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Greek Lessons
FROM HAN KANG, WINNER OF THE 2024 NOBEL PRIZE IN LITERATURE
“[Han Kang writes in] intense poetic prose that . . . exposes the fragility of human life.”—from the Nobel Prize citation
NEW YORK TIMES EDITORS’ CHOICE • A dazzling novel about the saving grace of language and human connection, from the “visionary” (New York Times Book Review) author of the International Booker Prize winner The Vegetarian
“Both a disquieting journey about the loss of sense and a return to the sensorium of touch and intimacy, Greek Lessons soars with sensuous and revelatory insight.”—Cathy Park Hong, author of Minor Feelings
A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: The New Yorker, Time, Chicago Public Library, Kirkus Reviews, Publishers Weekly, Library Journal
"Now and then, language would thrust its way into her sleep like a skewer through meat, startling her awake several times a night."
In a classroom in Seoul, a young woman watches her Greek language teacher at the blackboard. She tries to speak but has lost her voice. Her teacher finds himself drawn to the silent woman, for day by day he is losing his sight.
Soon the two discover a deeper pain binds them together. For her, in the space of just a few months, she has lost both her mother and the custody battle for her nine-year-old son. For him, it's the pain of growing up between Korea and Germany, being torn between two cultures and languages, and the fear of losing his independence.
Greek Lessons tells the story of two ordinary people brought together at a moment of private anguish—the fading light of a man losing his vision meeting the silence of a woman who has lost her language. Yet these are the very things that draw them to each other. Slowly the two discover a profound sense of unity—their voices intersecting with startling beauty, as they move from darkness to light, from silence to breath and expression.
Greek Lessons is the story of the unlikely bond between this pair and a tender love letter to human intimacy and connection—a novel to awaken the senses, one that vividly conjures the essence of what it means to be alive.
“[Han Kang writes in] intense poetic prose that . . . exposes the fragility of human life.”—from the Nobel Prize citation
NEW YORK TIMES EDITORS’ CHOICE • A dazzling novel about the saving grace of language and human connection, from the “visionary” (New York Times Book Review) author of the International Booker Prize winner The Vegetarian
“Both a disquieting journey about the loss of sense and a return to the sensorium of touch and intimacy, Greek Lessons soars with sensuous and revelatory insight.”—Cathy Park Hong, author of Minor Feelings
A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: The New Yorker, Time, Chicago Public Library, Kirkus Reviews, Publishers Weekly, Library Journal
"Now and then, language would thrust its way into her sleep like a skewer through meat, startling her awake several times a night."
In a classroom in Seoul, a young woman watches her Greek language teacher at the blackboard. She tries to speak but has lost her voice. Her teacher finds himself drawn to the silent woman, for day by day he is losing his sight.
Soon the two discover a deeper pain binds them together. For her, in the space of just a few months, she has lost both her mother and the custody battle for her nine-year-old son. For him, it's the pain of growing up between Korea and Germany, being torn between two cultures and languages, and the fear of losing his independence.
Greek Lessons tells the story of two ordinary people brought together at a moment of private anguish—the fading light of a man losing his vision meeting the silence of a woman who has lost her language. Yet these are the very things that draw them to each other. Slowly the two discover a profound sense of unity—their voices intersecting with startling beauty, as they move from darkness to light, from silence to breath and expression.
Greek Lessons is the story of the unlikely bond between this pair and a tender love letter to human intimacy and connection—a novel to awaken the senses, one that vividly conjures the essence of what it means to be alive.
192 pages, Hardcover
First published November 10, 2011
About the author
Han Kang
51 books6,745 followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author by this name in the Goodreads database.
소설가 한강
Han Kang was born in 1970 in South Korea. She is the author of The Vegetarian, winner of the International Booker Prize, as well as Human Acts, The White Book, Greek Lessons, and We Do Not Part. In 2024, she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature “for her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.”
소설가 한강
Han Kang was born in 1970 in South Korea. She is the author of The Vegetarian, winner of the International Booker Prize, as well as Human Acts, The White Book, Greek Lessons, and We Do Not Part. In 2024, she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature “for her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.”
