Han Kang

This book wrecked me. That doesn't happen too often.

Where shall I go? I asked myself.
Go to your sister.
But where is she?
Go to those who killed you, then.
But where are they?

Kang takes on a harsh subject, the Gwangju Uprising in 1980, which left hundreds - possibly thousands - dead. Starting with bodies. Rotting corpses piled high in a school gymnasium, watched over by teenagers who barely know what they're fighting for, wrapping the corpses in the Korean flag for their families (if they're show more identified), waiting for the soldiers to arrive and put the uprising down for good. The first one we meet is Dong-ho, 15, still in middle school, looking for his friend who was gunned down in the street. Soon he will be dead too. And he will haunt the narrative as Kang follows her characters forward in time, through dictatorship, censorship, torture, prison, democratization, remembrance.

Conscience.
Conscience, the most terrifying thing in the world.

I'd say it's a novel shot through with PTSD, except of course it can't be, since for most of it, the events that kicked it off never officially happened. You can't be post-traumatic if the trauma isn't acknowledge. Things get to fester. Violence erupts - suddenly, now or in memories - sharp, uncompromising, and with very real effects. Seriously, it's a very violent novel, all the more so because Kang doesn't shy away, but she (and her translator) have the story so perfectly in hand it never feels sensationalist or maudlin. She keeps returning to the "you" - the second-person narration, Dong-ho, the kid who only wanted to know what happened to his friend, making the story whirl faster around itself even as the events shrink into the supposed past.

And yet, that's not what really gets me about the book.

Is it true that human beings are fundamentally cruel? Is the experience of cruelty the only thing we share as a species? Is the dignity that we cling to nothing but self-delusion, masking from ourselves this single truth: that each one of us is capable of being reduced to an insect, a ravening beast, a lump of meat?

And she keeps coming back to the other side of it. The people who refused to go home, as misguided as they may have been. The loved ones who cling to something for decades. The townspeople who lined up to give blood even as the troops closed in. The ones who find ways to speak up even when the act of speaking was illegal. Throughout the entire novel, counterbalancing all those putrefying corpses, the question of what a soul might be, just which side of us is the most human. Not necessarily in a religious sense, mind you, but some way of explaining all those acts of kindness and mercy, love and friendship - and their flipsides, guilt, pride, and inability to forgive. Nobody said having a soul, whatever it might be, made life easier. That's the bit that still hurts long after your fingernails have grown back, after all. But still. What are we?

We may be the ones who remember. Who may, or may not, choose to know why we remember.

Please, write your book so that nobody will ever be able to desecrate my brother's memory again.

This book wrecked me. show less

Boundaries demarcate limits imposed externally or internally. The wilful transgression of boundaries is a species of violence. Whether one crosses into another country or out of the norms of society, violence ensues. Yeong-hye initiates us into this transgressive territory through her decision to become vegetarian. It is an act of will but also defiance. She will not be limited to the (mis)construed norms of her family or society. But is it an expression of freedom or self-constraint? show more Yeong-hye is desperate to avoid the bloody violence of her dreams. She seeks not merely abstinence from meat, but perhaps from her own animal nature. So, not so much a desire to become a vegetarian as to become vegetal.

Yeong-hye’s brother-in-law is a video artist, only moderately successful. He is shy and pliant, almost weedy. Some time after Yeong-hye’s declaration of vegetarianism, he becomes obsessed with two things: a floral pattern on the naked bodies of a man and a woman engaged in coitus that he draws incessantly in his sketch book, and a small birthmark that may or may not persist on the buttock of Yeong-hye. The artist obsesses. Although Yeong-hye is clearly still emotionally and mentally fragile (her husband and parents have abandoned her), he convinces her to become his female model for the artwork. He takes on the male role in a sexual fantasy facilitated by art. The results are not perhaps unpredictable.

Yeong-hye’s older sister, In-hye, becomes the focus of the third act of this story. She has cut ties with her artist husband. Yeong-hye is now incarcerated in a mental institution but continues to reject both meat and eventually all food. She is dying. In-hye is her only visitor. Yeong-hye’s death may be inevitable but it is not going to be easy. Transgressing the boundary of life rarely is. In-hye appears stoical in the face of wilful death, but she may be hiding an equal longing that she can just barely restrain.

