I've never quite read a book like this before, but I found it very compelling. A bit slow and meandering, but in a way where one can't help but enjoy the journey. I like books where the prose itself lulls you into the world of the story, and this was no exception. Deeply unconventional, but no less enjoyable. Kudos to the translator!

Blowfish was a beautiful and intense study of two characters whose lives are vastly different and yet they share the same desire…to no longer exist in this world. I loved the psychological examination of both characters, as well as the non linear (ish) story telling. Learning about past experiences of not just the main characters but their families and friends was both heartbreaking while somehow being hopeful at times. It goes without saying that the subject matter is heavy and could be triggering for some readers (myself included) so keep that in mind if you’re picking up this book. Overall, this was a fantastic translation of a story that I think many people may find relatable. 4.5/5 stars!

"when she had said her final goodbyes, Abe-san said one thing and one thing only, his face inscrutable: "Sayonara!"

Maybe he knew all along, the only reason she met him was to get closer to death.
the reason why she dedicatedly learnt about blowfish was not to be cautious about removing its poison, but to extract the precise thing, to build the final piece of art of her career- her own death.

BLOWFISH tells the story of two people, a successful sculptor who decide to commit suicide by artfully preparing a lethal dish of blowfish and consuming it, and a male architect- whose brother's suicide haunts him throughout his life. as life brings them together- two times- things inevitably gets entangled. Chaotic.

This book reeks of death. every page of this book carries the musty scent of death, blended with the warm blood of the blowfishes Abe-san cured for her. depressing, dark and hauntingly relieving. She orchestrates her death for her. As a final tribute to the life she led, to the eyes that watched her. To the world and fate that made her come to that decision.

I wouldn't say I enjoyed this book as a whole, but a million details, a million instances, a million times the characters made me reconsider the philosophy of my own life- this book is a strong literary piece. it's strong enough to claw your heart and hang onto it, when the arteries tear and bleed. i would say that i enjoyed this book as a million individual pieces, each having its own independent existence, relevance, and arrival in my life in the future.

"when she happened to look through his diary, she discovered that each entry began with "If I live".

BLOWFISH is the testimony of the darkest alley of the human existence, crawling through the gutters of disparity, lost hopes rotting at the far end of the dungeon. Kyung-Ran Jo crafted this novel as a masterpiece, where the blowfish swimming passively in the tank representing the woman's contemplation of failures in life, love, and art.
"Isn't half of life embarrassment? And the rest of it fear and greed?"

This book pulled me back to the time when i read 'The Vegetarian' by Han Kang and now i'm excited to read the other works of Kyung-Ran Jo.

But before that, i need to learn how to cook a Blowfish.

Thank you Astra Publishing House and NG for sending the Advance Reader Copy of this book.

Blowfish is a haunting, cerebral meditation on art, death, and the fragile threads that tether us to life. Told in four interwoven parts, this postmodern novel is less a conventional narrative and more a quiet reckoning—a slow, aching dissection of two lives orbiting despair, flickering with the faintest pulses of connection.

The alternating stories of a female sculptor and a male architect are elegantly constructed, each echoing with personal tragedy: a grandmother’s violent suicide by poisonous blowfish, a brother’s fatal leap. These events linger like ghosts in the protagonists’ minds, shaping their present and clouding their futures. Their occasional intersections—in Seoul and later Tokyo—are charged not with romance but with the muted tension of people standing at the edge of something final, perhaps irreversible.

The prose is sparse and emotionally restrained yet deeply evocative. The cities—Seoul and Tokyo—aren’t just backdrops but living entities layered with memory, silence, and a strange kind of beauty. Through these urban landscapes, the novel explores alienation in modern life and how creativity can be both an escape and a reason to stay alive.

Despite its somber subject matter, Blowfish is not without hope. Art becomes a lifeline, a fragile but luminous thread that binds the two protagonists to the world and each other, however fleetingly. Jia resists tidy conclusions or dramatic catharsis, offering a subtle, thoughtful look at what it means to create in the face of despair.

The publisher provided ARC via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

Some says it reminds them of Han Kang, but it leans towards Mieko Kawakami's All the Lovers in the Night, Moshfegh's My Year of Rest and Relaxation, Marguerite Duras' The Lover & Territory of Light by Yūko Tsushima- in Moshfegh case; losing hope of living & Tsushima for lumionous, hypnotic language style.

As the summary goes, you can guess the tone and mood- it's dark and sardonic, and some are devastating.
"She had once said to him, “Isn’t half of life embarrassment? And the rest of it fear and greed?”She hadn’t explained herself, but he’d understood that the rest meant death. He had to tell her that the truly embarrassing thing wasn’t always thinking about death and being pulled toward it, but having never loved anyone."

I love how blowfish as a general statue in this book- from how it represent pressures (one wrong cut and you're out. literally), the God complex (on how u can choose to live or die just by eating the same thing), and subsequently, delicacy in Japan and Korea, but one that can be fatal if prepared incorrectly. This duality is something beautiful and refined yet harboring death- mirrors the inner lives of the main characters.

Definitely would recommend this! 4.5/5.

I enjoyed this. It was a fun and interesting read - it really made me have deep moments of thought. It also made me really appreciate the life that I’m living. I enjoy being in the head of such a complex character.

thank you astra house for this early arc ebook!

i was super excited and nervous to read this book. mostly nervous because the premise is so tempting to me, nervous because what if it doesn’t deliver.

but it delivered. a book with alternating POVs, about two people who live in a creative art space of the world and who have a life touched by suicide.

not much of this book is dialogue, more descriptions of areas, thoughts, past/present situations, but the author had the ability to create this intense relationship between the two main characters. i enjoyed the read very much, and felt the only thing truly missing was more conversation.

