Like freshly fallen snow that becomes an avalanche
—
In spare and precise prose, the novel is a mosaic of stories, dreams and impressions, nothing ever quite what it is and nothing ever fully in sight. Set in a winter snowstorm on the southern island of Jeju, Kyungha is far from her own comforts, and her comfort zone itself a distant memory. In an unfamiliar place, her friend Inseon’s house, where Kyungha has pledged to look after Inseon’s budgie, Kyungha is met with ghosts of her own trauma and of a historical trauma, the massacre of 30,000 civilians as part of the lead up to the Korean War.

Like snowflakes settling, each piece of the novel lands to build a eulogy and a reckoning with history, and for Kyungha, breakdown and catharsis. Always wary of her incipient migraines, Kyungha is a classic Han narrator, unreliable even when narrating to herself, and threatened from all sides, but making her way regardless, her human spirit unconsciously undaunted in direct contradiction to her spoken desires.

This is, in short, a masterpiece, and evidence of why Han is a Nobel laureate. If I could, I would give this six stars.

Six stars, rounded down to five.

Trance-like, emotional, tip-toeing the line between dreams and reality. This book was the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, and I would say that this is very appropriate given the way Han Kang encourages us to look unflinchingly, document and remember the darkness of our shared experiences, histories and the frailty of human life. Despite the heaviness, I still found this book to be optimistic, exploring themes of friendship and resilience. Admittedly, I was not aware of the Jeju 4.3 incident that the novel draws upon and so found these indirect themes of censorship and obfuscation of truth especially interesting. Having read Human Acts and The Vegetarian, I can see connections between her novels, but I think We Do Not Part is as good a place as any to start - maybe even the best yet! Dreamy, poetic and emotional prose. Expertly crafted, beautifully written, important reading. "Can the present help the past? Can the living save the dead?"

We Do Not Part is another excellent example of how Han Kang's writing reaches to the depths of hidden emotions and traumas and pulls them out for us to look at and reflect on. This is a book that touches on the Jeju Massacre in the middle of the 20th century, but is set decades after. It unflinchingly portrays the impact that violence and trauma has on a community, without ever glamorising violence or trying to get you to feel any particular way about it - it is less about the author trying to tell you how to feel and think than it is a piece of art that finds value in itself. This is something I love about Han Kang's writing in general - she writes things in a way that could be perceived as political, and in a sense IS political, yet she does so in a way that is so quintessentially novelistic, so human-centered, that it tells you the story of human acts rather than the straight-up analysis of those acts. That is not to say that you don't feel moved when reading about the main character's friend and her family's struggles under a violent regime! The empathy you feel reading this feels very authentic, as it's not based on your reaction to the stark facts of a brutal event in history, and it's not based on your preconceived notions of how you SHOULD feel about this event, but a direct reaction to the events you are reading about through the eyes of the fictional characters.

Thank you to Han Kang and NetGalley for this ARC!!

I’ve been an avid fan of Kang’s work for a few years now, each book I read of hers is both devastating and beautiful in equal measure and this book was no different. It reminded me very much of “DD’s Umbrella” by Hwang Jungeon, a perspective on a national tragedy that manages to encompass the emotions and experience of Korean citizens on both a deeply personal and national level. The prose was gorgeously written and poetic, as Kang’s usually is, but it has left me feeling a bit haunted.

I went into this not knowing what it was about based on how much I enjoyed The Vegetarian. This book was much darker than anything I was expecting and was about a period of history I knew nothing about prior to this book.

It was haunting, and the writing style chosen helped to capture that, especially with the continuous use of snow. It was also interesting to see snow being written this way, when it’s normally used for beauty.

It’s told in a slow, sometimes dreamlike way, to blend past and present and to talk about the way trauma still affects them. It was also about love, and a lot of what was written here will stay with me for a very long time.

Thank you to Netgalley and publishers for the eArc

We Do Not Part is a beautifully haunting exploration of grief, memory, and human connection. Han Kang’s prose is delicate yet deeply affecting, weaving together fragmented narratives that blur the line between reality and dream. Her writing lingers like an echo, soft but impossible to ignore. This is not a story of resolution, but of absence and the ways love and loss become inseparable. Poetic, meditative, and quietly devastating, We Do Not Part is another stunning work from one of the most powerful literary voices of our time.

Han Kang's book showcases her remarkable writing talent and presents a unique voice that sets it apart from her earlier works. Through vivid imagery and delicate metaphors, she captures the sorrow experienced by survivors, their descendants, and those who have passed away. The narratives emerge from the shadows, shedding light on the profound effects of government censorship. In this context, the resistance to forgetting evolves into an act of love and duty towards the living. This book is a brilliant read for anyone who appreciates it Kang's work.

