhos contra vizinhos. Para perceber o que aconteceu em Jeju 茅 preciso recuar 脿 invas茫o japonesa (1910-1945) e n茫o esquecer a coniv锚ncia dos EUA na supress茫o de tudo o que fossem movimentos de inspira莽茫o comunista, mas o que choca de facto n茫o 茅 a inger锚ncia, porque se tornou comum, s茫o os n煤meros: 300 aldeias e dezenas de milhares de casas destru铆das, 30 mil mortos atirados ao mar, para grutas, para valas comuns.
Viro p谩gina ap贸s p谩gina de fotografias que mostram restos de esqueletos que foram separados e distribu铆dos por enormes cestos de pl谩stico: milhares de t铆bias. Milhares de cr芒nios. Dezenas de milhares de costelas.
Apercebi-me de que a vida era uma coisa extremamente vulner谩vel. A carne, os 贸rg茫os, os ossos, os f么legos que passavam diante dos meus olhos, tinham todos dentro de si o potencial de se quebrar, de cessar 鈥� t茫o facilmente, e bastando uma 煤nica decis茫o.
鈥淒espedidas Imposs铆veis鈥� poderia ser o resultado da jun莽茫o do impressionante 鈥淎tos Humanos鈥� e do decepcionante 鈥淥 Livro Branco鈥�, no entanto, n茫o 茅 t茫o visceral com o primeiro nem t茫o et茅reo como o segundo e da铆 a classifica莽茫o sofr铆vel. Han Kang venceu o Nobel da Literatura de 2024 e, como tal, 茅 a 煤ltima escritora a precisar do meu elogio e ainda bem, porque n茫o tenho nenhum a fazer-lhe excepto o de me ter tornado uma pessoa mais informada, mas isso qualquer livro de n茫o-fic莽茫o o poderia ter competentemente feito sem o embrulhar numa catadupa de compara莽玫es. N茫o 茅 preciso ser-se muito atento para reparar que o 煤nico recurso estil铆stico, o 煤nico adorno liter谩rio, o 煤nico efeito po茅tico que sai da m茫o da autora sul-coreana 茅 a boa da s铆mile. Isso 茅 sinal de uma grande mestria? Para mim, de modo algum.
Borbotos brancos salpicavam as mangas como se fossem gotas de 谩gua. No bolso direito, havia cascas de tangerina que n茫o tinham ainda secado completamente. (鈥�) A luz entrava pela janela, e a neve ca铆a l谩 fora. Em grandes flocos, como p谩ssaros descendo pelo ar em sil锚ncio.
脡 verdade que sou uma leitora muito temperamental, que aquilo que 茅 insignificante para a maioria pode ser uma pedra no meu sapato, e este abuso de analogias sem d煤vida que me condicionou a experi锚ncia, mas n茫o foi a 煤nica circunst芒ncia. H谩 outras de que a autora n茫o tem culpa, que se prendem s贸 comigo, mas s茫o os alicerces de 鈥淒espedidas Imposs铆veis鈥�: os sonhos, os fantasmas, a neve. O que 茅 sonho neste livro? Quem est谩 vivo? Qual 茅 o significado simb贸lico da omnipresente neve? Cada leitor ter谩 a sua interpreta莽茫o e talvez dependa dela o sucesso deste romance.
N茫o sei se 茅 isto que acontece antes de morrermos. Tudo o que alguma vez vivi torna-se cristalino. Nada d贸i j谩. Centenas, milhares de momentos cintilam em un铆ssono, como flocos de neve cujas formas elaboradas s茫o inteiramente vis铆veis. Como isto 茅 poss铆vel, n茫o sei. Todas as minhas dores e alegrias, os desgostos e os amores mais profundos, brilham, n茫o como uma am谩lgama mas num todo constitu铆do por singularidades distintas, cintilando juntas como uma nebulosa gigante.
Kyungha, uma escritora que, 脿 semelhan莽a de Han Kang, publicou um livro sobre o massacre de Gwangju, nunca se conseguiu libertar dos horrores dessa subleva莽茫o e encontra-se num extremo estado de fragilidade psicol贸gica que tamb茅m se manifesta em enxaquecas incapacitantes e pesadelos recorrentes. Quando a sua amiga Inseon, internada devido a um acidente de trabalho, lhe pede que v谩 a sua casa, na ilha de Jeju, para alimentar o seu adorado periquito, Kyungha tem de percorrer a p茅 uma zona rural que mal conhece, sob um forte nev茫o ao anoitecer, a fim de l谩 chegar a tempo de salvar a ave. 脡 a铆 que toma conhecimento do trauma geracional de que sofre a fam铆lia da sua amiga, filha de sobreviventes do massacre de Jeju, que ocorreu entre 1948 e 1954, tendo dizimado cerca de 10% da popula莽茫o da ilha.
Coloquei a m茫o sobre a fotografia dos ossos. Sobre pessoas que j谩 n茫o tinham olhos nem l铆nguas. Sobre pessoas cujos 贸rg茫os e m煤sculos tinham apodrecido. Sobre o que j谩 n茫o era humano 鈥� n茫o. Sobre o que mesmo agora permanecia humano.
