Concerning My Daughter by Kim Hye-Jin

“The expectations and ambitions, possibilities and hopes concerning my daughter – they still remain and torment me no matter how hard I work to get rid of them. To be rid of them, how skeletal and empty do I have to be?


Despite its short length Concerning my Daughter is by no means a breeze to read. It is a candid and stark study of a fraught mother-daughter relationship. In Concerning my Daughter Kim Hye-Jin examines generational differences, cultural conservatism, and the realities of being an lgbtq+ person living in a heteronormative and traditionalist society.

The story is told from the perspective of a middle-aged woman, a widowed careworker and mother to Green, who is now in her thirties. When Green asks her to rent out a room to her, she reluctantly obliges and is horrified to discover that Green will be joined by her long-term girlfriend, Lane. The mother wants her daughter to be happy, but her vision of contentment does not align with Green’s. The narrator longs for Green to lead a ‘normal’, expected, life: husband, children, a house. But here she is in her thirties and living with her. Worst, she is ‘unapologetically’ and ‘unabashedly’ gay, and has no intention of hiding her relationship from the prying eyes of others. In fact, Green is fighting for lgbtq+ rights, protesting the discrimination and unfair dismissal faced by members of her community at the university where she was employed at.

Throughout the course of the narrative, the mother fails to understand her daughter, and to a certain extent vice-versa. The author never condemns the mother for her lack of knowledge or her unwillingness to understand her daughter’s sexuality. Without excusing her homophobia, she identifies instead the harmful rhetorics promoted by her society. Additionally, we are shown repeatedly that it is this desire to protect her daughter from discrimination and injustices that leads her to reject Green’s ‘unorthodox’ lifestyle. Being in her head was by no means pleasant but her perspective rang sadly true to life.

The narrative swings between the mother’s uneasy relationship with Green and her girlfriend, to her taxing workplace. There she witnesses how uncaring and downright neglectful the staff is towards one of her elderly dementia patients. The patient has no family to speak of and therefore no one but our narrator looks out for her. The mother fights against the idea that this patient should be treated this way because she did not conform to society (the patient was a diplomat of some renown who travelled the world). I found the parallelism between this patient and Green banal …
I also disliked the gratuitous descriptions of the patients’ bodily functions and wounds. The author could have made us understand her neglectful living conditions without lingering on scenes detailing these things.
Her experiences with this patient lead to some depressingly bleak questions about mortality and ageing that at times came across as a wee bit too predictable.

I think I would have found this to be a more compelling story if the narrative had focused exclusively on the mother-daughter relationship but neither of these characters struck me as particularly fleshed out. It would have been nice also if the perspective could have alternated between the mother and Green’s girlfriend, just so we could see Green both in the role of daughter and partner.
Still, I appreciated the issues raised in this narrative. In some ways, it hit a bit too close to home as I am a lesbian from a fairly conservative country that has yet to legalize gay marriage and cares little about the wellbeing of its lgbtq+ citizens and I am temporarily living with someone who has dementia and needs full-time care…so yes, maybe readers who are more removed from the events described in the narrative, or are not as ‘thin-skinned’ as I am, will find this to be a more poignant read than I did.

my rating: ★ ★ ★

I Want to Die But I Want to Eat Tteokbokki by Baek Se-hee

“I wonder about others like me, who seem totally fine on the outside but are rotting on the inside, where the rot is this vague state of being not-fine and not-devastated at the same time.”