The novel opens with a haunting scene that the narrator wonders is a graveyard. It is ambiguous and yet the voice tells us that she is seeing nightmares of a massacre in a place referenced as G ––, which is the topic of the protagonist Kyungha's published book. She recalls "sparse snow" and "black tree trunks jutt[ing] from the earth ... like a crowd of people" which may bring images of WWI trenches to mind, but this is a shoreline with the sea "crashing in". At odds with the snow, what also comes to mind in reading "the thicket of black trees" and "rising water", is the eeriness of places like the Atchafalaya River Basin Swamp between Texas and Louisiana, which does weirdly correspond since flashback scenes are from a subtropical summer in Seoul, when the reader hears stark descriptions of humidity and heat.

Han Kang welcomes the reader with dreamy visions of the forests of Jeju island that surround Kyungha who is called to her old friend Inseon's hospital bedside in Seoul with the message "Can you come right away?" This is only the starting point for her journey.

The relationship between Kyungha-ya and Inseon-ah, is a powerful one. The narrator's conveyal of her connection to Inseon as a fellow artist, in their work together for a magazine, her understanding and the appreciation of Inseon's mother's tragic illness, is smoothly embedded into Kyungha's growing concern about what accident might have befallen her friend and why she is needed to travel to Jeju island for her friend.

Inseon's incident is a gruesome one. The way she explains it to Kyungha from her hospital bed is beautifully explicit and will draw visceral images directly to you. Squeamish readers, watch out!

However, the information conveyed through the story about amputated limbs, the (phantom) pain, the debate about choices, the aftercare, and the intricacies of reconstructive surgery for detached limbs is utterly absorbing. I loved it.

And then there's the snow, which will play with your mind; with its pure whiteness and ability to transpose emotions from one place to another, and one mood to another.

"The strangest thing, snow, Inseon said in a whisper I could barely hear."

And the collaborative photography project the two girls plan and prepare is Han Kang's fascinating tool for bringing together her story threads. In fact the structure and intermittent sections of the narrative that fit with the theme of photography are also brilliant, working to keep the reader right there with Inseon the patient and her friend Kyungha.

Inseon's delicate white bird left at home and in need of Kyungha's care opens up another swathe of thought related to how we think about protecting others, the hidden tragedies that can occur during wars and similar regimes that documented history can forget and have forgotten, as well as the fragility that comes before death.

"You have to keep an eye on them even when they look fine./Birds will pretend like nothing's wrong, no matter how much pain they're in. They instinctively endure and hide pain to avoid being targeted by predators. By the time they fall off their perch, it's too late."

Many thanks to NetGalley and Hogarth.
@francisgilbert_bookclub

#readabitofeverything #hankang #wedonotpart #worksintranslation #workintranslation #southkoreanauthors #nobelprizewinner #eyaewon #paigeaniyahmorris #birdimagery #snowimagery #friendshipinliterature #humanmind #dreamscapes

Having read and been moved by The Vegetarian I couldn't wait to read this book. I was not disappointed.. It is so emotional yet tranquil in its telling. Reading descriptions of snow falling is akin to meditating,Unbelievable. The grit of the story for me was the telling of the Jeju massacre and its profound effect on Inseon and her family Their are so many themes within this story about friendship,loyalty,resilience and above all love. An incredible book

Now don't think that I remembered this term without having to Google it, but We Do Not Part reminded me of some theories that Eastern Asian storytelling follows different structures than Western. Specifically Kishōtenketsu, describes a style of progress that replaces rising tension and eventual resolution with a sort of 'forever tension' stories that don't fall neatly into place but more capture or explore ongoing tensions.

Which is a way to introduce We Do Not Part as a strange (but not in a bad way) sort of story. The narration is really quite different, while our MC does go through some extreme, even borderline comical but deadly situations, Inseon's character is who we really explore. It creates quite a strange effect in reading and I have to confess that I incorrectly guessed that this book was going to have a Sixth Sense type twist because our MC seems so strangely absent and ghostlike in development that I thought they might indeed be a sort of poltergeist.

Other than my own mistakes, the one thing that stands out about this book is the vivid writing. I love snowy wintery settings and the prose on the pages of this book practically dragged me into the scenes, I love writing like this and even though there might not have been a classic plot for this story there is no doubt every scene will sit with you for some time.