脡 curioso que a Coreia do Sul, polida e refulgente como a conhecemos hoje, tenha, como a maioria das na莽玫es, um passado t茫o sangrento e fratricida, e nem me refiro 脿 guerra civil e 脿 divis茫o do pa铆s em dois, mas a tudo o que se passou dentro das suas fronteiras actuais, uma vez mais, vizinhos contra vizinhos. Para perceber o que aconteceu em Jeju 茅 preciso recuar 脿 invas茫o japonesa (1910-1945) e n茫o esquecer a coniv锚ncia dos EUA na supress茫o de tudo o que fossem movimentos de inspira莽茫o comunista, mas o que choca de facto n茫o 茅 a inger锚ncia, porque se tornou comum, s茫o os n煤meros: 300 aldeias e dezenas de milhares de casas destru铆das, 30 mil mortos atirados ao mar, para grutas, para valas comuns.
Viro p谩gina ap贸s p谩gina de fotografias que mostram restos de esqueletos que foram separados e distribu铆dos por enormes cestos de pl谩stico: milhares de t铆bias. Milhares de cr芒nios. Dezenas de milhares de costelas.
March 30, 2025
Wow. There is so much to dissect in this book. I'm so grateful it was translated since my abilities in Korean language probably peaked out at a fourth-grade level.
There are multiple government-sanctioned atrocities underpinning the book, both in times of war and "peace," like the abuse of Vietnamese women by Korean soldiers, the kidnapping and repeated and violent rape of Korean women by Japanese soldiers, and the government massacres in Gwangju, Jeju, and Bodo. All of these marks in history involved the forced separation of family and the trauma passed down from generation to generation, along with all the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual ailments that accompanied them. The majority of the book focuses on the Jeju uprising and its subsequent squashing, but in all three cases of government massacre, it was only with the aid, approval, and participation of the US government that they were done. This is a big reason why I tell people that the Korean government is a mere puppet of the US government and that we've long since been politically annexed. (Yes, I'm resentful, even as a US citizen.) The focus of the book on all these atrocities is to emphasize the need for national processing trauma and its reconciliation in order to heal and come to terms with its violent past.
This very important and necessary step is also why I believe the US is in the state that it's in - it's never been held accountable for the genocides, kidnappings, enslavements, and displacements of its own Indigenous and Black peoples. The fact that Jeju is the setting is important in this sense because it has also been the site of historical violence and subjugation of both its indigenous people and its land by Koreans and Japanese, as well as the repression of Jeju language and culture, which is still ongoing by the government and broader culture (e.g., the Indigenous Jeju language is often referred to as unintelligible Korean). By setting the story in Jeju, it's like Kang is trying to bring some truth and reconciliation to its people as well.
There is a known history of the Korean government actively trying to redact its role in these inhumanities, and that's why the documentary filmmaking is so important in the book as well. However, because of the government censorship and the national pain of reliving the trauma, many voices having been forcibly and/or willing silenced, the joint documentary Kyungha and Inseon have been trying to make for years has also been stilted. But through their friendship, the telling and the listening of their personal stories and how they intersect with national history helps bring the truth out into the world in an attempt to undo some of the damage done by years of obfuscation and suppression. It further demonstrates that yes, truth hurts (literally), but that's why the truth will set you free.
Unfortunately, I again see a parallel to the same efforts in the US to suppress the truth of its national acts of shame. MAGA, the Daughters of the Confederacy, and other white supremacist groups have systematically been trying to keep the truth hidden by either erasing history or revisioning history to tell a softer tale (did you know the chapters on slavery in most US classroom history books have been written largely by the Daughters of the Confederacy and that they are the ones perpetuating the lies of the Lost Cause, the "peculiar institution," and the states' rights as the primary reason for the Civil War?). This has been going on since colonial days, and it's now being done more actively and more brazenly than it has in a while as Florida removes Rosa Parks from the history books and banning African American studies from its advanced placement high school history classes, as the records of service and contribution of Black and LGBTQ+ veterans (including military luminary Colin Powell) are deleted, as DE&I programs nationwide are being dismantled, as public schools start teaching from the Bible, etc. The point of Kang's book, though, is that national history/historical memories can never really be snuffed out because the truth shall always prevail. There will always be oral history, family records, and other documentation that will always rise to the surface. As long as there are people who are trying to be silenced, these same people will find a way to manifest their voices in another way.
On the topic of truth, I thought it was really clever of Kang to use duality (which is the closest word I can think of) to question what is truth and what is questioned truth. By this, I'm talking about both Inseon and the bird. Are they really with Kyungha in Inseon's apartment, or are they actually elsewhere? Are they as sick/dead as is implied physically, or is it only corporeal in that intergenerational trauma harms the body? All throughout, the themes of Kyungha's dreams indicate a struggle for her voice to be used (as a stand-in for the national voice that must be rediscovered), and her blurred reality is a demonstration of the fluid nature of truth - how is truth determined and whose truth is the right truth, and whose voice is the one to set the truth?
