[Indirect translation] obscures the specific challenges that arise in Korean-Swedish translations, and thus the joy of these two languages meeting.

Behind the walls of the publishing industry, countless decisions are made to bring our favorite novels to our shelves. These decisions grow ever greater when it comes to translations, and particularly translations into languages other than English. In the following essay, Linnea Gradin explores the complex process of bringing Korean literature to Sweden, featuring commentary from Swedish translators and publishers in her analysis of monumental author Han Kang’s latest release in translation: 작별하지 않는다/Jag tar inte farväl/We Do Not Part. Discussing indirect translation, questions of form, and even the choices made in translating a single word, Gradin presents both the burdens and blessings of such a unique language pair.

Han Kang, one of South Korea’s biggest international authors, broke into the English-speaking literary fiction space with a bang in 2016 when she won the International Booker Prize for The Vegetarian (originally published in 2007), a darkly insightful look at Korean society told through the story of a woman who one day decides to stop eating meat in a quiet act of resistance that turns increasingly obsessive. That same year, Human Acts (originally published in 2014)—a novel that delves into painful parts of the country’s past—was also published in English, further cementing Kang as a leading voice of Korean literature worldwide.

Born in the city of Gwangju (where Human Acts is set), Kang is from a family of writers: her father is a teacher and award-winning novelist, and her two brothers are writers too. Kang herself has been widely praised and won many prestigious awards both domestically and internationally, and is known for her ‘poetic’ yet spare and quiet style among Korean readers. In her work, she often comes back to themes of remembrance and Korean history, approaching the subjects in a deeply empathetic though notably neutral way, never telling the readers what to feel or think. After winning the Booker Prize, her work—particularly the English translations of The Vegetarian and Human Acts by Deborah Smith—found itself at the center of discussions about the complexities of translation.

With her latest book, We Do Not Part, scheduled for English-language publication in January 2025 (almost a year after it was published in several European countries), I again find myself reflecting on translation and publication practices—and how different stories are mediated across different parts of the world.


The first time I seriously considered the realities of translation, I was doing something I almost never do: reading a book translated into Swedish, my first language. At some point in my life I had started reading almost exclusively in English, and then made an unspoken rule to only read translated literature in English as well. I was living in England, where English translations are obviously much more prevalent than Swedish ones, and besides, I found Swedish translations of English choppy and stiff—maybe because I’m fluent enough in both to notice. As a result, I would only read a Swedish translation if the source language was another Scandinavian language (which I imagined would be a more natural fit), or on the rare occasion that the text wasn’t yet available in English. This was the case of Han Kang’s We Do Not Part.

All that said: a few years ago, I found myself capitalizing on a “Buy four, get one free” deal at my local bookstore and purchased the Swedish translations of Sun-mi Hwang’s The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly and Han Kang’s Human Acts. I told myself that the Korean originals were so far from both English and Swedish, linguistically speaking, that it wouldn’t matter which language the texts were translated into. And I was mostly right; I noticed no odd phrasing, and I particularly enjoyed Human Acts. But it was only later that I discovered that they were both re-translations of the English versions, and not direct translations of the Korean originals.

Discovering this phenomenon of “translation-hopping” (also known as indirect translation) firmly established my fascination with translated literature, not only as a reader, but also as someone who is fascinated by the politics of publishing. On the one hand, indirect translations can be used to fill a gap in the market, and—for practical or financial reasons—it is sometimes easier, especially for smaller languages like Swedish, to find English-to-Swedish translators than translators that work from another small language, like Korean. According to the Swedish publisher, when Kang’s English translations blew up in the United Kingdom, the Korean-to-Swedish translators would have needed eighteen months to complete the The Vegetarian, and a further few months for Human Acts—which, in the already slow world of publishing, would have set publication back two to three years—whereas an English-to-Swedish translation would ensure that Swedish readers could have access to Kang’s writing while the Booker win was still on everyone’s mind. In this way, re-translations can offer smaller-language markets a chance to keep up with trends, and help to contribute to a more diverse literary landscape.

But as a reader, you’re often not aware of these behind-the-scenes decisions, and when I discovered that the translations I had been reading were in fact not of the originals, it just felt wrong. This sense, almost of betrayal, was rooted in some subconscious hope that the texts I was reading were the same as those that readers of the original language would experience. But if the translator can’t even read the original, this idealized (albeit misconstrued) notion of what translation is drifts even further out of reach.