Thanks to Netgalley for this advance copy

We Do Not Part was such an atmospheric read, ideal to hunker down with on a stormy winters night. We follow two characters who have been friends for years, both with their own relationship to the Korean War of the early 1950s. While their story gets increasing foggy and has you questioning what's real and what's not, we are given snippets of Inseon's mother's life and experience as a child in 1950 during the war.

There were some really great ideas in this book, however I'm not sure all of them worked for me. I found myself tuning out sometimes and needing to go back to reread passages (which doesn't usually happen for me). I think perhaps this was due to the constant back and forth between time periods and perspectives. The overall structure just felt a bit off for me. Nevertheless I've found myself thinking a lot about this novel since finishing it.

There are scenes in this book where we follow the characters hiking through a snowstorm, freezing and wet and disoriented, and that's exactly what it feels like to read this book. I wish the structure was a little different, as that's what I think is preventing this book from being a new favourite, but it may just be a case of the right book at the wrong time.

I am not usually on top of reading the latest Nobel prize winner's books, but in the case of Han Kang, I had already had her books on my list before. In the past two months I've read two books by her, The Vegetarian and, now, We Do Not Part. And I have to say that although I appreciated The Vegetarian, We Do Not Part hit me in a completely different way. Thanks to Penguin, Hamish Hamilton, and NetGalley for providing me with a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

We Do Not Part is a book about history and trauma, about how trauma gets passed down, even silently, through generations, and about how, even without you being aware of it, you may be carrying it with you. In this book, Han Kang addresses a part of Korean history I was unaware of, specifically the Jeju Uprising (April 1948 - May 1949) and the Bodo League Massacre and Gyeongsan Cobalt Mine Massacre that followed. Hundreds of thousands of Koreans, men, women, young children, babies, and elderly, died during these massacres and it took decades for the full truth to emerge about it and for the bereaved to receive recognition. As such, violence and pain reverberate throughout We Do Not Part, which does not make it an easy read. Not only are there detailed descriptions of war crimes, torture, and violence, but it is also made clear how a trauma like this leaves traces throughout a people and country. Both main characters in the book, Kyungha and Inseon, are haunted in different ways by the past. For Kyungha, she is followed by horrid dreams ever since writing a book about a massacre, which may or may not have led to the depression she is currently experiencing. Inseon, meanwhile, comes from Jeju and her family was deeply marked by the horrors they experienced. As an adult, Inseon is uncovering this history, while coming to terms with her own ideas of her parents. I am German and, in a weird way, I recognised certain elements of Han Kang's discussion of history and trauma in the way I deal with my country's past. What happened in the places I live, the horrors that were committed there, it leaves traces I still encounter every day through memorial plaques or stories that are shared. Of course the Holocaust and Nazi regime are very different from the massacres and regime of Korea in the 1940's and '50s, but this heavy burden of the past, of knowingly being somewhere where evil happened, it's a shadow I recognise and whose weight is almost unbearable at times. Somehow, in We Do Not Part, Han Kang manages to both shine a stark, unflinching light onto these horrors, while grasping the flickering, shadowed perspective of trauma, which can't bear to look back but is forced to every time.

We Do Not Part is split into three parts, ironically, called 'I. Bird', 'II. Night', and 'III. Flame'. The novel is largely told through Kyungha's perspective, especially in the first part. She is living in Seoul, although you could hardly call it living. Kyungha is haunted by dreams of trees, snow, graves, and floods, ever since writing a book about a massacre and now she is trying to write a final will. She is roused, however, when her friend Inseon asks her to come to the hospital, where she is currently recovering after an accident. Inseon was a photographer and documentary filmmaker, until she returned to Jeju Island to look after her ageing mother. Inseon needs Kyungha to go to Jeju immediately, to give her bird water because otherwise she will die. And so Kyungha lands on Jeju as an epic snow storm takes over the island. The whole of We Do Not Part, arguably, takes place over two or so days, as Kyungha heads to Jeju, struggles to Inseon's house, and there has to deal with the past of Inseon's family, their experiences during the Jeju Uprising and the following massacres, and how this shaped both Inseon and herself. What of the latter two parts of the novel is "real" and what is a dream hardly matters. We Do Not Part becomes at once a novel about the horrors of the past and a novel about the strength of friendship. This may sound cliche and it is important to know that it is not as if friendship saves the day in We Do Not Part. Rather, Han Kang manages to depict this quiet resilience you can find in friendship, which allows you to face the darkest parts of yourself and history, the things you fear but know are there, which allows you to share a burden, to gaze into the abyss together and feel a little less alone in the face of it. Without this core friendship, and the insights we get into it, We Do Not Part would have been a deeply depressing novel, but through it, Han Kang almost manages to shine a light onto how we might be able to cope with the horrors of the past. By dragging it into the light, looking at it together, and being there with one another.