I have so much more to say about this book, but I think this is enough for now. Of the four books I've read by Kang, this one is the most powerful and the one that makes clear to me why she won the Nobel Prize.
There are multiple government-sanctioned atrocities underpinning the book, both in times of war and "peace," like the abuse of Vietnamese women by Korean soldiers, the kidnapping and repeated and violent rape of Korean women by Japanese soldiers, and the government massacres in Gwangju, Jeju, and Bodo. All of these marks in history involved the forced separation of family and the trauma passed down from generation to generation, along with all the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual ailments that accompanied them. The majority of the book focuses on the Jeju uprising and its subsequent squashing, but in all three cases of government massacre, it was only with the aid, approval, and participation of the US government that they were done. This is a big reason why I tell people that the Korean government is a mere puppet of the US government and that we've long since been politically annexed. (Yes, I'm resentful, even as a US citizen.) The focus of the book on all these atrocities is to emphasize the need for national processing trauma and its reconciliation in order to heal and come to terms with its violent past.
This very important and necessary step is also why I believe the US is in the state that it's in - it's never been held accountable for the genocides, kidnappings, enslavements, and displacements of its own Indigenous and Black peoples. The fact that Jeju is the setting is important in this sense because it has also been the site of historical violence and subjugation of both its indigenous people and its land by Koreans and Japanese, as well as the repression of Jeju language and culture, which is still ongoing by the government and broader culture (e.g., the Indigenous Jeju language is often referred to as unintelligible Korean). By setting the story in Jeju, it's like Kang is trying to bring some truth and reconciliation to its people as well.
There is a known history of the Korean government actively trying to redact its role in these inhumanities, and that's why the documentary filmmaking is so important in the book as well. However, because of the government censorship and the national pain of reliving the trauma, many voices having been forcibly and/or willing silenced, the joint documentary Kyungha and Inseon have been trying to make for years has also been stilted. But through their friendship, the telling and the listening of their personal stories and how they intersect with national history helps bring the truth out into the world in an attempt to undo some of the damage done by years of obfuscation and suppression. It further demonstrates that yes, truth hurts (literally), but that's why the truth will set you free.
Unfortunately, I again see a parallel to the same efforts in the US to suppress the truth of its national acts of shame. MAGA, the Daughters of the Confederacy, and other white supremacist groups have systematically been trying to keep the truth hidden by either erasing history or revisioning history to tell a softer tale (did you know the chapters on slavery in most US classroom history books have been written largely by the Daughters of the Confederacy and that they are the ones perpetuating the lies of the Lost Cause, the "peculiar institution," and the states' rights as the primary reason for the Civil War?). This has been going on since colonial days, and it's now being done more actively and more brazenly than it has in a while as Florida removes Rosa Parks from the history books and banning African American studies from its advanced placement high school history classes, as the records of service and contribution of Black and LGBTQ+ veterans (including military luminary Colin Powell) are deleted, as DE&I programs nationwide are being dismantled, as public schools start teaching from the Bible, etc. The point of Kang's book, though, is that national history/historical memories can never really be snuffed out because the truth shall always prevail. There will always be oral history, family records, and other documentation that will always rise to the surface. As long as there are people who are trying to be silenced, these same people will find a way to manifest their voices in another way.
On the topic of truth, I thought it was really clever of Kang to use duality (which is the closest word I can think of) to question what is truth and what is questioned truth. By this, I'm talking about both Inseon and the bird. Are they really with Kyungha in Inseon's apartment, or are they actually elsewhere? Are they as sick/dead as is implied physically, or is it only corporeal in that intergenerational trauma harms the body? All throughout, the themes of Kyungha's dreams indicate a struggle for her voice to be used (as a stand-in for the national voice that must be rediscovered), and her blurred reality is a demonstration of the fluid nature of truth - how is truth determined and whose truth is the right truth, and whose voice is the one to set the truth?
I have so much more to say about this book, but I think this is enough for now. Of the four books I've read by Kang, this one is the most powerful and the one that makes clear to me why she won the Nobel Prize.
January 23, 2025
Nu har hon f氓tt sitt Nobelpris s氓 inte beh枚ver jag sl枚sa med superlativen men jag vill 盲nd氓 klarg枚ra att f枚r mig 盲r Han Kang i en klass f枚r sig. Jag som p氓 sistone k盲nt mig lite m盲tt p氓 l盲sning och litteratur drabbas av ett omedelbart och ganska 枚verv盲ldigande sug n盲r jag b枚rjar i Jag tar inte farv盲l. Hon skriver poetiskt och vansinnigt vackert, en stillsam prosa, rik p氓 symboler och samtidigt 盲r det v氓ldsamt Jag blir ber枚rd men mest som hypnotiserad, l盲mnar min egen vardag och landar i Kangs skenv盲rld som 盲r b氓de dr枚mlik och realistisk i en lycklig balans. N盲r romanen 盲r slut vill jag b枚rja om igen.