Of course, on a logical plane, most of us know that no translation will ever be an exact replica of the original, and even word-for-word translations will go through a process of transformation. But indirect translations turn the volume up a bit on these age-old questions: How much creative freedom is a translator allowed, and how can we best safeguard the intentions of the original text? Is it more important to convey the original text “word for word” and leave it to the reader to overcome any potential awkwardness? Or should translators focus more on capturing the essence and feeling of a text through words that are already familiar to their readers, even if it means deviating even further from the original?

Perhaps the answer lies somewhere in between, or there is no answer at all. But when you rely on indirect translation, it is hard to even enter the conversation. Just like each reader brings their own interpretation to the reading experience, so each translator brings theirs. With indirect translations, the original text will always be filtered through the English translator’s interpretation before it is filtered through the Swedish, and there’s no good way of knowing where they have strayed from the original and why. It will thus always echo both the strengths and the weaknesses of the English translation, and any awkwardness will be the result of English-to-Swedish difficulties, rather than Korean-to-Swedish. It could be that these types of “errors” are easier for Swedish readers to subconsciously correct than ones based on a language they are much less familiar with, but it obscures the specific challenges that arise in Korean-Swedish translations, and thus the joy of these two languages meeting.

This discussion is made even more poignant in the case of Han Kang, for whom the English translation of Human Acts by Deborah Smith has been both widely praised and criticized for its rather liberal approach to translation, which Smith has discussed in an essay for Asymptote. When The Vegetarian and Human Acts were then re-translated into Swedish based on the English versions, the creativity of Smith’s translations carried over. According to the Swedish publisher, it has been argued that the Swedish translations of both The Vegetarian and Human Acts are in some ways closer to Smith’s English translations than the Korean originals, in the sense that they, intentionally or not, mimic the uniqueness of Smith’s versions, rather than that of Han Kang’s.

What, then, of Kang’s most recent work in Swedish and English translation, We Do Not Part?

For anyone concerned about indirect translations, there is good news: since the release of Han Kang’s The White Book, Kang has been rendered into Swedish directly from Korean by translator duo Okkyoung Park and Anders Karlsson, which has given Swedish publishers the ability to make their own decisions on when and where to take creative liberties. However, this doesn’t necessarily guarantee “faithful” translation (what does that even mean?)—as with any language pair, translation between small languages offers unique challenges and semantic hurdles of its own.

As mentioned, I first read Han Kang in Swedish when I incidentally encountered the indirect translation of Human Acts. Based on real events, this harrowing story follows a wandering boy in the aftermath of the Gwangju uprising, a student protest in May 1980 that was violently suppressed by South Korea’s military regime. To this day, it is one of my all-time favorite novels for the way it deals with such a heavy topic with sensitivity, engaging with the tragedy without feeling gratuitous.

Years later, reading We Do Not Part first in Swedish and then in English via an early ARC—and now living in South Korea myself—I can’t help but see connections to her earlier work as Kang returns to similar themes. We Do Not Part follows the author Kyungha (Gyeongha in Swedish), who suffers from nightmares and migraines after writing a book about a massacre. In the sweltering Seoul summer, Kyungha experiences a physical and mental collapse, struggling with everyday life as dreams and visions torment her. Wasting away in isolation, she takes cold showers to escape the heat, and occasionally, walks to the restaurant across the street to eat 죽 (juk).

There doesn’t seem to be much keeping Kyungha tethered to this world. But, when she receives a phone call from a friend who’s been in a terrible accident, she agrees to fly to the southern isle of Jeju to care for the friend’s pet bird until she recovers. While on Jeju, Kyungha is reminded of her previous visits to the island: the stories her friend used to tell her about her family, and the island’s tragic but largely unacknowledged past.

In a mixture of dreams, memories, and flashbacks, the imagery shifts from gently falling snow to blizzards as the water washes away all evidence of harm. As both Kyungha and her friend convalesce in their own ways, the story of another bloody massacre gradually comes to light. Throughout it all, Kyungha eats 죽.

It is this word, 죽, that I keep returning to as I consider the peculiarities of translating between two small languages like Korean and Swedish. In the Swedish translation of We Do Not Part by Park and Karlsson, 죽 has been rendered as risgröt, or rice porridge: a translation which is correct, but doesn’t quite capture the nuance of the original word. The Korean 죽 is a light yet nurturing porridge—commonly made with rice, but sometimes made with other grains and legumes—and often eaten when sick. Making 죽 for someone is a sign of care, as years of interacting with Korean culture and people has taught me.