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 2,316 reviews
August 13, 2023
i love to read about words.
the other stuff, on the other hand...
case by case.
i feel that this had moments of being perfectly written, and i could read about han kang writing about language forever, but generally this felt like it had a gauzy curtain over it. if i peered through it, i could make out what was happening, but i felt prevented from truly connecting with any of it, and it took effort to read.
in other words, not my greatest beach read selection of all time.
bottom line: mixed bag.
---------------
tbr review
NEW HAN KANG NEW HAN KANG NEW HAN KANG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
the other stuff, on the other hand...
case by case.
i feel that this had moments of being perfectly written, and i could read about han kang writing about language forever, but generally this felt like it had a gauzy curtain over it. if i peered through it, i could make out what was happening, but i felt prevented from truly connecting with any of it, and it took effort to read.
in other words, not my greatest beach read selection of all time.
bottom line: mixed bag.
---------------
tbr review
NEW HAN KANG NEW HAN KANG NEW HAN KANG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
April 9, 2023
First published in 2011, Han Kang’s short novel grew from a year when she retreated from writing, unable to focus on fiction of any kind, her return to language was slow and arduous. It also builds on themes centred on violence and suffering that run through her fiction, but here these themes play out in more muted tones, and on a smaller scale than in Human Acts or The Vegetarian. Kang has noted the influence of reading Sebald on her narrative, and there is something of his approach here, at times Kang’s story reads like a hybrid of contemplative prose poetry and essay-like, philosophical exploration. It’s intricate, sometimes deliberately opaque. It’s also a potent reminder of Kang’s roots in poetry, lyrical and filled with striking images and phrasing.
Kang imagines two isolated people both living in Seoul, one a lecturer in Ancient Greek who is gradually losing his sight, the other one of his pupils, a poet and teacher who’s lost custody of her child, and finds herself no longer able to speak. Both are adrift in the city, spending their spare time pacing the streets, confronted by its sounds and smells, both alienated on some level but for entirely different reasons. The man retracing his past, his mind given over to memories of his childhood in Germany where his family relocated when he was still very young; the woman attempting to exhaust herself, to cut herself off from memories she’d rather not confront. The woman has enrolled in Greek lessons because this long-dead language is so far removed from her own, suggesting a way back into speaking that isn’t also a way back into her own past.
Kang has talked about her sense of the inadequacies and limitations of language and her fascination with the idea of Ancient Greek, its structure and particularly its use of a middle rather than a passive voice. A form that enables a single word to operate on a variety of levels but also involves a different relationship with agency - one of the reasons the middle voice was often used in wall-writing during Greece’s financial crisis, a choice that enabled protesters to express their feelings without taking on the role of either perpetrator or victim. Kang’s ideas about language and identity are reflected in her chosen style which concretises her characters’ predicaments – the woman is represented in the third person, unable to express herself directly, and the man in the first, as someone caught up in his thoughts and impressions. Both are attempting to come to terms with the suffering and losses that are an unavoidable consequence of existence – steeped in what Kang calls “the pain of the world.” Yet it’s not a pessimistic piece but one that ultimately rests on possibilities for connection and reconciliation. Translated by Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Woon.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Hamish Hamilton for an ARC
Kang imagines two isolated people both living in Seoul, one a lecturer in Ancient Greek who is gradually losing his sight, the other one of his pupils, a poet and teacher who’s lost custody of her child, and finds herself no longer able to speak. Both are adrift in the city, spending their spare time pacing the streets, confronted by its sounds and smells, both alienated on some level but for entirely different reasons. The man retracing his past, his mind given over to memories of his childhood in Germany where his family relocated when he was still very young; the woman attempting to exhaust herself, to cut herself off from memories she’d rather not confront. The woman has enrolled in Greek lessons because this long-dead language is so far removed from her own, suggesting a way back into speaking that isn’t also a way back into her own past.
Kang has talked about her sense of the inadequacies and limitations of language and her fascination with the idea of Ancient Greek, its structure and particularly its use of a middle rather than a passive voice. A form that enables a single word to operate on a variety of levels but also involves a different relationship with agency - one of the reasons the middle voice was often used in wall-writing during Greece’s financial crisis, a choice that enabled protesters to express their feelings without taking on the role of either perpetrator or victim. Kang’s ideas about language and identity are reflected in her chosen style which concretises her characters’ predicaments – the woman is represented in the third person, unable to express herself directly, and the man in the first, as someone caught up in his thoughts and impressions. Both are attempting to come to terms with the suffering and losses that are an unavoidable consequence of existence – steeped in what Kang calls “the pain of the world.” Yet it’s not a pessimistic piece but one that ultimately rests on possibilities for connection and reconciliation. Translated by Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Woon.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Hamish Hamilton for an ARC
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March 24, 2024
LA BIBLIOTECA DI BABELE
Come quella sulla copertina, qui e a seguire sono tutte immagini di opere di Ji Seok Cheol.