Den f枚rsta delen heter F氓glar och inleds med en beskrivning av ett dr枚mlandskap med tungt fallande sn枚 och planterade stockar. De svartm氓lade stympade stockarna utan varken r枚tter eller kronor p氓minner om n氓gra av de tiotusentals m盲nniskor som d枚dades i Jeju-massakern 1948. Denna utrensning av v盲nsteranh盲ngare och barn 盲r n氓got som l盲nge censurerats i Sydkorea. Kanske 盲r det d盲rf枚r Han Kang inte kan l氓ta sin beg氓vade prosa vara bara behaglig utan hon m氓ste ge efter f枚r det historiska trauma som 盲rvs eller smittar m盲nniskor och generationer emellan. I andra delen 枚verl氓ter protagonisten Gyeongha ordet 氓t sin v盲n Inseon vars mamma var med om massakern.
Det 盲r lite oklart vad som h盲nder, vad som 盲r minnen, dr枚m och verklighet. Det 盲r lite oklart vad f氓glar, sn枚, siffran tv氓, fingrar med mera st氓r f枚r, det 盲r upp till varje l盲sare att klura p氓. Trots dessa grumligheter finns det n氓got viktigt h盲r som 盲r glasklart, n氓gon slags essens som tycks n氓 mina sinnen bortom intellektet. Det 盲r en sm盲rta som n氓lar i s氓r, den finns som n氓got naturligt i luften, som sn枚n som kyler och kan vara livshotande om man l盲gger sig f枚r att vila i den.
鈥漈rots att jag har tv氓 tr枚jor och tv氓 kappor p氓 mig k盲nner jag mig frusen. Men det kyliga drag jag upplever verkar inte komma utifr氓n, det 盲r snarare som att det kommer inifr氓n.鈥�
Gyeongha blir ombedd av sin hesa v盲n att r盲dda v盲nnens f氓gel. F氓glar som kan prata och sjunga d枚r i sin bur men lever upp igen precis som ber盲ttelser som reglerats av censur f氓r vingar. F氓glar 盲r ord som kan fastna i halsen, de 盲r fj盲derl盲tta men kan ocks氓 v盲ger tungt. Den h盲r poetiska romanen 盲r ett s盲tt f枚r Kang att r盲dda f氓geln och sl盲ppa den fri. D盲ri finns hoppet.
Titeln Jag tar inte farv盲l l盲r ha lika m氓nga betydelser som boken har l盲sare. Mest t盲nker jag p氓 alla dem som d枚dades och inte hade chans att ta farv盲l av sina n盲ra och k盲ra. Gyeongha filar p氓 sitt avskedsbrev men hennes ensamhet 盲r s氓 stor att hon inte vet vem hon ska ta farv盲l av.
Jag har fortfarande scener i huvudet fr氓n Vegetarianen, de l盲r f氓 s盲llskap av n氓gra fr氓n Jag tar inte farv盲l. Jag sm盲ller halvt av n盲r jag l盲ser om hur Inseons mamma i demensens slutskede fortfarande delar sin mandarin med sin dotter (som hon inte l盲ngre k盲nner igen) och l盲mnar ifr氓n sig den st枚rsta delen. Det 盲r en bild av moderskap som tr盲ffar mitt i min prick. En annan beskrivning som tr盲ffar mig 盲r hur 枚n Jejus spr氓k tycks pr盲glat av vinden, de sista 盲ndelserna bl氓ser bort (precis som i min dialekt gotl盲ndskan).
Det h盲r 盲r en utm盲rkt bokcirkelbok, f枚r gotl盲nningar och andra.
Den f枚rsta delen heter F氓glar och inleds med en beskrivning av ett dr枚mlandskap med tungt fallande sn枚 och planterade stockar. De svartm氓lade stympade stockarna utan varken r枚tter eller kronor p氓minner om n氓gra av de tiotusentals m盲nniskor som d枚dades i Jeju-massakern 1948. Denna utrensning av v盲nsteranh盲ngare och barn 盲r n氓got som l盲nge censurerats i Sydkorea. Kanske 盲r det d盲rf枚r Han Kang inte kan l氓ta sin beg氓vade prosa vara bara behaglig utan hon m氓ste ge efter f枚r det historiska trauma som 盲rvs eller smittar m盲nniskor och generationer emellan. I andra delen 枚verl氓ter protagonisten Gyeongha ordet 氓t sin v盲n Inseon vars mamma var med om massakern.
Det 盲r lite oklart vad som h盲nder, vad som 盲r minnen, dr枚m och verklighet. Det 盲r lite oklart vad f氓glar, sn枚, siffran tv氓, fingrar med mera st氓r f枚r, det 盲r upp till varje l盲sare att klura p氓. Trots dessa grumligheter finns det n氓got viktigt h盲r som 盲r glasklart, n氓gon slags essens som tycks n氓 mina sinnen bortom intellektet. Det 盲r en sm盲rta som n氓lar i s氓r, den finns som n氓got naturligt i luften, som sn枚n som kyler och kan vara livshotande om man l盲gger sig f枚r att vila i den.