The much richer Swedish risgröt, on the other hand, is a hearty and festive food, boiled in milk and mainly eaten during the Christmas season. As far as I know, it holds no deeper meaning beyond signaling the arrival of the holidays, though the generalized gröt, or porridge, does hold some connotations of health and wellness.

By contrast, the English translators e. yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris have opted for an italicized transliteration of the original Korean word, ‘juk,’ perhaps partly in recognition of the cultural significance and some untranslatable quality that this small word holds.

Having lived in South Korea for a year and studied the language for many more, I am partial to the way that yaewon and Morris have approached this. It feels more faithful to the context of the story: a woman trying to heal her trauma, and a country trying to heal its collective wounds. Juk becomes emblematic of the process of recuperation that Kang serves the reader.

But I do have to ask myself whether this type of translation would have been possible in Swedish. Translation theory and preferences aside, though a Swedish transliteration system for Korean does exist, it is not as standardized nor as widely used as the English—even though the Swedish vowels ‘å’ and ‘ö’ are phonetically much closer to some Korean vowels than the strange configurations that English has to resort to. Furthermore, in an email, the Swedish translators noted that while words like ‘kimchi’ and ‘soju’ may have become viable in Swedish text, ‘juk’ has not yet reached this level of cultural saturation. They are also of the opinion that there’s no specific cultural significance to the word that the Swedish ‘risgröt’ doesn’t capture, and in either case, the context already makes it clear to readers why Kyungha can stomach eating it. Even so, yaewon and Morris are partial to transliteration here, as am I. Neither choice is more “right” than the other, as even the somewhat awkward ‘risgröt’ manages to provide the reader with a sense of comfort, but it does seem to be a choice informed at least partially by what amount of cultural literacy the translators expect of the reader; depending on the target audience, publishers and translators sometimes prefer to assume that readers are starting from absolute scratch, especially when the source language is considered particularly unfamiliar to the readership, as in the case of Swedish readers of Korean literature.

Instead of juk, Park and Karlsson spent considerably more energy on big picture issues like trying to untangle Kang’s use of tense throughout the novel and the passages that Kang has written in Jeju dialect—distinct enough for some to consider it its own language.

As Kyungha visits the island, the reader is transported back in time through flashbacks and memories to witness the gruesome repression of the Jeju uprising of 1948–49, during which 14,000–30,000 people are estimated to have been killed and some 40,000 displaced to Japan. After decades of censorship, the records of these events are limited; this history’s inaccessibility is reflected in Kang’s use of language, which many Korean readers struggle to understand, and the fragmented structure of the narrative.

Park and Karlsson tell me that they normally avoid translating dialects because it feels a bit inauthentic and contrived, but in this case they felt it played a big role in the narrative and decided to approach these passages through a sense of contrast: trying to capture the distinct and lovable Jeju-accent by giving these sections a more old-fashioned, colloquial, and softer feel, even though Kang uses it to recount atrocities. This produces a potent dissonance between form and content.

I must admit, however, that despite reading the novel both in Swedish and in English, I did not know that parts of the narrative were written in dialect until a friend informed me. That said, these sections landed like a gut-punch, so if we take the goal of a translation as conveying the same experience of a text from one readership to another, it seems to have been successful.

I believe this is because Kang has an astute ability to write about tragic events with respect and care, seen across her oeuvre and particularly in Human Acts and We Do Not Part, which shines through even in translation. Though the two books are loosely connected, We Do Not Part is quite distinct from its predecessor, with an erratic and sometimes hard-to-follow narrative where scenes nestle within scenes and readers are forced to stay alert as Kang switches tenses seemingly at random. Where Human Acts is bold and outraged, We Do Not Part has a much more somber tone that is at times hard to interpret, made all the more complicated by the structure of the text.

With such a fragmented narrative, Kang relies heavily on motifs to tie the threads of We Do Not Part together: snowflakes, birds, tidal waves, tree trunks, and, of course, juk. While the Jeju dialect at first seems to be a more load-bearing element of the novel, one that might affect the reading experience more than a single word, it is juk that feels like the beating heart of the story to me, as the narrative time spent eating juk is another way that Kang urges readers not to forget, word by word and spoon by spoon.