Lei non parla più, ha smesso di farlo: succede che venga scambiata per sordomuta, ma non parlare è in qualche modo una sua scelta. Anche se è avvenuto dopo un trauma. Come quando aveva sei anni: allora la morte violenta del suo cane, questa volta la morte della madre seguita dalla perdita dell’affidamento di suo figlio nella causa di divorzio.
Il linguaggio che l’aveva imprigionata e torturata come un vestito intessuto di migliaia di spilli era sparito… Il suo corpo era assediato dentro e fuori da un silenzio che risucchiava lo scorrere del tempo, un silenzio ovattato come prima di imparare a parlare – anzi, come prima di venire al mondo.
Ha deciso di studiare il greco antico perché ha “regole astruse”, oppure perché affascinata da quell’alfabeto dai tratti così belli, artistici, che in qualche modo ricorda il suo, quello coreano. Spera di ritrovare la parola con lo studio di una lingua morta?
A raccontarla è un classico narratore (narratrice?) in terza persona.
Lui sta progressivamente perdendo la vista, già adesso vede tutto sfocato, è destinato a diventare cieco. Stessa sorte del padre, morto da tempo, anima fredda.
Insegna greco antico. È coreano e vive a Seoul, ma è cresciuto in Germania, dove era emigrato da bambino e dove è rimasta la sua famiglia, mamma e sorella minore.
Conosce lei al corso di greco antico, dove lui insegna e lei impara.
Si racconta da solo, io-narrante, con l’espediente di scrivere lettere alla sorella. Lettere che mi pare di capire gli tornano indietro.
Tra citazioni di Borges e Platone, riferimenti alla filosofia occidentale e più o meno dichiarati influssi buddhisti, si susseguono pagine vaghe, sfuggenti, in cui emerge una prosa elegante e ancor più una valanga di immagini poetiche come se Han Kang, incapace d’esprimere in altro modo le mancanze, i vuoti dei due personaggi, avesse scelto una prosa lirica.
Sono due solitudini. Sono per caso destinate a incontrarsi davvero? Lei traccia col dito sulla mano di lui le parole che non dice, lui le riconosce al tatto, non ha bisogno di leggerle, operazione che per lui sarebbe complicata. Riusciranno ad avvicinarsi più di così? A conoscersi?
Ci sono volte in cui i personaggi faticano a sollevarsi dalla pagina, a uscire dalle righe, a prendere forma e volume, tridimensionalità. A risultare credibili. Mi è successo qui: ho avvertito questi due personaggi rinchiusi nelle parole scritte, molto letterari, impossibilitati ad assumere un corpo, un’entità fisica. Un po’ come quando qualcuno ci racconta un sogno, difficile riuscire a entrarci, a farselo proprio, a indossarlo.
PS
Sulla traduzione: il primo libro di Han Kang pubblicato in italiano è stato La vegetariana che era tradotto dalla traduzione inglese, non dall’originale coreano. Traduzione inglese che sembra venisse giudicata dalla stessa Han Kang migliore dell’originale (!?!): poi, invece, ho capito che la traduzione in inglese è stata aspramente criticata in Corea del Sud, sia per una serie di veri e propri errori, sia per una generale tendenza a non rispettare la prosa di Kang, perlopiù alterandone il registro. La traduttrice inglese, Deborah Smith, ha finito con l’ammettere alcune sviste, sommate a una versione “informata dalla sua prospettiva personale” sul romanzo di Kang.
E quindi, noi in Italia che abbiamo letto?
Recensendo il libro su Alias, Remo Cesarani sottolineava come la versione italiana risultasse tuttavia più accurata di quella inglese, l’unica su cui era stata condotta la traduzione (magia?).
E quindi, trovare Han Kang piuttosto diversa in questa seconda lettura, dipende dal fatto che questa volta la traduzione è stata fatta sull’originale coreano?
Come quella sulla copertina, qui e a seguire sono tutte immagini di opere di Ji Seok Cheol.