鈥漈rots att jag har tv氓 tr枚jor och tv氓 kappor p氓 mig k盲nner jag mig frusen. Men det kyliga drag jag upplever verkar inte komma utifr氓n, det 盲r snarare som att det kommer inifr氓n.鈥�
Gyeongha blir ombedd av sin hesa v盲n att r盲dda v盲nnens f氓gel. F氓glar som kan prata och sjunga d枚r i sin bur men lever upp igen precis som ber盲ttelser som reglerats av censur f氓r vingar. F氓glar 盲r ord som kan fastna i halsen, de 盲r fj盲derl盲tta men kan ocks氓 v盲ger tungt. Den h盲r poetiska romanen 盲r ett s盲tt f枚r Kang att r盲dda f氓geln och sl盲ppa den fri. D盲ri finns hoppet.
Titeln Jag tar inte farv盲l l盲r ha lika m氓nga betydelser som boken har l盲sare. Mest t盲nker jag p氓 alla dem som d枚dades och inte hade chans att ta farv盲l av sina n盲ra och k盲ra. Gyeongha filar p氓 sitt avskedsbrev men hennes ensamhet 盲r s氓 stor att hon inte vet vem hon ska ta farv盲l av.
Jag har fortfarande scener i huvudet fr氓n Vegetarianen, de l盲r f氓 s盲llskap av n氓gra fr氓n Jag tar inte farv盲l. Jag sm盲ller halvt av n盲r jag l盲ser om hur Inseons mamma i demensens slutskede fortfarande delar sin mandarin med sin dotter (som hon inte l盲ngre k盲nner igen) och l盲mnar ifr氓n sig den st枚rsta delen. Det 盲r en bild av moderskap som tr盲ffar mitt i min prick. En annan beskrivning som tr盲ffar mig 盲r hur 枚n Jejus spr氓k tycks pr盲glat av vinden, de sista 盲ndelserna bl氓ser bort (precis som i min dialekt gotl盲ndskan).
Det h盲r 盲r en utm盲rkt bokcirkelbok, f枚r gotl盲nningar och andra.
January 10, 2025
Gyeongha hat lange nichts von ihrer Freundin Inseon geh枚rt, als diese sie zu sich in ein Krankenhaus in Seoul ruft. Inseon bittet Gyeongha darum, sofort zu ihrem Zuhause auf der Insel Jeju zu reisen, um ihren Vogel Ama zu versorgen, der sonst sterben k枚nnte. Gyeongha nimmt den n盲chsten Flieger - und ger盲t in einen schweren Schneesturm, der ihr die Anreise fast unm枚glich macht. Auf der Insel erwartet sie aber auch die l盲ngst versch眉ttete Familiengeschichte Inseons, die sie zutiefst ersch眉ttert.
In "Unm枚glicher Abschied" n盲hert sich Han Kang, 眉bersetzt von Ki-Hyang Lee, literarisch einem lange verdr盲ngten Kapitel koreanischer Geschichte: Dem Jeju-Aufstand, bei dem es nach der Einsetzung einer rechtsgerichteten Lokalregierung durch die Regierung in Seoul zu Massakern an Teilen der Inselbev枚lkerung kam. Es starben mindestens 30.000 Menschen. Im Buch ist die Familiengeschichte von Gyeonghas Freundin Inseon eng mit diesem Massaker verwoben, trotzdem bleibt es oft nur bei Andeutungen, beispielsweise der Schilderung von Material, das Inseon f眉r eine Kunstinstallation sichtete. Neben dem wichtigen historischen Hintergrund beschreibt Han Kang zudem eine tiefe, langj盲hrige Freundschaft zwischen zwei K眉nstlerinnen, die sich trotz r盲umlicher Distanz nie ganz aus den Augen verloren haben. Auch der Schnee in seinen verschiedenen Auspr盲gungen spielt eine zentrale Rolle im Buch. "Unm枚glicher Abschied" ist kein leicht zu lesender Roman, er l盲sst viel Interpretationsspielraum, vor allem was Gyeonghas Schicksal betrifft. Auch ist er gepr盲gt von magischem Realismus, was mir nicht so sehr zugesagt hat. Ich hatte am Ende nicht das Gef眉hl, das Buch vollends erfasst zu haben - das Lesen war aber trotzdem ein Gewinn f眉r mich, da ich mich sonst nie mit dem Jeju-Aufstand auseinander gesetzt h盲tte.