Where to draw the line between what to translate and what to leave “untranslated,” or when to depart from the original text, is a case-by-case judgment that every translator has to grapple with, and translators are in the best position to make an informed choice based on the context of the publishing landscape and their own understanding of both cultures. This small word, then, can tell us a lot about the difficulties of translating between languages, especially when the interaction between those two languages is so limited and translators bear the responsibility of introducing readers, sometimes for the first time, to an entire literary landscape, as is with Swedish and Korean. While I would gladly be momentarily confused by new and unfamiliar words—with the ability to look them up later and learn something new—publishers and translators often have different preferences in their translations, and it is often these details that might differ from one translation to another, rather than bigger structural issues, where the effect produced seems to be the main concern.

Juk besides, the quality of both the English and Swedish translations of We Do Not Part is rather encouraging for readers of Kang in all languages, indicating that no particular Germanic language is “better” than another for translating a language like Korean when the proper resources are put into it, and readers can rest easy knowing that the translators have chosen what they think will work best for their readership. Even so, just as each translator and each reader brings their own experiences to the text, so too does the language in which we read affect our experience.

Being able to read in more languages than my native tongue puts me in a position where I can choose translations that best suit my tastes, compare and contrast, and access texts that have not yet reached one market or another. In an ideal world we would not have to rely on indirect translations, but for readers who read in Swedish or English exclusively, translations are key to increasing access and cultural literacy, and any translation—perhaps even one that is indirect—might be better than none. Still, I can’t help but wonder what the result would have been if We Do Not Part had been translated into Swedish based on the English translation. Probably a completely viable translation, which, in a pinch, would have been better than no translation at all, but also one shaped by the choices of English translators for an English-speaking audience. In such a case, we might not even have the privilege of discussing details like juk or how to capture a dialect, because the choice would have already been made by the first translator. While no translation is ever perfect or complete, in that they can never be exactly what the original was, it is just those “untranslatable” qualities between languages and cultures that make translation exciting. With direct translations, Swedish readers get to fully join the conversation and experience the joy of exploring the unique meeting point between Korean and Swedish, from the larger questions of how to capture a dialect, to a warm bowl of juk.

Linnea Gradin is a freelance writer from Sweden, currently based in South Korea. She holds an MPhil in the Sociology of Marginality and Exclusion from the University of Cambridge and has always been interested in matters of representation, particularly in literature. She has also studied Publishing Studies at Lund University and as a writer and the editor of Reedsy’s freelancer blog, she has worked together with some of the industry’s top professionals to organize insightful webinars, develop resources to make publishing more accessible, and write about everything writing and publishing related, from how to become a proofreader, to avoiding ‘white room syndrome’, and what a novella is. Catch some of her book reviews here and here.

*****

An enigmatic atmospheric novel that likely will serve as the introduction for many to Kang's work. This moves in time and space (and through a blizzard) to make points that I suspect I missed as I was caught in the story and because I am less conversant in Korean politics than you might want to be to understand all of this. Kang doesn't focus as much on a linear plot as she does on language and philosophy. Thanks to Netgalley for the ARC. One I admired more than enjoyed.

Thanks very much to the publisher and NetGalley for the advance review copy of We Do Not Part. This is my first encounter with Han Kang's beautiful prose, but it certainly won't be the last. We Do Not Part is a quietly moving exploration of friendship, family bonds, and lingering trauma from a beyond-horrific event in South Korean history, the 1948 Jeju massacre. Highly recommend!

In We Do Not Part by Han Kang, the author again returns to a long-suppressed part of Korean history—the massacres in the late 1940’s of supposed communists and leftist sympathizers. The story unfolds through the eyes of two women as they attempt to get past their current day struggles to reconcile the past and what their families experienced.

There is stunningly beautiful, poetic writing here that both cocoons the reader inside of the story at times but also works to keep the reader at a distance at other times. It is a strange combination of immediacy and distance as dreams, reality, shadows and swirling snow disorient and play with time and place. Although the references to snow were so frequent, they almost became too much; it was such a good symbol for covering things up while providing a path, cold and suffering but with the ability to insulate, softness and beauty with harshness and silence.

Kang’s exploration of these dark historical periods, both in this novel and in “Human Acts,” is significant. It personalizes nearly unbearable situations, prompting us to reflect on past and present circumstances more directly. This novel is memorable and will reveal new insights with each reading.

Thank you to Random House /Hogarth and NetGalley for the digital ARC.

4.5 stars

Oh, where to begin with the majesty that is Han Kang. I can't string together a sentence that doesn't make me, a humble reader, feel dwarfed by her power over the written word - with all due credit to her amazing translator, of course. Thank you to Random House for entrusting this mesmerizing novel before publication in exchange for this review.