Lei non parla più, ha smesso di farlo: succede che venga scambiata per sordomuta, ma non parlare è in qualche modo una sua scelta. Anche se è avvenuto dopo un trauma. Come quando aveva sei anni: allora la morte violenta del suo cane, questa volta la morte della madre seguita dalla perdita dell’affidamento di suo figlio nella causa di divorzio.
Il linguaggio che l’aveva imprigionata e torturata come un vestito intessuto di migliaia di spilli era sparito… Il suo corpo era assediato dentro e fuori da un silenzio che risucchiava lo scorrere del tempo, un silenzio ovattato come prima di imparare a parlare – anzi, come prima di venire al mondo.
Ha deciso di studiare il greco antico perché ha “regole astruse”, oppure perché affascinata da quell’alfabeto dai tratti così belli, artistici, che in qualche modo ricorda il suo, quello coreano. Spera di ritrovare la parola con lo studio di una lingua morta?
A raccontarla è un classico narratore (narratrice?) in terza persona.
Lui sta progressivamente perdendo la vista, già adesso vede tutto sfocato, è destinato a diventare cieco. Stessa sorte del padre, morto da tempo, anima fredda.
Insegna greco antico. È coreano e vive a Seoul, ma è cresciuto in Germania, dove era emigrato da bambino e dove è rimasta la sua famiglia, mamma e sorella minore.
Conosce lei al corso di greco antico, dove lui insegna e lei impara.
Si racconta da solo, io-narrante, con l’espediente di scrivere lettere alla sorella. Lettere che mi pare di capire gli tornano indietro.
Tra citazioni di Borges e Platone, riferimenti alla filosofia occidentale e più o meno dichiarati influssi buddhisti, si susseguono pagine vaghe, sfuggenti, in cui emerge una prosa elegante e ancor più una valanga di immagini poetiche come se Han Kang, incapace d’esprimere in altro modo le mancanze, i vuoti dei due personaggi, avesse scelto una prosa lirica.
Sono due solitudini. Sono per caso destinate a incontrarsi davvero? Lei traccia col dito sulla mano di lui le parole che non dice, lui le riconosce al tatto, non ha bisogno di leggerle, operazione che per lui sarebbe complicata. Riusciranno ad avvicinarsi più di così? A conoscersi?
Ci sono volte in cui i personaggi faticano a sollevarsi dalla pagina, a uscire dalle righe, a prendere forma e volume, tridimensionalità. A risultare credibili. Mi è successo qui: ho avvertito questi due personaggi rinchiusi nelle parole scritte, molto letterari, impossibilitati ad assumere un corpo, un’entità fisica. Un po’ come quando qualcuno ci racconta un sogno, difficile riuscire a entrarci, a farselo proprio, a indossarlo.
PS
Sulla traduzione: il primo libro di Han Kang pubblicato in italiano è stato La vegetariana che era tradotto dalla traduzione inglese, non dall’originale coreano. Traduzione inglese che sembra venisse giudicata dalla stessa Han Kang migliore dell’originale (!?!): poi, invece, ho capito che la traduzione in inglese è stata aspramente criticata in Corea del Sud, sia per una serie di veri e propri errori, sia per una generale tendenza a non rispettare la prosa di Kang, perlopiù alterandone il registro. La traduttrice inglese, Deborah Smith, ha finito con l’ammettere alcune sviste, sommate a una versione “informata dalla sua prospettiva personale” sul romanzo di Kang.
E quindi, noi in Italia che abbiamo letto?
Recensendo il libro su Alias, Remo Cesarani sottolineava come la versione italiana risultasse tuttavia più accurata di quella inglese, l’unica su cui era stata condotta la traduzione (magia?).
E quindi, trovare Han Kang piuttosto diversa in questa seconda lettura, dipende dal fatto che questa volta la traduzione è stata fatta sull’originale coreano?
June 17, 2023
I liked The Vegetarian when I read it years ago, so when I saw Han Kang’s latest offering, I snatched it up. Unfortunately, Greek Lessons went mostly over my head. Even though it’s quite short, it’s one you may want to take your time with.
This story follows a young woman who signs up for Ancient Greek Language lessons after losing her voice. Meanwhile, her Greek Language instructor is losing his sight.
As the title suggests, this book examines language and the variety of ways people communicate. It is very introspective and philosophical-leaning.