The visceral nature of this novel may catch the unsuspecting reader unawares. But once it grabs hold of you, its grip is unshakeable. Horrific images. Sadly damaged characters. A story that is at once very particular and yet plays at many other levels as well.

Highly recommended. show less

Han Kang, through an English translation by Deborah Smith, has written an important testament to the Gwangju Uprising of 1980, in South Korea. The book portrays the brutal suppression of a student uprising by the military. Be forewarned that it includes graphic descriptions of killings, torture, and decomposition.

It opens with the bodies. Dong-ho, a 15-year-old boy, is searching for the corpse of his best friend. He meets two young women and a young man, college age students, and joins them show more in voluntarily taking care of the bodies of the victims until they are identified by next of kin. The six subsequent chapters contain interwoven threads related to Dong-ho.

This book takes on universal themes such as:
• Does the soul exist independently from the body?
• How do we creatively overcome censorship?
• Do survivors have an obligation to revisit traumatic memories to ensure society remembers?
• Is humankind tethered irrevocably to the darkest side of human nature?
• What is the ongoing impact of a government’s act of violence against its citizens?

The author conveys an eloquent and fluid style, even when describing barbarism. The author has chosen to use a variety of perspectives, including first person, second person and third person, which may be problematic for some readers. Also, some of the narrative jumps from one topic to the next without establishing the larger context. Aside from these minor issues, it is a superbly written and memorable book. While not easy to read due to the horrific subject matter, it relates an important story that needed to be told, as many people in this day are unaware it ever took place. From a purely personal perspective, I would love to see what the author could do with a less morbid subject matter in her future writings.

According to the Epilogue, the author desired to tell the story that would do justice to Dong-ho. On this point, I believe, she has succeeded.

Memorable quotes:
“How long do souls linger by the side of their bodies? Do they really flutter away like some kind of bird?”

“No one had ever taught me how to address a person’s soul.”

“There was only one, distant point of light, where I saw a succession of flares shooting up, glittering shards of light being scattered from the barrels of guns.”

“Ever since the uprising began, I’d felt something coursing through me, as overwhelming as any army. Conscience. Conscience, the most terrifying thing in the world.”

“It was only when we were shattered that we proved we had souls. That what we really were was humans made of glass.” show less

Dong-ho is a middle school student living in Gwangju who gets caught up in the labour and student unrest that took place there in May, 1980. The brutal repression of those clamouring for democratic rights and labour justice was devastating. Its effects live on, both in the lives of those directly touched by these experiences and those who only experience the ripple effect. Like radioactive fallout, the half-life of government sponsored terror permeates everything with which it comes into show more contact. Dong-ho, however, is one of those who never got a chance to live even half a life. Along with friends, relatives, and others he serves as an ongoing reminder of the acts we as humans are capable of inflicting on others.

Dong-ho’s story is told from various perspectives and at different points in time. Often the narrative is written in second person, though whom the “you” is addressing is not always clear. Initially we see events from the point of view of Dung-ho and his boyhood friend. Years later, an editor at a publishing house is touched by the events of that day and its ongoing effects. We see the later life of one of those taken prisoner during the repression, though “life” is probably an over-statement. And we hear the story of a young female factory worker who participated in the protest, and what her involvement has done to her life. Lastly there is the story of Dong-ho’s mother, who never stops fighting for a recognition of the harm that was done to him. The book is rounded out with a section with the voice of “the writer”. Each of these sections could almost stand alone. They have distinctly different styles. I was especially struck by the section from the editor which is fashioned as an attempt to forget the seven vicious slaps she has received from the secret police. But each is devastatingly poignant in its own way.

Han Kang has created a masterful means of bringing Dong-ho to life. Her writing is so spare and judicious that it reads like unsentimental journalism, even when the narrative voice is that of a disembodied spirit still clinging to his bodily remains. But be aware that this is heavy going. You will find it almost impossible not to be moved. It is writing that feels both essential and, one fears, dangerous.

Certainly recommended. show less