There isn't much I can say that hasn't been said about this treasure. Every word - every image - matters and helps slowly unwind the tragic past shared by these two women. The Jeju massacre was a dark, grisly moment in time that seems all but forgotten by too many Western students of history. I've encountered it only once before in fiction, in Lisa See's Island of the Sea Women. Though that telling is more straightforward, it doesn't pack anywhere near the emotional wallop. Han Kang is unlatched in her gift for use of imagery, so vividly rendered, to show (rather than simply tell) readers what she's trying to convey. It's a blissful reading experience, and I suspect this is a book I'll read every year and come away with something new.

I don't think I am the right audience for this particular novel. I was initially interested in it because I enjoyed Kang's previous novel, The Vegetarian, but I really struggled to connect with this book and story in a meaningful way.

This is likely a case of me being the wrong reader!

We Do Not Part is a poignant tribute to friendship, sisterhood, motherhood, and the cyclical connections between suffering and survival. The novel unfolds in three parts, narrating the journey of a young woman who travels to Jeju Island to rescue her friend's injured pet bird. However, her journey leads her to uncover the harrowing history of the Jeju 4.3 Massacre of 1948. Han Kang masterfully portrays forgotten tragedies—those that are often overlooked outside Korea—with lyrical and evocative prose. In this work, her writing transcends mere evocativeness to become hypnotic, drawing a seamless line between reality and dream in a narrative that could easily have lost its way, yet instead remains deeply poignant as it ties together all its themes.

By the end, the novel left a lasting emotional impact on me, one I can't recommend highly enough. I know I’ll return to this book again, drawn to its intricately layered, beautifully translated text in search of deeper meaning.

4.5/5 stars (rounded up). A powerful, at times repetitive, and often gut-wrenching read. I might even find this novel more moving than Human Acts, and both works would make excellent companion pieces. It’s no surprise that these books contributed to the author’s Nobel Prize.

A heartbreaking yet beautifully told tale. Interwoven stories and history collide. Despite the sensitive subject matter the writing is very palatable. This will haunt me for a long time.

I have almost nothing to say about this book. At a high level, it's about a writer whose friend, an artist, is in the hospital and asks her to go back to the artist's house to make sure her bird is fed, and then when the writer gets there she gets snowed in and we go off on this crazy dream-logic flight of fancy thing in which the first half of the book is mostly jettisoned and Han dives deep into the artist's family's personal history as it touches on atrocities committed by the military/police during the Bad Old Days of South Korean history. But the various parts of the book felt disconnected to me, or connected in some elevated symbolic/thematic level that I was just not plugged into, and as a narrative I found it quite unsatisfying.

The thing is, every time it snows, it comes back. I try not to think about it, but it keeps coming back.

The past is prologue in this book about the ways tragedy and trauma continue to haunt people—and how after effects of violence lives on through generations. The importance of shedding light on atrocities, but also the toll it can take. It took me a while to get into the rhythm of the writing, but by the second half of the book I found myself really affected by the grief infused in every page. This feels like a book I’ll keep thinking for a long time.

It’s been so hard for me to gather my thoughts about We Do Not Part to even attempt to put them into words. I would almost describe this book as a story within a story. There’s the framework setup of Inseon’s injury and Kyungha’s journey to Jeju, as well as the overarching theme of their friendship. And then there is the story that is revealed to Kyungha upon her arrival to Jeju, which is really the bulk of this novel.

I didn’t know much about the Jeju uprising prior to reading this novel, but I’m grateful for Kang’s signature searing prose for making me aware. I think this is a timely and necessary read. It was hard for me to ignore parallels between the story being told in this novel - mass extermination in the name of rooting out “rebels” or “resistors to the government” - and what is occurring today in Gaza. Especially considering US involvement in both. I do highly recommend checking content warnings before diving into this book.

It’s worth mentioning too that the framework story here is also still incredibly engaging and haunting in typical Kang fashion. I’m not sure that I fully know exactly what happens here, but I’m not sure I’m meant to. Overall, I will be thinking about this book for a long time to come.