In "Unm枚glicher Abschied" n盲hert sich Han Kang, 眉bersetzt von Ki-Hyang Lee, literarisch einem lange verdr盲ngten Kapitel koreanischer Geschichte: Dem Jeju-Aufstand, bei dem es nach der Einsetzung einer rechtsgerichteten Lokalregierung durch die Regierung in Seoul zu Massakern an Teilen der Inselbev枚lkerung kam. Es starben mindestens 30.000 Menschen. Im Buch ist die Familiengeschichte von Gyeonghas Freundin Inseon eng mit diesem Massaker verwoben, trotzdem bleibt es oft nur bei Andeutungen, beispielsweise der Schilderung von Material, das Inseon f眉r eine Kunstinstallation sichtete. Neben dem wichtigen historischen Hintergrund beschreibt Han Kang zudem eine tiefe, langj盲hrige Freundschaft zwischen zwei K眉nstlerinnen, die sich trotz r盲umlicher Distanz nie ganz aus den Augen verloren haben. Auch der Schnee in seinen verschiedenen Auspr盲gungen spielt eine zentrale Rolle im Buch. "Unm枚glicher Abschied" ist kein leicht zu lesender Roman, er l盲sst viel Interpretationsspielraum, vor allem was Gyeonghas Schicksal betrifft. Auch ist er gepr盲gt von magischem Realismus, was mir nicht so sehr zugesagt hat. Ich hatte am Ende nicht das Gef眉hl, das Buch vollends erfasst zu haben - das Lesen war aber trotzdem ein Gewinn f眉r mich, da ich mich sonst nie mit dem Jeju-Aufstand auseinander gesetzt h盲tte.
March 16, 2025
Sumida en una profunda depresi贸n, Gyeongha pasa sus d铆as aislada en su apartamento, deseando dejar de existir. Hace a帽os escribi贸 un libro sobre la masacre de Gwangju y esto le dej贸 terribles secuelas. La investigaci贸n sobre el suceso perturb贸 su percepci贸n del ser humano y los horrores que este es capaz de cometer. Desde entonces tiene una pesadilla recurrente sobre una fila de troncos plantados en la nieve. Inseon, una de sus amigas m谩s 铆ntimas, que vive en un pueblecito de Jeju, la llama un d铆a para pedirle un favor que la llevar谩 a este pueblo, donde descubrir谩 en profundidad las cicatrices que dej贸 unas de las matanzas m谩s brutales de la historia de Corea, la que fue perpetrada en la isla de Jeju a mediados del siglo XX tras la ocupaci贸n japonesa.
Una de las cosas que m谩s valoro de las historias de Han Kang y, sobre todo, de su forma de contarlas, es que consigue adentrarme en ellas con todo mi ser, de la manera m谩s vulnerable posible. No s茅 si esto es producto de lo que me hicieron sentir las dos primeras novelas suyas que le铆 (鈥淟a vegetariana鈥� y 鈥淎ctos humanos鈥�) o es que todas r谩pidamente me atrapan y sumergen en ese estado de alerta, dispuesto a dejarme arrastrar por todas y cada una de las emociones que la autora quiera transmitirme. Incluso cuando no entiendo todas sus met谩foras, ya que existe una brecha cultural muy grande entre ella como autora y yo como lector, que me hace imposible pillarlas todas, s铆 consiguen transmitirme sensaciones, sentimientos.
Si tuviera que comparar 鈥淚mposible decir adi贸s鈥� con alguna otra de sus obras, tendr铆a que hacerlo con 鈥淎ctos humanos鈥�, ya que ambas se centran en la naturaleza humana y en como esta siempre parece estar abocada a la violencia, a la barbarie. Si en 鈥淎ctos humanos鈥� la autora expon铆a la matanza ocurrida en 1980 en la ciudad de Gwangju y como los militares respaldados por el gobierno acallaron las protestas ciudadanas a tiros, con esta nueva novela la autora se centra en la masacre de la isla de Jeju iniciada en 1948 y que se estima que acab贸 con la vida de cientos de miles de personas.
Unos de los temas m谩s explorados por Han Kang en su obra es la capacidad del ser humano para da帽ar a los dem谩s, para cometer las mayores atrocidades, sus personajes tratan de buscar un sentido a semejantes actos, una raz贸n que justifique ese deseo humano de da帽ar a otros. Sus novelas tambi茅n tratan sobre el dolor, sobre la imposibilidad de decir adi贸s no solo a esas personas que ya no est谩n, tambi茅n al dolor que su ausencia ha dejado. Las cicatrices de estas p茅rdidas, de estas vivencias se graban a fuego en las personas, y nunca se van. Quiz谩s por esa raz贸n, por representar tan bien lo peor del ser humano, y esas emociones tan universales como son el dolor, la tristeza o la p茅rdida, me resulta tan absorbente la experiencia de leer un libro de Han Kang. En casos como los de 鈥淎ctos humanos鈥� o 鈥淚mposible decir adi贸s鈥�, basados en hechos hist贸ricos b谩rbaros y reales, todav铆a consigue afectarme m谩s.
Probablemente, 鈥淚mposible decir adi贸s鈥� sea de los libros m谩s complejos de Han Kang, porque adem谩s de ser tan metaf贸rico como es habitual en la autora, es una historia muy on铆rica, hasta tal punto que el lector nunca termina de saber cuando son reales los hechos y cuando la protagonista se encuentra en una especie de enso帽aci贸n o alucinaci贸n. Normalmente me gustan muchos las historias con una carga on铆rica de este tipo porque permiten situaciones y desarrollos muy interesantes y diferentes, requiriendo del lector la constante atenci贸n e interpretaci贸n.