There was something about the title and cover of this book that brought to mind Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation and a line from Madame Bovary: ‘She wanted both to die and to live in Paris’. Naturally, me being a fan of both of those novels, I found myself intrigued by I Want to Die But I Want to Eat Tteokbokki. This is a relatively short read which is made up of the transcripts from the author’s session with her psychiatrist over a 12-week period. While there are occasional breaks in this patient/psychiatrist dialogue, these are brief, lasting one or two pages and consist of the author musing on the words of her psychiatrist or offering her own words of wisdom. Now, on the one hand, I appreciated reading these sessions as they lead to discussions on self-esteem, depression, anxiety, peer pressure, one’s desire to fit in and be liked, toxic relationships, etc. Baek’s worries and everyday tribulations will likely resonate with many millennials. While I appreciate the honesty that radiated from these sessions, and from her willingness to confront, assess, and critique aspects of herself, I did grow a tad bored by them. I remember coming across a book (i think it was a book) where a character comments on how, most of the time, other people’s dreams do not strike us as interesting as our own ones. Well, this is how I feel about this book. Baek, understandably, finds these sessions to be enlightening as through them she gains self-knowledge and a more nuanced understanding of her mental health, I did not. As I said, I could certainly relate to some of the conversations they have around self-esteem and self-perception, but at the end of the day, these sessions were tailored for Baek, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy at being ‘invited’ in. Maybe because I have always associated therapists/psychiatrists with privacy, but there were several instances where I wanted to bow out and leave Baek some space. Part of me wishes that this book could have taken only certain exchanges from her sessions, and incorporated these into longer pieces where the author considers the issues they discussed. In short, I wanted to hear more from Baek, and less from her psychiatrist. If I were to record my hypothetical sessions with a therapist or whoever, I doubt anyone would want to read transcripts of it. And if they did, well, that’s kind of sus.
Anyway, jokes aside, this was by no means a bad book. I just think it could have benefitted from more original content (ie mini-essays/think pieces).

my rating: ★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆

The Old Woman with the Knife by Gu Byeong-mo

The Old Woman with the Knife follows Hornclaw a 65-year-old assassin in South Korea who is noticing that she is no longer as fit as she used to be. She makes a few slips up on the job and wonders when her company is going to force her into retirement. Due to the nature of her job Hornclaw leads a solitary lifestyle, her only companion is an old dog whose presence she endures more than she enjoys. She is shown to be fairly apathetic and efficient even if the people around her are quick to dismiss her based on her gender and age. Not only does Hornclaw have to contend with the possibility of her motor and cognitive skills deteriorating but a young male colleague of hers seems eager to embarrass her, talking down to her and making jabs at her techniques. Although mildly annoyed by this Hornclaw doesn’t seem particularly bothered by him however when it seems that his dislike of her may be deeper than what their superficial colleague-relationship entails, Hornclaw can no longer be passive. When he begins to interfere with her jobs and her private life Hornclaw has no choice but to confront him.
I was hoping for the story to be more about Hornclaw’s profession rather than the cat/mouse game between her and her colleague. That man is fairly one-dimensional and the way he is portrayed often veers into the cartoonish so I never took him as a serious threat. While we do get glimpses into Hornclaw’s past, in particular the circumstances that led to her entering this line of work and her relationship with her mentor, the narrative relies too much on the ‘telling’ of things. I would have preferred to read more scenes actually showing Hornclaw working, either on her first jobs or her most memorable killings. Hornclaw’s characterisation also seemed a tad uneven. It seemed to me that the author couldn’t quite bring themselves to portray Hornclaw as a ruthless and self-serving killer so we end up with a character who demonstrates very inconsistent characteristics that don’t quite add up. Also, we are told that at one point or another she has cared for two individuals but I didn’t quite believe that as the first instance is the cliched mentee has feelings for mentor shebang and the other was just kind of weird. Lastly, while for much of the narrative we are told about how remorseless and cold-hearted Hornclaw is she actually comes across as frustratingly unassertive and not incredibly good at her job. It would have been more refreshing to see a character of her age and gender be outspoken or even aggressive and arrogant. Hornclaw ascribes her ‘softening’ to her ageing but that seemed a bit of a cop-out. I’m sure that frailty or the possibility of frailty could make one feel more vulnerable or more perceptive and sympathetic of the vulnerabilities of others but it does end up making Hornclaw into a rather corny character. Still, I can’t think of another book that is centred on a female assassin in her mid-60s so if you are interested in this kind of premise you should definitely check this one out for yourself.

my rating: ★★★☆☆

The Red Palace by June Hur

“I wanted to love and be loved. I wanted to be known. I wanted to be understood and accepted.”

The Red Palace makes for a fairly suspenseful read, one that will definitely appeal to fans of YA mysteries where the lead girl goes all Nancy Drew trying to figure out who the culprit is. And of course, given the setting, Korea in 1758, The Red Palace will likely appeal to fans of historical K-dramas. Personally, I think The Red Palace is the kind of book I would have loved 10 years or so ago. Now, I am a bit more nitpicky and there are a few things that prevented me from being fully immersed in Hyeon’s story.

“We are women,” she continued, “and nothing short of death stops us from doing precisely what we wish to do. That is what the laws and restrictions binding our lives breed: determination and cunning. The likes of you will not obey me. You will tell me that you intend to be as still as a rock, and yet I know you will dart from shadow to shadow like a fish.”