Thank you to Random House and NetGalley for allowing me to read an advanced copy of Nobel Laureate Han Kang’s latest book We Do Not Part. I was both looking forward to and somewhat steeling myself to prepare to read Kang’s latest book. After reading The Vegetarian and Greek Lessons, I’ve come to realize that Kang’s books tend to dive deep into dark feelings, exploring emotions and issues below the surface. We Do Not Part goes even deeper and mines new territory. Where The Vegetarian and Greek Lessons both examined families, marriage, motherhood, and relationships, how society sets conventions and roles and what happens when people challenge or question them, We Do Not Part explores history and trauma as well as the artist’s role and pain in delving into the past. I also wasn’t sure what to expect based on the narrative—the story of a writer Kyungha who seeks to help her friend Inseon rescue her bird from the island of Jeju during a snowstorm sounded both heartwarming and different from Kang’s other books. However, when we first encounter Kyungha, who is the narrator of the novel, she seems utterly defeated, resigning herself to death. Like her other books, this aspect is bleak, and Kyungha is unable to handle many basic interactions or daily tasks. She describes the overwhelming heat in her apartment and is separated from her family. I got the sense that after working on her last project, Kyungha was seriously affected by it. The research and writing took a lot out of her, and eventually moved her away from her family. Kyungha is so resigned to death that she begins to get her affairs in order, leaving instructions for her body, and laying down to waste away. She exists in like a suspended kind of state, not willing to live, but also not taking action to die.
We also learn about Kyungha’s relationship with Inseon, who was a photographer she worked with as a young writer. They eventually worked together on other projects, and later planned to collaborate on an art project to memorialize a massacre. They planned to use logs painted black to represent the people who died. While Inseon wanted to go ahead with the project, Kyungha eventually backs out. At some point, Kyungha receives a text message from Inseon asking Kyungha to come to her with ID. We learn that Inseon was injured working on the project, and severed her fingers in the process, losing a lot of blood. Kang’s description of the procedure Inseon endures to restore her fingers is brutal. I found myself wincing, and the level of pain and discomfort I imagined was probably greater than anything I’ve read in a horror novel. However, I also got the sense that with Kang’s vivid and grotesque details, she’s possibly making a point about both the nature of art and also about the pain of memory, since Inseon was working on a project about a civilian massacre at the hands of soldiers in Jeju. Inseon’s other work, as a documentarian, also mines similar territory, interviewing survivors of the Vietnam War’s atrocities. Despite not speaking Vietnamese, Inseon seems to understand the pain and suffering these women have faced, and we also see how she suffered as a result.
Inseon then asks Kyungha to go to her home in Jeju to rescue her bird, Ama. However, Kyungha must go during an epic snowstorm on Jeju, and find her way to Inseon’s home, as a promise to her dear friend. Although the set up seems a little incredulous, Kang’s writing and the emotional connection between Inseon and Kyungha makes this quest for Kyungha more believable. Furthermore, it gives Kyungha some purpose in her seemingly bleak life. The journey to Jeju and through the storm comprises the first of three parts of the book. It is a harrowing journey to the home, and throughout the journey, Kyungha seems to plunge deeper into the white nothingness of the storm, moving further and further away from people. She encounters an elderly woman who seems to be unable to communicate and a bus driver who doesn’t seem to provide clear directions or understand Kyungha’s desire to travel to her friend’s home. Furthermore, not being from Jeju also puts Kyungha at a disadvantage, and she seems concerned that people will be able to tell she’s from the mainland due to her language and lack of familiarity with the cultural practices. The snow storm is blinding and painful. Kyungha’s eyes become sore. Snow gets into her shows and pants. Kyungha nearly dies due to the snow, but somehow manages to burry herself in the snow to emerge in the morning near Inseon’s home.
At Inseon’s home, Kyungha discovers more than the birds and also reminisces about Inseon’s mother, who apparently suffered from dementia, a disease that affects memory and the processing of reality. Kyungha’s journey to Inseon’s house also seems to have altered her perceptions, as she looks to find Ama, the bird. However, Kyungha discovers Inseon’s project and what kind of research she was conducting for her latest project. We also learn about Inseon’s personal connection to this massacre, as her father and mother both had personal connections to the massacre. I wasn’t familiar with this event and still need to learn more about it, but it sounds like it was suppressed from the public for many years, and Inseon’s research (and Kyungha’s reading/learning) is a way to unearth the injustice and violence, the death and destruction that happened. We can see how both women’s work, writing and documenting, lead to both physical and emotional trauma, yet, both women are willing to endure and persist, if not for themselves, then for others. Kyungha risks her life for a favor for her friend. Inseon endures a brutal treatment to regain the use of her fingers, so important for her work as a photographer and the woodworking that initially caused her injury.
The book’s title comes from the collaborative project that Kyungha abandoned but Inseon continued to work on. Interestingly, they both seem to have different interpretations of the project’s meaning, and whether it means that they are never separated, or whether they refuse to say goodbye. Their friendship proves that both are true, and that despite distances caused both by geography and the responsibilities of family and professional life, they maintained a kind of bond that is never really severed. Furthermore, even when Kyungha is on her quest to save Inseon’s bird, Inseon (and her research) guide her through the challenges of being alone in Jeju. One of the lines I highlighted kind of emphasizes some of the surreal qualities of this story: “Dreams are terrifying things. No—they’re humiliating. They reveal things about you that you weren’t aware”. In many ways, Kyungha’s journey is dreamlike. She travels into a blizzard losing a sense of sight and even her body’s feelings, unsure if she is alive or dead. Similarly, what she learns from Inseon’s project, the massacre at Jeju and the lack of closure that many of the Jeju survivors experienced, seems to awaken something in her. Her prior numbness abates and is replaced by a kind of anger and sadness. Like other Kang books, this is not an easy journey, but this kind of self-realization, especially on such an epic, historical scale, is never easy.
The other aspect of the book I wanted to mention was Kang’s use of birds. Inseon had two birds, but the other bird, Ami, died and only Ama is left. During her time at Inseon’s, Kyungha remembers first meeting the birds and experiencing them. She also shares how she learns that “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”. The birds serve as meaningful symbols, and Kyungha’s attempts to rescue Ama both show a burial and a revival. Although the birds come out of their cage for Inseon, it takes time for Kyungha to bond with them, and readers can see how similar they are to the Jeju survivors, trying to just endure without questioning much about what happened to their loved ones, afraid of further repercussions. However, we learn that Inseon’s mother, who initially seemed childlike, was actually one of the citizens of Jeju who really pushed for action to find out more about her brother, who was likely murdered and dumped in a mine. Kang’s use of birds as symbols of both vulnerability and a kind of endurance and survival, masking their pain, was beautifully wrought. She uses birds in such a surreal way, I kept thinking that this book was kind of like Kafka’s writing—that there’s a kind of allegorical symbolism to it, and that she takes both beauty and degradation to explore the range of experiences and emotions. Furthermore, like Kafka, this isn’t an easy read, but it is a rewarding read. It’s haunting and powerful, and something I will need to revisit at another time.