The writing is stunning, as you’d expect from this author. Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Won translated it beautifully.
Even though the writing was exceptional, it felt detached. I don’t need to connect or relate to characters, but if I feel there is any distance or detachment in the writing style, then it’s hard for me to become invested in the story, which was the case here.
If you enjoy philosophy and languages, you may enjoy this novel. It’s been years since I’ve studied Greek, so bumbling my way through the few bits in this book was fun.
Thank you to Random House for providing an arc via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.
https://booksandwheels.com
This story follows a young woman who signs up for Ancient Greek Language lessons after losing her voice. Meanwhile, her Greek Language instructor is losing his sight.
As the title suggests, this book examines language and the variety of ways people communicate. It is very introspective and philosophical-leaning.
The writing is stunning, as you’d expect from this author. Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Won translated it beautifully.
Even though the writing was exceptional, it felt detached. I don’t need to connect or relate to characters, but if I feel there is any distance or detachment in the writing style, then it’s hard for me to become invested in the story, which was the case here.
If you enjoy philosophy and languages, you may enjoy this novel. It’s been years since I’ve studied Greek, so bumbling my way through the few bits in this book was fun.
Thank you to Random House for providing an arc via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.
https://booksandwheels.com
October 10, 2024
Now Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature 2024
Let's not kid ourselves: This is the weakest Han Kang I've ever read (and for someone restricted to reading in translation, I've read and enjoyed quite a few of her novels: The Vegetarian, Human Acts, The White Book, and Deine kalten Hände). The issue with "Greek Lessons" is, IMHO, that it is fully based on metaphors that determine the structure of the story and the characters, which makes for a hazy, vague reading experience that yells at you: "Hey, I'm ART"! Granted, of course Han Kang can write singular intriguing sentences, but where's the elegance in the construction of the plot, where's the vision, where's the overall narrative or aesthetic force? More than anything, this novella is: Timid.
The text is narrated in alternating chapters by a teacher for Ancient Greek losing his eyesight and one of his students, a woman who recently got divorced and lost custody of her son, which made her stop speaking. Both feel an increasing sensation of losing touch with the world, for one because of their impediments, but also because of the direction their lives have taken: Two lonely people meet in a course that keeps a dead language alive by passing it on. The heavy implications are hard to miss, and the evocation of doom and gloom is well rendered.
But all in all, this novella didn't get to me, because it's too forced and on the nose, and the plot construction is rather clunky. Apparently, Han Kang wrote it while in an artistic crisis of sorts, and I hope that getting this one out of her system helped her find new footing.
Let's not kid ourselves: This is the weakest Han Kang I've ever read (and for someone restricted to reading in translation, I've read and enjoyed quite a few of her novels: The Vegetarian, Human Acts, The White Book, and Deine kalten Hände). The issue with "Greek Lessons" is, IMHO, that it is fully based on metaphors that determine the structure of the story and the characters, which makes for a hazy, vague reading experience that yells at you: "Hey, I'm ART"! Granted, of course Han Kang can write singular intriguing sentences, but where's the elegance in the construction of the plot, where's the vision, where's the overall narrative or aesthetic force? More than anything, this novella is: Timid.
The text is narrated in alternating chapters by a teacher for Ancient Greek losing his eyesight and one of his students, a woman who recently got divorced and lost custody of her son, which made her stop speaking. Both feel an increasing sensation of losing touch with the world, for one because of their impediments, but also because of the direction their lives have taken: Two lonely people meet in a course that keeps a dead language alive by passing it on. The heavy implications are hard to miss, and the evocation of doom and gloom is well rendered.
But all in all, this novella didn't get to me, because it's too forced and on the nose, and the plot construction is rather clunky. Apparently, Han Kang wrote it while in an artistic crisis of sorts, and I hope that getting this one out of her system helped her find new footing.
March 15, 2023
Oh I feel so bad about what I’m about to write. I had such a yearning as I read this novel for it to linger longer on the ideas and poetics of what was being said and experienced by these characters. I felt like maybe a half-dozen masterpieces began and carried me forward into new, brave thoughts—and then they were abandoned. Some other, amazing story began. Maybe these threads tied together a little by the end but along the way the weave kept getting torn apart as tense and place and time all changed from one page to the next. I’m grieving for the novel that might have been. It needed a center for me. A grounding that wasn’t there. I saw some pretty ideas flash by as I read. Maybe that should be enough.