Me han parecido muy sugerentes las constantes descripciones que la autora hac铆a sobre la nieve, y como esta siempre estaba relacionada con la muerte, con el luto, con la p茅rdida. Gran parte de las vidas que se perdieron durante esta masacre no solo no fueron recuperadas, ya que se ocultaron con la intenci贸n de que as铆 fuese, sino que adem谩s ni siquiera se sabe cuantas personas realmente fueron asesinadas. La extrema derecha del pa铆s quer铆a erradicar cualquier semilla del comunismo, y para ello decidi贸 masacrar y asesinar familias, pueblos enteros. Los directos perpetradores de estos asesinatos incluso eran premiados por ellos, por asesinar a ni帽as, ni帽os, mujeres y hombres, por torturar y violar, antes de matar, por tratar a las personas como simples objetos, restos de algo sin valor. La nieve, su blancura, su frialdad, su capacidad para ocultar secretos, horrores, cad谩veres, se convierte en el centro de la novela.
Un detalle muy interesante que incluye esta historia es que creo que hasta cierto punto la autora habla de ella a trav茅s del personaje principal, ya que ambas escribieron un libro sobre la matanza de Gwangju, cosa que provoca que la protagonista se suma en una profunda depresi贸n por esos horrores de los que fue consciente. No s茅 hasta que punto la autora vivir铆a esa misma desesperaci贸n, pero no cuesta mucho imaginarse lo duro que debe ser documentarse para hablar de una historia de este tipo, si ya solo leerla es un acto sumamente duro.
No es la primera vez que leo sobre la masacre de Jeju y siempre consigue sobrecogerme lo que all铆 sucedi贸, y como despu茅s de tantos a帽os no se ha honrado realmente la memoria de esas personas, y el ocultismo sigue siendo la actitud de quienes mandan. Me ha parecido tambi茅n muy bonito como utiliza la autora a esas dos cotorritas que viv铆an con Inseon, una fallece primero, dejando a la otra sola, sirviendo esto de alguna manera como s铆mil entre su madre y la incertidumbre que siempre la acompa帽贸 sobre que le pas贸 a su hermano durante esta convulsa 茅poca. Tambi茅n ese escalofr铆o que da la uni贸n en la muerte.
Sinceramente, "Imposible decir adi贸s" es espectacular, digna obra de una autora impecable, que siempre consigue estremecerme, pero que nunca es f谩cil de leer. No lo es porque se sumerge en temas duros desde una perspectiva cr铆tica, y tampoco lo es porque es muy simb贸lica, y no todos los lectores disfrutan de tener que dar ese nivel de atenci贸n a una obra. En mi caso, disfruto de cada palabra, de cada momento, adoro estar indagando en el sentido de una situaci贸n u otra, en el sentido de un palabra o de un silencio.
Se me ha grabado a fuego esa escena que Gyeongha quer铆a representar, esos troncos oscuros en esa blanqu铆sima nieve, como si fuesen todas aquellas personas que fueron asesinadas y quedadas en el olvido. Siento que es una manera de honrar su recuerdo, de que sepan que a煤n alguien sabe que existieron. En fin, otra obra exquisita de Han Kang, de esta gran autora que supe que se convertir铆a en mi favorita desde la primera vez que la le铆, sensaci贸n que confirmo con cada historia suya que leo.
Una de las cosas que m谩s valoro de las historias de Han Kang y, sobre todo, de su forma de contarlas, es que consigue adentrarme en ellas con todo mi ser, de la manera m谩s vulnerable posible. No s茅 si esto es producto de lo que me hicieron sentir las dos primeras novelas suyas que le铆 (鈥淟a vegetariana鈥� y 鈥淎ctos humanos鈥�) o es que todas r谩pidamente me atrapan y sumergen en ese estado de alerta, dispuesto a dejarme arrastrar por todas y cada una de las emociones que la autora quiera transmitirme. Incluso cuando no entiendo todas sus met谩foras, ya que existe una brecha cultural muy grande entre ella como autora y yo como lector, que me hace imposible pillarlas todas, s铆 consiguen transmitirme sensaciones, sentimientos.
Si tuviera que comparar 鈥淚mposible decir adi贸s鈥� con alguna otra de sus obras, tendr铆a que hacerlo con 鈥淎ctos humanos鈥�, ya que ambas se centran en la naturaleza humana y en como esta siempre parece estar abocada a la violencia, a la barbarie. Si en 鈥淎ctos humanos鈥� la autora expon铆a la matanza ocurrida en 1980 en la ciudad de Gwangju y como los militares respaldados por el gobierno acallaron las protestas ciudadanas a tiros, con esta nueva novela la autora se centra en la masacre de la isla de Jeju iniciada en 1948 y que se estima que acab贸 con la vida de cientos de miles de personas.