As I mentioned above, I read The Vegetarian at the end of 2024. I had heard so much about the book that my expectations were quite high, but I was not prepared for the dreamlike oddness of the book, the distance it took from its purported main character. I think I need to reread it at some point. Because of this experience, I went into We Do Not Part a little less sure of whether Han Kang's writing worked for me. And yet, it gripped me almost immediately in a way The Vegetarian hadn't. We Do Not Part is a lyrical, dreamlike book as well, but here it reflects the mindset of trauma in a way that eases the reader into the experience. In their review on We Do Not Part, Roman Clodia talked about the the varied use of symbolism, especially the snow and fingers, which come to mean different things, and about how these 'sorts of dualities of imagery give a gorgeous coherence to the book'. This kind of crystalised for me what worked so well about We Do Not Part, which is that this slow layering of symbols and ideas functions almost like the snow in the novel itself. The first few gentle snowflakes of snow can be ignored or looked past, but once it comes down heavy that softness becomes heavy and oppressive. Han Kang builds up slowly to the absolute horror of the historical events We Do Not Part focuses on until, in the end, much like Kyungha and Inseon, you cannot escape it and have to face it. It is a slow path, but by the end, Kyungha and Inseon were people to me, rather than characters, and people I cared very deeply about. I also think e. yaewon/이예원 and Paige Aniyah Morris did an excellent job translating the book. While, of course, I don't know how the Korean read, I definitely got a sense of the lyricism and dreamlike quality Han Kang must have intended for this book.

We Do Not Part is a stunning and painful book, which uncovers a period of history we really all should know more about. It is a novel about pain and the worst kinds of things that can be done, but it is also about how we look at these things unflinchingly, even if it hurts. While it isn't a "how to deal with trauma" book, it is the kind of book that might be able to give you a language for the things you are dealing with.

Kangs books is one of the creepiest I know. Her way of getting to to the inner of things and almost flaking out the most delicate of every character is more creepy than a ghost story. This is a must-read! Thanks to NetGalley, the publisher and the author for a chance to read this eARC in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.

Han Kang’s work always makes me think about anxiety—especially the kind that builds to the edge of a breakdown, or at least something that feels like one. In We Do Not Part, I could sense the restrained energy of her characters, “like an asteroid thought to be on a collision course avoids Earth by a hair’s breadth.” There’s a quiet intensity in the way she writes, a tension that lingers long after the final page; like something unspoken, but never quite gone.

This book ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹

Han Kang’s WE DO NOT PART (originally published as 작별하지 않는다 in 2021, English translation by e. Yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris) is a beautiful and immersive work that, at its heart, is a story of love and friendship and the stories that are the stuff of us.

Kyungha receives an urgent call concerning Inseon, an old friend and creative partner. They had once planned to work on a project inspired by a recurring dream of Kyungha’s, one that kept visiting her in the wake of her affecting research into a novel about (presumably) the Gwangju massacres. But things came up, years passed, and it never really got off the ground. Now Kyungha receives news that Inseon has had a debilitating injury which requires specialist care at a hospital in Seoul. She visits Inseon, who later asks her to do what feels like an impossible task: to urgently get to Inseon’s home in Jeju and care for Inseon’s cherished pet bird before its too late. Battling a thick snowstorm and unfamiliar terrain, she relies on her memories of a previous trip to visit Inseon and her late mother Jeongsim in order to try and get there in time.

Beautifully drawn, the journey takes on larger connotations. Amidst the thick snowfall, the beauty in endless white, is a twin feeling of unease and suffocation. A person could be buried in all that lightness and serenity. As she arrives at Inseon’s, a storm-induced power cut removes all external sources of light and warmth. Inseon is there, and stories reveal themselves in the hush and flickering shadows, a stub of candlelight all there is to illuminate their surroundings.

Boundaries between the real and unreal, past and present, are infinitely blurred in this dream-like setting, painful stories of violent oppression faced by Jeju Islanders in the wake of the 1948 Uprising taking on life in the winter chill. Spoken into the void, cruel injustices faced by the people of Jeju, Inseon’s own family, take on form between the two friends, long-buried historical traumas as vivid as a series of haunting tableaus in the white dark.

If the same water molecules cycling through this atmosphere into cloud and rain and snow have done so over and over since time immemorial, rising from the earth to gently fall upon Jeju again and again, then and now, then these keepers of collective memory are tangible reminders of histories that remain as vividly alive in the present. The long deferred collaboration between these two friends have taken place after all, a compelling journey into the abyss. Grief is fathoms deep, bringing it to light comes at a cost.