This is the story of a friendship and of a deep trauma in the history of Korea.
The two women meet as students and reconnect when one has an accident and needs the other's help to save her beloved bird.
But this book is so much more than a story of friendship. It's a story of family, of history, and of brutal genocides that took place in Korea before, during, and after the 'Korean' War. It's a history I knew nothing of - one that hits very hard.
And it's a story of a deep friendship, with deep secrets and trauma and healing and dreams.
This novel was a complex read for me, and one that I had to reread parts of to keep the story line going. Definitely not an easy read or an easy subject. Very dreamlike.
Thanks to NetGalley and publisher Random House for the ARC.

We Do Not Part by Han Kang is a beautifully written, haunting exploration of friendship, memory, and historical trauma. I loved how she seamlessly weaves between different time periods and shifts in and out of reality—it creates a dreamlike, almost nightmarish atmosphere. The book’s mood of solitude really pulls you in, the backdrop of the snowstorm along with the atrocities depicted of the Jeju Massacre in the 1940s add to an over all hopelessness throughout. While it got to be a bit challenging at times, the lyrical prose and thought-provoking themes make it a rewarding read. Definitely a solid 4-star experience for fans of introspective, literary fiction.

This was my third book by Han Kang (I’ve read The Vegetarian and Greek Lessons). I love her writing, find her and her translators brilliant, and can’t get enough of her books. I think this is so far my favorite of her books, even if it’s also the darkest of the ones I’ve read.

The book starts off with Kyungha receiving a mysterious message from her friend Inseon. Hospitalized in Seoul, she asks Kyungha to go to Jeju island and feed her bird. She goes, taking the first plane out and finding herself in the middle of a blizzard as she makes her way to her friend’s remote home. From this point on, the book makes a bit of a turn. Without revealing too much, Han straddles the line between reality and dreams, masterfully weaving in details of the Jeju massacre in the months leading up to the Korean War.

The first part reminded me a lot of Jon Fosse’s A Shining (both books made me feel cold!). While in a lot of ways this part feels like a separate book from the rest, I was intrigued by the ways that Kyungha‘s journey to Jeju reflects the exile of other persons mentioned. There’s one character in particular that Kyungha meets at a bus stop that I kept reflecting on in the later account of the massacre.