Unos de los temas m谩s explorados por Han Kang en su obra es la capacidad del ser humano para da帽ar a los dem谩s, para cometer las mayores atrocidades, sus personajes tratan de buscar un sentido a semejantes actos, una raz贸n que justifique ese deseo humano de da帽ar a otros. Sus novelas tambi茅n tratan sobre el dolor, sobre la imposibilidad de decir adi贸s no solo a esas personas que ya no est谩n, tambi茅n al dolor que su ausencia ha dejado. Las cicatrices de estas p茅rdidas, de estas vivencias se graban a fuego en las personas, y nunca se van. Quiz谩s por esa raz贸n, por representar tan bien lo peor del ser humano, y esas emociones tan universales como son el dolor, la tristeza o la p茅rdida, me resulta tan absorbente la experiencia de leer un libro de Han Kang. En casos como los de 鈥淎ctos humanos鈥� o 鈥淚mposible decir adi贸s鈥�, basados en hechos hist贸ricos b谩rbaros y reales, todav铆a consigue afectarme m谩s.
Probablemente, 鈥淚mposible decir adi贸s鈥� sea de los libros m谩s complejos de Han Kang, porque adem谩s de ser tan metaf贸rico como es habitual en la autora, es una historia muy on铆rica, hasta tal punto que el lector nunca termina de saber cuando son reales los hechos y cuando la protagonista se encuentra en una especie de enso帽aci贸n o alucinaci贸n. Normalmente me gustan muchos las historias con una carga on铆rica de este tipo porque permiten situaciones y desarrollos muy interesantes y diferentes, requiriendo del lector la constante atenci贸n e interpretaci贸n.
Me han parecido muy sugerentes las constantes descripciones que la autora hac铆a sobre la nieve, y como esta siempre estaba relacionada con la muerte, con el luto, con la p茅rdida. Gran parte de las vidas que se perdieron durante esta masacre no solo no fueron recuperadas, ya que se ocultaron con la intenci贸n de que as铆 fuese, sino que adem谩s ni siquiera se sabe cuantas personas realmente fueron asesinadas. La extrema derecha del pa铆s quer铆a erradicar cualquier semilla del comunismo, y para ello decidi贸 masacrar y asesinar familias, pueblos enteros. Los directos perpetradores de estos asesinatos incluso eran premiados por ellos, por asesinar a ni帽as, ni帽os, mujeres y hombres, por torturar y violar, antes de matar, por tratar a las personas como simples objetos, restos de algo sin valor. La nieve, su blancura, su frialdad, su capacidad para ocultar secretos, horrores, cad谩veres, se convierte en el centro de la novela.
Un detalle muy interesante que incluye esta historia es que creo que hasta cierto punto la autora habla de ella a trav茅s del personaje principal, ya que ambas escribieron un libro sobre la matanza de Gwangju, cosa que provoca que la protagonista se suma en una profunda depresi贸n por esos horrores de los que fue consciente. No s茅 hasta que punto la autora vivir铆a esa misma desesperaci贸n, pero no cuesta mucho imaginarse lo duro que debe ser documentarse para hablar de una historia de este tipo, si ya solo leerla es un acto sumamente duro.
No es la primera vez que leo sobre la masacre de Jeju y siempre consigue sobrecogerme lo que all铆 sucedi贸, y como despu茅s de tantos a帽os no se ha honrado realmente la memoria de esas personas, y el ocultismo sigue siendo la actitud de quienes mandan. Me ha parecido tambi茅n muy bonito como utiliza la autora a esas dos cotorritas que viv铆an con Inseon, una fallece primero, dejando a la otra sola, sirviendo esto de alguna manera como s铆mil entre su madre y la incertidumbre que siempre la acompa帽贸 sobre que le pas贸 a su hermano durante esta convulsa 茅poca. Tambi茅n ese escalofr铆o que da la uni贸n en la muerte.
Sinceramente, "Imposible decir adi贸s" es espectacular, digna obra de una autora impecable, que siempre consigue estremecerme, pero que nunca es f谩cil de leer. No lo es porque se sumerge en temas duros desde una perspectiva cr铆tica, y tampoco lo es porque es muy simb贸lica, y no todos los lectores disfrutan de tener que dar ese nivel de atenci贸n a una obra. En mi caso, disfruto de cada palabra, de cada momento, adoro estar indagando en el sentido de una situaci贸n u otra, en el sentido de un palabra o de un silencio.
Se me ha grabado a fuego esa escena que Gyeongha quer铆a representar, esos troncos oscuros en esa blanqu铆sima nieve, como si fuesen todas aquellas personas que fueron asesinadas y quedadas en el olvido. Siento que es una manera de honrar su recuerdo, de que sepan que a煤n alguien sabe que existieron. En fin, otra obra exquisita de Han Kang, de esta gran autora que supe que se convertir铆a en mi favorita desde la primera vez que la le铆, sensaci贸n que confirmo con cada historia suya que leo.
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