Hyeon is the illegitimate daughter of Lord Shin, who refuses to acknowledge her as his daughter. In their kingdom, Hyeon is seen as ‘belonging’ only to her mother, one of Lord Shin’s concubines, and therefore belongs to the ‘cheonmin class’ which she describes as ‘the lowest of the low’. Hyeon refuses to grow up into her mother however and dedicates herself to the study of medicine, eventually earning the coveted position of palace nurse. Hyeon hopes that her hard-work and ambition will result in her father’s approval but he continues to largely ignore her existence.
Hyeon’s life is upended when four women are murdered at the palace, most of whom were nurses like her. After her beloved mentor is accused and arrested for these murders Hyeon is determined to clear her name. Concerning rumours around the city claim that the Crown Prince is the killer, and Hyeon has no choice but to pursue this lead, even if doing so could potentially result in her ruin. Thankfully, Hyeon doesn’t have to navigate this world of dangerous court intrigues alone as she is aided by Eojin, an actual police officer. Eojin has some personal reasons for wanting to find the real killer so the two decide to combine their efforts. As they confront various people of interest they slowly begin to untangle the truth…of course, not everyone is happy with that and Hyeon risks losing what she’s worked so hard for.

The stakes were certainly high in this novel so I found myself reading this in quite a short amount of time, wanting to find out how our leads would manage to bring the real killer to justice.
The historical setting is the most well-developed aspect of the narrative. While there were some interactions that had slightly ‘modern’ dynamics (especially between the two leads), overall I liked the amount of detail that went into the setting. The author does use Hyeon as an ‘intermediary’ to the Joseon period (she sometimes forget certain key factors of her society, and asks someone to fill her in, other times she explains about Confucianism or other things that she would not really need to ‘explain’ to herself) but it kind of works as Hyeon does function as an extension of the reader. Her Daddy Issues™ and her role as a nurse are her main defining characteristic, which didn’t make for a truly fleshed out and fully dimensional character. All of the characters, in general, were fairly one-note, even Eojin. The story was more interested in establishing and exploring the setting and the mystery than in developing its characters. I am the type of reader who prefers character-driven stories (rather than plot-driven) so I wasn’t quite able to love this as much as I hoped I would. The mystery itself was a bit predictable, but that’s probably because I have read a ton of thrillers and whodunnits…(and watched one too many scooby-doo episodes/movies). Still, even if the storyline was vaguely formulaic I liked learning more about the Joseon era and I appreciated that the story isn’t romance heavy. Hyeong struggle for self-worth and self-actualization in a society that sees her as ‘less than’ was compelling, and the author also does a good job in regards to her conflicted feelings towards her father (wanting his love and respect while at the same time resenting what he stands for and the way he has treated her and his mother). The writing was at times a bit too dramatic and cheesy for my tastes (“silence fell, as chilling as the shadows enveloping us”, “a thought lurked in the far shadows of my mind”, “we seemed to have, in that moment, merged into one mind with one purpose: find the killer, find the truth”, “revenge begets revenge […] we become the monsters we are trying to punish”, “[her] mouth parted as though in a silent scream”). Still, I recognize that this type of style may very well work for other readers.
The romance was surprisingly cute. In fact, the ‘partnership’ between our leads was one of the most enjoyable things about the story. During their shared scenes Hyeon character became a bit more rounded and interesting.

All in all, I liked The Red Palace well enough! I would definitely recommend you check this one out for yourself and make up your own mind about it.