I also think Han is doing something interesting with snow throughout the book. Not only is it a hostile element to Kyungha, there seems to be some connection between the magical and the otherworldly and the snow. It also plays a role in some of the stories told during the massacre. There are other objects that have dual meanings in the story, such as bloody fingers. I think there is a lot to unpack here and I’d love to re-read this at some point to make those connections.

Thank you very much to NetGalley and Hogarth for an ARC of this novel.

This never quite reaches the level of THE VEGETARIAN or GREEK LESSONS, but no one tells a heartbreaking, unrelentingly sad novel like Han Kang. Wow, this was a lot. I found the first half of this extremely compelling, but it lost me quite a bit in the second half. I struggled with its depiction of real life violent history through a dreamlike lens. It made me wonder about its success in portraying an important part of Korean history considering its parallel interest in art and filmmaking. Still, Kang is a one-of-a-kind author, an incredibly deserving Nobel Laureate. I will read everything she ever writes.

This book is more grounded than The Vegetarian so it was easier to understand (although it was still a bit bizarre.) Kyungha ends up on Jeju Island during a blizzard after her friend cuts off two fingers in a woodworking accident. Her task is to get to her friend's bird before it dies. But then the book takes a turn. It's not necessarily a bad turn because it tells the history of the Jeju Massacre. Having spent time in both Jeju and Daegu, it was interesting but disturbing to learn more about the massacre. I don't know if I'll ever fully appreciate how Han Kang blends genres but this book should give sophisticated readers lots to ponder and discuss.

This beautifully written novel depicts the horrors of trauma and takes place in the paradisiacal Jeju Island, a reconstructed land with a lot of scars in history and in its people, and it addresses the massacres during the late 40s and early 50s.

The novel opens when Kyungha, a writer hunted by nightmares after publishing her last book about a mass killing, is asked by her hospitalized friend Inseon, to look after her bird in her home located in Jeju Island. Snowstorm hits this place and what it could happen is uncertain but throughout the novel we can learn about the friend, her background, and some brutal stories of suffering and death.

The narrative is oniric at times and also includes recollections and different voices. Han Kang majestically can put pain into deep and lyrical words and the way she addresses trauma and manages to picture people hunted by dreams because of shocking events in their lives is really impressive.

I loved this novel and I think her research is remarkable because she really imprinted this story in all her senses and transmits through it all the pain in its wounds.

It was fascinating to find connections with her previous books, but as well it can also be as difficult and painful to read as in the others.
If you are a very sensitive reader, I'd suggest to check the TW.

Thank you Hogarth and Netgalley for this digital advanced copy.
Publication date: January 21st, 2025

Absolutely haunting with lyrical writing that truly does blend the realms of dream and reality. The Vegetarian and Greek Lessons are books that follow me to this day, and We Do Not Part is joining in their ranks - possibly in the most straightforward way. This is a perfect, perfect winter read that explores the loneliness and desolution of the season - so please be warned for very open and honest discussions of suicidal ideation - while also engaging with a portion of history that I had no idea about and am glad to have learned more of. History and magical realism go so well together, and Han Kang illustrates that perfectly here.

We Do Not Part is the highly anticipated new novel from Han Kang after recently winning the Nobel Peace Prize in literature largely tied to The Vegetarian. She was awarded this prize for "“her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.” This statement could not be more true in We Do Not Part.

This is the perfect book to pick up in the winter. The snowy setting feels like a character in itself. But pick this up when you are prepared to work for a pay off. Kang does not hand you anything, but the investment is oh so worth it. We open with Kyungha receiving an urgent message from her injured friend Inseon to visit her at a hospital in Seoul. Inseon begs Kyungha to return to head to her home on Jeju Island to save her pet bird. Kyungha does this immediately and is greeted with a vicious snowstorm that threatens her very existence and blurs the lines between dream and reality for the reader.

It's a little hard to talk about what makes this book great without spoiling some of its greatness. Kang is exploring trauma from the Korean War and the power of memory through the friendship between these two women. I'm not going to lie, I thought about giving up on this book when I truly had no grasp on what was going on or why, but I am SO GLAD the gorgeous sentences kept me reading. The ending of this book absolutely floored me and cemented it as a book I'll be talking about all year. I know I need to read Human Acts soon, but I can't stress enough how important timing can be with Kang's works. Read when you can give it the time and attention it demands!