January 14, 2023
I actually finish this book about a week ago. I’ve notes, but
I’m not sure I fully comprehend everything — so I’m going to do some re- reading before I write a review…..
but there were times I thought her writing reminded me of e. e. Cummings (as in beautiful)….
Review in a day or two. —
FACT IS—
…if you happen to have a thing for Kang’s books —- then pick this one up as well.
It’s not as heavy as “The Vegetarian”…..but it’s not a light walk in the park either.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️……UPDATE REVIEW BELOW
This is the fourth book I’ve read by Han Kang….
I admire Kang’s writing, and the depth of her powerful thought processes.
The three other books, “The Vegetarian”, “The Human Acts”, and “The White Book”, were each five stars from me — and each for different reasons….
I’ve been thinking about this book for a couple of weeks — I re-read parts a second time. I can’t remember ever waiting this long to write a review though — ‘after’ having read the book…..
but for me — this book was the hardest for me to fully comprehend……
and…..
I’ve been struggling with medical and physical issues — so I couldn’t be sure if my own ‘warped’ thoughts were coming from my reading or my own meshugana thoughts.
But here goes my ‘take-away’ thoughts, feelings, and experience….[may be different for everyone]….
I reflected inward….(if I clearly missed the boat in comprehending this novel - I apologize to Han Kang)….
So….
Here goes ….(embarrassing as can be)…..
First….
I thought deeply about the title ….(perhaps symbolically—there are several meanings?)….well, my search for meaning threw me…
When I looked up the word Greek, I got:
…..”Greek is a term used by prostitutes to describe anal sex. Often examples contain alternate symbols for letters.
Okay, I thought - well the ‘symbols’ explain the letters (which readers will discover themselves in this novel) ….. but not so much ‘the anal sex’….. (fine, I can easy let that go)…..
But Kang used ‘her stories in ‘Greek Lessons’ to help us understand communicating with words.
The term “It all sounds Greek to me”, is fitting…..
but symbolically ‘GREEK LESSONS’ with the use of symbols, words, images, and mental representations of objects, stories, and events allows for mental/intellectual meditative understanding….
For example….the female protagonist is dealing/ struggling/ suffering with sensory loss. It seems as if her brain is adapting — but clearly there is loss.
I was thinking about how crazy complicated it is for people to fully understand each other - with language- with our voices -
But with non-commutation …. one is left to rely on facial expression, tone of the voice, touch, lip reading, and sign language ….
Our male protagonist, a Greek instructor, was dealing with vision loss…..age-related macular degeneration.
Don’t laugh (or do - what do I care)….I was wondering if I could join the characters—bond with them over bodily loss - and deeper emotional pain….
I have my voice and eyesight - but with a degenerative spine condition—I’m experiencing loss of normal structure and function….limitations….and chronic pain…..
What I found beautiful about “Greek Lesson”…..besides the prose being super-stupendously spectacular. …..
was that as long as we ‘are’ breathing - alive as we know it — we are blessed to find even one person - whom we can share our pain with - our darkness with ….our alternatives to what others presumed normal….and share a closeness connection deeply satisfying….quieting….calm….and serene …..
……unlocking the true value of another ….of a friendship….harmony and intimacy.
On my first reading I gave it 4 stars but the more time I spent re-reading parts — I’m clearly began to ‘feel’ the unique brilliance…I raise my rating to 5 stars.
(still had a little e.e. Cummings experience-déjà vu-re-reading ‘Greek Lessons’ a second time)
I’ll leave some excerpts…. (but remember- without reading the entire book - they are just tasters)….
‘Greek Lessons’ is a must ….if already a Han Kang fans.
“The only person who knew that her life with split violently in two was she herself”.
“It first happened in the winter when she just turned sixteen. The language that had pricked and confined her like clothing made from a thousand needles abruptly disappeared. Words still reached her ears, but now a thick, dense layer of air buffered the space between her cochleas and brain. Wrapped in thot foggy silence, the memories of the tongue and lips that have been used to pronounce, of the hand that had firmly gripped the pencil, grew remote. She no longer thought and language. She moved without language, and understood without language—as it had been before, she learned to speak, no, before she had obtained life, silence, absorbing the flow of time like balls of cotton, enveloped her body, both outside and in”.
