WE DO NOT PART

The lyrical latest novel from the new Nobel laureate.

“When someone who hasn’t slept soundly in a while, who is stumbling through a period of nightmares blurring with reality, chances across a scene that defies belief, they may well initially doubt themselves,” we are told early on by Kyungha, the narrator. Even at the beginning, Kyungha doesn’t seem to have a firm grip on what is and what isn’t real. She’s moved by herself into an apartment near Seoul, where she hasn’t unpacked, barely sleeps, eats less, and spends her time writing and rewriting a will that she tears up and writes again every day. Still, when Inseon, an old friend and colleague, texts to say she’s in the hospital and then asks Kyungha to hurry from Seoul to Jeju Island, where Inseon’s pet bird is caged without food and water, Kyungha complies—in the midst of a snowstorm. Even through the veil of translation, the quiet intricacy of the author’s prose glitters throughout, but nowhere is this so evident as in her descriptions of the snow: “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.” This is a mysterious book that resists easy interpretation, but it’s clearly addressing the violent legacies of the past. As Kyungha trudges through the snow toward Inseon’s house, trying to reach the bird before it runs out of water, the reader also knows that, decades earlier, the neighboring village had been incinerated in its entirety. How to hold all this together?

A mysterious novel about history and friendship offers no easy answers.