my rating: ★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆

Love in the Big City by Sang Young Park

Brimming with humor and life, Love in the Big City makes for an ​​entertaining read. I found its protagonist’s lighthearted narration to be deeply compulsive and I was hooked to his story from the very first pages. Similarly to Frying Plantain and The Nakano Thrift Shop Love in the Big City is divided into self-contained parts/chapters, each one focusing on a specific period of our main character’s life. In most of these Young, our mc, is a writer in his early thirties living in Seoul. The gritty realism of his daily life, as well as his love & sex life, brought to mind authors such as Bryan Washington. While this book does touch upon things like homophobia, abortion, STDs, suicidal ideation, it does so in a very casual way that never struck me as offensive or careless. Young is easily the star of the show as he makes for an incredibly funny and relatable character. From his failed relationships to his day-to-day mishaps. Young makes for a carefree and admirably resilient character whose inner monologue and running commentary never failed to entertain me. Love in the Big City also provides readers with a glimpse into the realities of being queer in contemporary Korean society. Yet, while the stigma, shame, and or lack of visibility Young experiences (or is made to experience) are sobering, his voice remains upbeat and easy to follow. Additionally, the author’s vibrant depiction of Seoul makes for a vivid setting. My favourite section was probably the first one, which focuses on Young’s friendship with Jaehee, who for a time is his roommate. Things get complicated when Jaehee begins to lie about Young’s gender to the boy she’s currently seeing. The sections that centre more on Young’s partners, well, they did seem a bit repetitive. Perhaps because most of the men he dates or frequents share a similar kind of dull and off-putting personality. Still, I appreciated how unsentimental the author when portraying and or discussing love and sex.
Although I have read a few books by Korean authors that are set in Korea this is the first time I’ve come across one that is so wonderfully unapologetically queer and sex-positive. More of this, please!
Love in the Big City makes for a candid, insightful, and above all witty read exploring the life of a young(ish) gay man in Seoul.

my rating: ★★★ ¼


Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 by Cho Nam-Joo

While I appreciated the subject matter (no matter how infuriating & depressing), I could not get into the robotic style.

This book opens with Kim Jiyoune, a housewife and stay-at-home mother, acting in an increasingly concerning manner. Depressive episodes give way to ‘bizarre’ instances in which she emulates the behaviour of other women. Her concerned husband decides to enlist the help of a psychiatrist. The narrative then recounts Kim Jiyoung’s life prior to her marriage. We are given a brief picture of her life at home that highlights the double standards between sons and daughters (which generally see boys having more freedom while girls are expected to be more obsequious and to help around the house). We also ‘overhear’ her father’s victim-blaming rhetoric, which sees him blaming his daughter when harassed by a boy in her school (things on the lines of, ‘you obviously did something to make him think that you were interested in him’). At school male teachers act in highly inappropriate if not downright criminal ways (especially when ‘checking’ the female students’ uniforms). While boys are allowed more casual uniforms, girls have to wear a lot of layers and uncomfortable shoes so that they do not distract male students/teachers (i see red whenever i hear stuff like this), they are discouraged from playing physical activities, and during lunchtime, they are served after the boys and told off for not finishing their food fast enough.
At every stage of her life, Kim Jiyoung is confronted with gender-based discrimination. Once in the ‘workforce’ she quickly realizes that female employees are paid less, have very few chances of advancing, and are often given responsibilities and tasks that should be assigned to the newest employees. Married women are seen as undesirable as ‘likely’ to leave their position due to pregnancy/child-rearing, and very few places offer child-friendly work hours. Additionally, working would earn societal disapproval (because ‘they aren’t taking care of their children and it is ‘unnatural’ for a mother not to want to be with their child 24/7 etc.).
We see how all of these incidents over the years chip away at Kim Jiyoung. Time after time she’s faced with sexist and misogynistic behaviour, from colleagues, strangers, and her loved ones. The more aware she becomes of this, the less able she is to suppress her mounting desperation.
The final chapter brings us back to the present but doesn’t delve too deep into Kim Jiyoung’s mental state.

Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 reads a lot like a piece of nonfiction. The author’s prose is exceedingly impersonal, clinical even. While I’m not wholly against this type of detached writing style, here it was so unemotional and analytical that I really had a hard time caring and believing in Kim Jiyoung. Did this book elicit some sort of emotional response in me? Yes. But, I’m afraid I cannot credit the authors’ storytelling as being responsible for this. When reading at length about this kind of subject matter (gender inequality, misogyny, sexism) I will inevitably ‘feel’ something (anger, frustration, etc.). While reading Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 I was reminded of my own close encounters with sexism and misogyny, which aren’t even all that bad but whenever I think back to them mi incazzo (from men leering/shouting at me on the street when i was aged 13 or so, to being told that i should pay no mind to men making inappropriate comments, and if anything, i should be grateful/happy that they were making comments about my body/person, or that time when i and my bf worked in a shoddy cafe together and the team leader used go on anti-women tirades and seemed to enjoy groping us female colleagues, to a stranger sticking his tongue down my throat and snapping at me after being pushed away, to being told that i shouldn’t do certain things because i’m a girl, etc. etc. etc.). What I’m saying is, of course, I felt something. I’m sure many other readers can relate to ​​Kim Jiyoung’s experiences. But I also wondered what was the point of making all these things into a ‘story’? The author basically lists the everyday realities of an average woman, specifically a Korean woman born in 1982 into a relatively stable household.
The recounting of these episodes of sexism & co are a matter of fact and often surface level. The characters are one-dimensional and exist only to illustrate a certain point or address a certain type of behaviour. Kim Jiyoung is so generic that she seemed devoid of a personality. The narrative, whether intentionally or not, robs her of a distinctive voice… So, not only is Kim Jiyoung disempowered by her society’s oppressively traditionalist gender roles and by the many injustices she faces growing up female in Korea, but, the narrative itself denies her an identity. And, while I recognise that the last chapter reframes the rest of the story, I still cannot reconcile myself with this narrative choice. If anything, that last chapter reads like a gimmicky twist. Also, I didn’t quite like how Kim Jiyoung’s breakdown is shown to be a direct result of the patriarchy (especially considering that while she does experience gender-based injustices and microaggressions, at the of the day, much of what she experiences is very much your regular every-day sexism).
Maybe cis male readers or readers who have grown up in really progressive countries will be able to gain something from this book that I wasn’t able to.

my rating: ★★½


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Untold Night and Day by Bae Suah

“Objects, matter itself, were softly disintegrating. All identity became ambiguous, semi-opaque.”



As the fickle creature that I am what drew me to Untold Night and Day was its cover. The first few pages intrigued me as they focus on Kim Ayami a former actor who now works at an audio theatre for the blind. The narrative that follows is rather metaphysical in nature, most of the discussions that occur within these pages are abstract and or relating to sensory experience, with, as the title suggests, special attention paid to night and day, darkness and lightness. This slim tome repeatedly obfuscates the line between dreams and reality, so that everything we read of is tinged by an air of surreality. At one point we read of a character who seems to be stalking Ayami before returning to her and a foreign poet nicknamed Wolfi. The novel was certainly disorienting, and in that, it evokes one of the story’s earlier episodes when Ayami meets with ‘the director’ in an exclusive ‘blackout restaurant’. We can’t really discern a story nor do we become familiar with the characters, and familiar settings and conversations are made unfamiliar. Alas, the discussion they have about art, poetry, performance, life, did not strike me as particularly profound or clever, in fact, they expressed rather tired ideas.
I can safely say that I did not get this novel. While I usually like surrealist narratives but here…well, I just did not care. If you are looking for an experimental read and you have a higher tolerance for novels that are confusing for the sake of being confusing, well, you should give this one a try.

my rating: ★★☆☆☆

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Lemon by Kwon Yeo-Sun

I read Lemon only a few days ago and yet I can barely recall what it was about. Which isn’t a good sign. According to the summary, this was meant to be a suspenseful work exploring trauma, grief, and guilt but to be perfectly honest, it was anything but suspenseful and its themes felt barely touched upon. This short narrative consists of various chapters narrated by different characters connected to Kim Hae-on, a beautiful young girl killed during the summer of 2002. The story opens with Hae-on being interrogated by a detective in what seems to be a poor take on a police procedural. The remainder of Lemon consists of other characters talking about this murder. They all seem to have way too much information about the investigation and other events (events they did not witness first-hand) and that resulted in me feeling relatively disengaged and disbelieving of their words/accounts. We don’t know who’s speaking as each chapter doesn’t specify who’s pov we are reading and that quickly became annoying, especially since their voices sounded suspiciously similarly. There were two chapters that are meant to be one side of a phone conversation and these ones were so over the top. The way the person we were ‘hearing’ just happens to repeat the questions of the person at the end of the line (“Pardon me? What did you say, Doctor? What am I doing right now? Talking to you, of course.”)…why just not include both ends of this conversation?

I’m afraid I found this novel’s execution lacking. The characters, if we can call them such, are barely there, the narrative more intent on impressing readers through the way these various accounts are structured than on presenting us with an intriguing mystery.
Many of the phrases struck as me clichèd (here the translation may be to blame) and/or banal “Life begins without reason and ends without reason”, “her beauty seemed not of this world”, “What kind of life is this? Is this living?”. Then there were the odd phrases that I found really annoying in that they”. Some of the descriptions also rubbed me the wrong way because they were going for an edgy tone (“the hairy black patch between my legs”) or were simply a bit antiquated (call me a snowflake or whatever but i wish this expression ceased existing: “joined together like a set of Siamese twins”).
If you are interested in Lemon I recommend you check out more positive reviews as I have 0 positive things to say about this.

