ŷ������

‘That is how death avoided me. Like an asteroid thought to be on a collision course avoids Earth by a hair’s 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.��

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’t feel ‘reduced��; it felt ‘elevated��. It demands future re-readings.

‘It was early November and the tall maple trees were ablaze and glimmering in the sunlight. Beauty—but 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—Brittle 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—flaking skin—suggests, resembled grey-white flesh stripped raw.��

‘—in 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.��

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�� (debatably a cliché, 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).

‘Since 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—messaging 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—It feels as though invisible snowflakes fill the space between us. As though the words we’ve swallowed are being sealed in between their myriad melded arms.��

‘On 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 ‘petty�� or over-sensitive? Why are we made to think that being sterile, deliberately ignorant, and the ‘no fucks given�� mask is better? Sure I’m being biased and subjective about this, but maybe Han Kang’s ‘novel�� already contains those sentiments in the narrative �� 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’t 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 Brönte’s novel, he is truly ‘grief�� personified. I don’t think anyone who has a similarly ‘dark�� 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. Anton Hur said something once along the lines of how some books ‘choose�� you at the right time. While I think ‘timing�� is a sadistic fuck far too often, I would like to believe Han Kang’s book did somehow chose me (for better or worse; but I think for ‘better�� whatever better entails/means) in a similar way that Brönte’s did when I was a clueless child of nine or ten. And in a similar way �� I feel Han Kang feels the same way about W.G. Sebald softly altering her trajectory of life as a writer and as a person.

‘—pine-nut juk—I took my time with the unduly hot bowl of rice porridge—people 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��.��

‘The twilight pouring into the woods—darkness grew, the more vividly the vents in the wood-burning stove glowed red. I don’t know why he hid his illness from me—Inseon 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’t parted ways, not yet.��

—�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ�Ĕ���

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 (Beijing Sprawl), then I would like for my review to be mostly about vibes (if I can manage that). So I’m starting it all off with this mini playlist below�� 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’ve ever ‘tried�� 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’s historical fiction (I dislike this term, but will have to settle for the low-hanging fruit for now; you’ll know why I’m 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’s 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 Human Acts brilliantly. That was and still is my favourite Han Kang novel/book. It’s 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 ‘image�� of the sawed off fingers of one of the characters �� saturated the entire ‘mood�� of the novel for me. To me it didn’t feel like it was just being introduced early/used as something to increase ‘shock value��, 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 ‘art�� 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 ‘I hate you�� (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 �� interconnected, interwoven, everlasting ‘fabric�� of life.

Surely not a book I’ll read only once. For one, the obvious reason �� a brilliant piece of literature, but then also because one of my favourite translators (Emily Yae Won, I'll Go On) 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 ‘dominant�� 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’s so brilliantly done that it ended up being the finalist for the Prix Femina Etranger 2023; and the winner for the Prix Médicis Etranger 2023. The core of the novel, the way I read it/think of it, is an advocate to go against ‘forgetting��. 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’t remember which writer had said this, but the ones who remember more hurt more (and I’m 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 ‘forgetting�� 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’s here, but that should go without saying, but common sense is not so common, or however the cliché 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’m not the first one indulging in this revelation, but there is something Sebaldian about Han Kang’s writing. I’m thinking of The Emigrants (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 ‘Han Kang Sebald��, and was led to an article by The Guardian, written by Han Kang, about the �� unsurprisingly, she calls Sebald a writer ‘who changed her mind�� (on what I do not know, perhaps simply in a generally transformative way) �� and she also considers ‘The Emigrants�� in particular to be the one she ‘cherish(es)�� (most of all?). The entire article, I thought to be a thought-provoking and interesting disclosure of her personal thoughts and ‘journey�� as a reader as well as a writer.

If she’s 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’s more popular or at least read more ‘abroad��, or rather ‘in translation�� 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’t already done it. More likely than not that they will appreciate (and even find resonance in) Han Kang’s work the way I did. But I do specifically mean this one in particular, and also ‘Human Acts�� (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 ‘profound�� and ‘nuanced�� 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 �� 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’t anything too extraordinary, but it interests me nonetheless). In English, I believe it has been decided, and will be titled, ‘We Do Not Part��. In Swedish, (to my own understanding) ‘I Do Not Say Goodbye��. In Chinese, (again my own ‘direct�� understanding of it), ��(To) Forever Not Bid Farewell��. In French, of course, is ‘Impossible Goodbyes��, which I feel is the most beautiful translation out of all (and the English one being my least favourite of all �� bit too colloquial to grab a reader’s attention I would think).

The core ‘note(s)�� of the book (at least the way I read/understand it) is to highlight the importance of the preservation of ‘memories�� 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) ‘learn�� 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 ‘human thoughts�� are those that keep our humanity intact/alive. And this spills over to the ‘philosophies�� of AI (progression/future) in relation to ‘consciousness�� �� about how essentially human ‘imagination�� is the most ‘human�� thing about being a human.

Not clever enough to go any deeper into that, but I’m reading AI 2041: Ten Visions for Our Future by Chen Qiu Fan (who also goes by Stanley Chen) on the side �� 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 ‘conscience�� (a vague concept that varies slightly/drastically from one person to another) but (more importantly) a lack of ‘consciousness�� is what makes room/a fertile bed for violence (and ultimately poses the largest risk to ‘humanity�� 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 ‘Tao�� (which again I am not clever to go further into but can recommend Ken Liu’s translation of the text, Laozi's Dao De Jing). It is a difficult text (at least for me), but luckily there is no shortage of options when it comes to the text in ‘translation��. I may be wrong (could’ve 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 ‘Chinese�� is his ‘dominant�� language) which I thought was really interesting (bringing it back to the first line of this review, Tiang’s view on literary translation �� being largely about ‘vibes�� �� which is also applicable here). And perhaps if we assume the interchangeability of the word ‘resonate�� with ‘vibes�� here, then it just means that instead of reading in a single, straightforward manner, to ‘vibe�� with a piece of text would be to read with one’s entire being. And that is not unlike my experience of Han Kang’s narrative (her historically-leaning ones at least).