Suicide is a difficult subject to discuss, let alone write about. This is because ending one’s life is a totalising decision to make, and because of this totalisation—voluntarily reducing all history, anticipation, future, time, and reality to nothing, it is often either mischaracterised in literature as a completely irrational decision made by someone who is obviously ‘wrong’, or it is treated too metaphorically, too aesthetically, in so much that the overwrought-ness of prose can detract from the extremely serious subject-matter—in essence, the sign taking precedence over the signified. An author tackling the subject therefore has to meet the difficult balance of empathetic presentation without making light of the act through its description of it. It is so difficult to write about that even writing this review is difficult and writing words about suicide is difficult. But it is so very important that there are works addressing the topic, and by empathising with those who have suicidal tendencies and/or have experienced suicide in the family through literature, we can learn better how to be there for those in our own lives.

Blowfish by Kyung-Ran Jo is a novel about suicide. It tells the story of two protagonists, their point-of-view alternated between chapters: the first, a successful female sculptor who, from the very beginning of the novel, we find has decided to end her life, ‘choosing death’ after reflecting on the suicide of her own grandmother; the second, a male architect who is attempting to recover from the recent suicide of his brother and balances his work life alongside his fractured family life, including dealing with the newly-stirred suicidal tendencies of his father. Both characters meet at an event dinner in Seoul, and their paths cross again at an event in Tokyo. The Sculptor, deciding on a method of suicide, intends to find out how to procure and prepare blowfish in a way that kills her. The Architect, reeling from trauma and guilt, looks to save this woman who has come into his life, not letting her be like the brother who slipped through his grasp.

Kyung-Ran’s writing is sparse and minimalist, with staccato sentences, metaphorical language, and very little flourish or description. It doesn’t hold your hand when it comes to exposition or chronology, which makes approaching the novel difficult initially. As mentioned, the chapters alternate between the female sculptor narrator and the male architect narrator, which is told in third person limited, and the protagonists are never given names, only referred to by their pronouns. The blurb to the novel calls it ‘postmodern’, and though I think it’s a nebulous term to apply in this case, it definitely comes with some of the difficulty associated with non-conventional literature. The effect of these deliberate stylistic choices is that Kyung-Ran offers a depersonalised heaviness; the experience of reading is existential and distressing, but gives the characters a humanising edge—the nameless protagonists could equally be given the name of anyone in our lives.

The depiction of suicidality in this novel was realistic and heavy. It is presented not as a decision made consciously, but as an urge, potentially genetic and familial, that is then justified intellectually after-the-fact. It is also presented as something with no true solution, just as in real life, people ‘slip through’ everyone’s grasp, and the guilt that comes with that can be immobilising. The Sculptor’s suicidal ideation is established from the beginning and this long thread continues throughout. The depiction of the Architect’s regret and trauma and how it seeped into his waking thoughts is similarly an inescapable continuum. The structure of the alternating perspectives of the novel will influence readers to believe that the characters can save each other. Perhaps they can, but Kyung-Ran doesn’t shy away from the idea that there is sometimes nothing one can do.

But though the novel is heavy, its ultimate intention is life-affirming. We are given breath through its portrayal of the life-affirming nature of art, specifically art in its relation to sculpture and architecture. I have always enjoyed when different artistic media is discussed within literature, and in Blowfish, learning about how interior and exterior spaces are designed in the Architect’s chapters, or learning how in the Sculptor’s chapters how she thinks about air, space, shape and form and its relation to herself and her artistic intentions was enlightening to read. The other life-affirming aspect is its presentation of love and companionship, and how much meaning in life can come from someone just being there for another, being there to speak, listen, and love unconditionally.

In a chapter late in the novel, the Sculptor discusses the concept of art with a friend. The Sculptor declares that all art is about ‘death’, her artist friend counters that it is about ‘life.’ It is a great encapsulation of the overarching theme of the novel. Because through all the death in this novel, what it is really about is life, like a glint of light in the dark. Or, perhaps, light and dark are intertwined, like the shadows in rooms that architects have designed, or the chiaroscuro in artwork. The same principles apply to literature, and Kyung-Ran Jo has delivered this message through this novel. What we learn is to covet this light within ourselves, to bring it to others, both in the form of art and design, but also in our friendships and relationships. To be by someone’s side, that is all we can do. There are no answers, but we can only try.

Blowfish is a haunting exploration of art, death, and the delicate ties that anchor us to existence. Carefully structured in interwoven parts, this postmodern novel unfolds less as a traditional story and more as a quiet confrontation—a slow, poignant unraveling of two lives circling despair, illuminated by fleeting moments of connection.

The parallel narratives of a female sculptor and a male architect are intricately crafted, each shadowed by personal tragedy: a grandmother’s violent suicide through blowfish poisoning and a brother’s fatal plunge. These losses linger in their consciousness, shaping their present realities and clouding their sense of hope. Their fateful encounters—in Seoul and later in Tokyo—carry not quite a romantic spark but a profound connection, as if each meeting teeters on the brink of something irrevocable.

The prose is minimalistic and emotionally restrained, yet charged with deep resonance—qualities that become the novel’s greatest strengths.

Though steeped in sorrow, Blowfish still clings to a fragile sense of hope. Art emerges as a tenuous yet luminous thread, connecting the protagonists to life—and to each other, however briefly. Jia avoids easy resolutions and dramatic climaxes, instead offering a subtle, contemplative meditation on the act of creating in the shadow of despair.

Thank you to NetGalley for allowing me to read this fantastic e-ARC.

Thankyou Netgalley for allowing me to read this fantastic e-ARC

gorgeous, grasping, tugging, ripping work filled with the scent of death and fish. the story is impeccable, but the contemplation even more so. 5 stars. tysm for the arc.