ARC provided by the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

my rating: ★★☆☆☆

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Shoko’s Smile: Stories by Eun-young Choi

When it comes to collections of short stories, more often than not, I find myself rather unaffected by them. While most collections do have one or two good stories in them, the remainder tends to be either forgettable or plain bad. The stories in Shoko’s Smile are by no means terrible but they did strike me as rather monotonous, dull even. I liked Eun-young Choi’s restrained prose and that many of her stories hone in on life’s quieter moments. Most of her stories are characterised by a sense of loss: there are those who are grieving the death of a loved one, those who regret not having done more to understand a friend or a relation of theirs, and those who long to be reunited with someone they care for. Generational divides also seem to be a recurring motif within this collection, as many stories feature children/parents or grandchildren/grandparents.

The blurb’s comparison to Banana Yoshimoto does seem rather fitting, although I did find Choi’s tone to be slightly more sombre. I liked that the stories didn’t exclusively focus on South Korean characters, as we ones are starring Vietnamese and Japanese ones.
While Choi’s themes were interesting and I did like her unadorned yet polished, the stories themselves…well, they didn’t necessarily move me. Take the first story for example. The dynamic between the narrator and Shoko had potential but then as the narrative progresses the story veers into melodrama. A lot of the characters also sounded very much like the same person, which didn’t help to differentiate their stories. They were too ‘samey’ and despite their relatively short length, I found my interested waning more often than not.
I am sure other readers will find these stories more heart-rendering than I did so I recommend you check out some more positive/in-depth reviews.


my rating: ★★★☆☆

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I’ll Be Right There by Shin Kyung-sook

“Is this life? Is this why the relentless passing of time is both regretful and fortunate?”

I feel rather conflicted about I’ll Be Right There. The first two chapters certainly held my attention and some of the discussions that occur later in the narrative were thought-provoking, but, alas, many of the dialogues came across as stilted, there are many instances where the story verges on being straight-up misery-porn, and yet we also get a good ol’ dose of melodrama and some rather sappy moments.
After receiving a phone call from her ex-boyfriend our narrator, Jung Yoon, reminiscences about her early twenties. Her time at university in the 1980s was punctuated by anti-government student demonstrations. Yoon is still mourning the death of her mother and feels slightly removed from her everyday life. She becomes close to two other students, Myungsuh and Miru. The three are united by their trauma, grief, and shared sense of not belonging.
The story that follows is quite slow going. We get detailed descriptions of some of the lessons they attend or the walks they go on. Now and again we are reminded of the fraught political atmosphere but the major conflicts within the story stem from grief-related trauma. I wasn’t too keen on the way Miru’s backstory is presented. Not that I can’t believe that all these horrible things happened to her but the way her past was revealed to Yoon—and us—seemed to sensationalise it. In general, I can’t say that I cared for how mental health-related issues are dealt with within this novel. A character has an ED and this is portrayed almost in a poetic light.
The dialogue occasionally was just jarring. We have a scene in which character A is confessing their feelings to character B. Character B responds by saying ‘do you like more than character C?’. And character A doesn’t answer this but goes on to recount a story about a dead sparrow and then about being peer-pressured into eating a sparrow and all the while saying how they love B as much as the sorrow/tragedy they experienced in those moments. But character B keeps asking the same question (do you like me more than C?) throughout A’s sparrow speech.
The professor character remains largely off-page so I did not feel anything really towards him. Interspersed throughout the narrative are diary entries of Myungsuh and I can’t stay that these added anything (to him or the overarching story).

I appreciated some of the discussions on grief and literature but I never felt anything in particular for the characters. The ‘romances’ were very ‘meh’. They sort of happen and I can’t say I found them all that convincing.
All in all, I just think this wasn’t the right read for me. The story is boring, the characters dull and defined by their trauma, and the narrative’s tone often shifted to one that was far too sentimental for my taste. But, just because this was not a ‘win’ in my books does not mean that you should not give it a try so I recommend you check out more positive reviews if this is on your radar.

my rating: ★★★☆☆

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