I loved this book. Once again, I’m left with admiration for Han Kang’s talents as writer, even as my heart feels like it’s been wrung dry. Elements of her previous works are recognisable here, but it easily stands as it’s own work. Her artistry is evident, words painting landscapes, delicately drawn metaphors evoking the feeling of oppression and sorrow that comes with witnessing testimonies of people who suffered; survivors, descendants, and the dead. As if to reflect government censorship, the stories burn brightest in the shadows, details painstakingly searched for in pages of documents. As real as their surroundings, the past lives on in the present. To resist efforts to forget is an act of love, a responsibility bequeathed to the living. Only with bringing truths to light, can reconciliation occur. Only through remembering the past, can we honour those who have departed, from whom we do not part.

Thank you so much @hamishHamilton @netgalley for my copy of this book, very grateful! 🤍

This one is really tough to review as I think the writing is phenomenal, but I struggled with the pacing so much. It’s taken me so much longer to read than usual and I found I was only invested in part of the novel. The telling of the events of a largely undiscussed part of Korean history kept me reading, but I often put the book down during parts in between and wasn’t overly motivated to pick it up again. Overall, this one wasn’t really for me but I’m glad I read it to learn about the Jeju massacre and also to read Kang’s excellent writing.

This author is an amazing writer. I have read The Vegetarian which like this book, I found hard going at times, a little slow if I'm honest but the writing is just phenomenal. The charaters are so real. The drifting between dream and reality was intriguing but sometimes hard to follow. Some sentences were just absolutely perfect. I am definitely going to buy a copy of this book as somehow (weirdly) I think it will be even better and I'll get more from it.

It would be easy to pull in all the superlatives about this novel – without question, the writing is outstanding, as is the deft luring in of the reader. Friendship, loyalty, family, are finely drawn with mystery and suspense to keep the pages turning. Every sense is brought into play as history unfolds to share horrifying and sinister events, long smothered. Han Kang manages to be fantastical and surreal, inverting and subverting the rules of reality on this heartbreaking journey of enduring friendship and memories.

“𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵?
𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵?
𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦?”

Kyungha, our main character, is a writer who is on the verge of completing her latest novel. However, she struggles with vivid nightmares that she believes are tied to her writing process, as if she is releasing her inner demons onto the page - these nightmare usually go away once she meets her writing deadline. Here we catch brief glimpses of her narrative that seem disconnected from reality. But this time, things take a turn: even after finishing her manuscript, the nightmares continue to haunt her.

Kyungha’s writing routine is interrupted by a text from Inseon, an old close friend who used to be a filmmaker “𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦, 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘮-𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯” – but today Inseon has changed careers to become a sculptor/carpenter of sorts in a remote village in Jeju Island; The two friends have last seen each other just over a year. We learn that Inseon had be airlifted to Seoul for an operation following a serious accident chopping wood, she might lose her fingers/hand movement. Inseon has had to leave behind her pet bird, which will quickly die unless it is fed. She sets Kyungha the mission to go to her house on the island to save her bird.

What ensues is part nightmare, part reality, part torpor. With Kyungha’s journey comes also a journey of understanding and resilience, through her stay at Jeju Island the hidden story of Inseon's family surges into light, in dreams and memories passed from mother to daughter, and in an archive Inseon’s had assembled at the house, documenting a terrible massacre on the island of 30,000 civilians, murdered in 1948-9.

Kang masterfully weaves a dark, intimate tale that is steeped in history, delivering it in a distant yet profoundly powerful manner. At one point, I did wonder if these were still Kyungha’s nightmares – what if this was the book she was writing, it isn’t clear though, but I like to think so.

This is the third of her books that I've read, beginning with The Vegetarian , followed by Greek Lessons . I've been told that I should have read 'Human Acts' before this one—oh well, that will have to be my next read! #pudseyrecommends

“𝘚𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥, 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵, 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵?
𝘞𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘐 [𝘒𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘢] 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥.
𝘈𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘞𝘦 𝘋𝘰 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵. 𝘈𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦, 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴? […] 𝘐𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨? 𝘐𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥? 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦 – 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦? 𝘐𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺?”

Thanks to Penguin UK & Netgalley for the arc.

I knew nothing about the Jeju massacre before reading this so this was a really enlightening but difficult read. I enjoyed the contrast in the two parts of the book and how reality began to shift as the story progressed. Not a single word is wasted, every sentence is sublime. My first Han Kang read and I will definitely be going back for more.