“Why are you studying Greek?”
“Off her guard, she looks down at her left wrist. Beneath the dark purple hair band, which is damp with sweat, the old scar is also clammy. She will not remember. And, if she must remember, if it is absolutely unavoidable, she will not feel anything”.
“She knows that no single specific experience led to her loss of language”.
“Fatigue is like a heady intoxication, dulling her thoughts”.
Thank you Random House Publishing and Netgalley
I’m not sure I fully comprehend everything — so I’m going to do some re- reading before I write a review…..
but there were times I thought her writing reminded me of e. e. Cummings (as in beautiful)….
Review in a day or two. —
FACT IS—
…if you happen to have a thing for Kang’s books —- then pick this one up as well.
It’s not as heavy as “The Vegetarian”…..but it’s not a light walk in the park either.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️……UPDATE REVIEW BELOW
This is the fourth book I’ve read by Han Kang….
I admire Kang’s writing, and the depth of her powerful thought processes.
The three other books, “The Vegetarian”, “The Human Acts”, and “The White Book”, were each five stars from me — and each for different reasons….
I’ve been thinking about this book for a couple of weeks — I re-read parts a second time. I can’t remember ever waiting this long to write a review though — ‘after’ having read the book…..
but for me — this book was the hardest for me to fully comprehend……
and…..
I’ve been struggling with medical and physical issues — so I couldn’t be sure if my own ‘warped’ thoughts were coming from my reading or my own meshugana thoughts.
But here goes my ‘take-away’ thoughts, feelings, and experience….[may be different for everyone]….
I reflected inward….(if I clearly missed the boat in comprehending this novel - I apologize to Han Kang)….
So….
Here goes ….(embarrassing as can be)…..
First….
I thought deeply about the title ….(perhaps symbolically—there are several meanings?)….well, my search for meaning threw me…
When I looked up the word Greek, I got:
…..”Greek is a term used by prostitutes to describe anal sex. Often examples contain alternate symbols for letters.
Okay, I thought - well the ‘symbols’ explain the letters (which readers will discover themselves in this novel) ….. but not so much ‘the anal sex’….. (fine, I can easy let that go)…..
But Kang used ‘her stories in ‘Greek Lessons’ to help us understand communicating with words.
The term “It all sounds Greek to me”, is fitting…..
but symbolically ‘GREEK LESSONS’ with the use of symbols, words, images, and mental representations of objects, stories, and events allows for mental/intellectual meditative understanding….
For example….the female protagonist is dealing/ struggling/ suffering with sensory loss. It seems as if her brain is adapting — but clearly there is loss.
I was thinking about how crazy complicated it is for people to fully understand each other - with language- with our voices -
But with non-commutation …. one is left to rely on facial expression, tone of the voice, touch, lip reading, and sign language ….
Our male protagonist, a Greek instructor, was dealing with vision loss…..age-related macular degeneration.
Don’t laugh (or do - what do I care)….I was wondering if I could join the characters—bond with them over bodily loss - and deeper emotional pain….
I have my voice and eyesight - but with a degenerative spine condition—I’m experiencing loss of normal structure and function….limitations….and chronic pain…..
What I found beautiful about “Greek Lesson”…..besides the prose being super-stupendously spectacular. …..
was that as long as we ‘are’ breathing - alive as we know it — we are blessed to find even one person - whom we can share our pain with - our darkness with ….our alternatives to what others presumed normal….and share a closeness connection deeply satisfying….quieting….calm….and serene …..
……unlocking the true value of another ….of a friendship….harmony and intimacy.
On my first reading I gave it 4 stars but the more time I spent re-reading parts — I’m clearly began to ‘feel’ the unique brilliance…I raise my rating to 5 stars.
(still had a little e.e. Cummings experience-déjà vu-re-reading ‘Greek Lessons’ a second time)
I’ll leave some excerpts…. (but remember- without reading the entire book - they are just tasters)….
‘Greek Lessons’ is a must ….if already a Han Kang fans.
“The only person who knew that her life with split violently in two was she herself”.
“It first happened in the winter when she just turned sixteen. The language that had pricked and confined her like clothing made from a thousand needles abruptly disappeared. Words still reached her ears, but now a thick, dense layer of air buffered the space between her cochleas and brain. Wrapped in thot foggy silence, the memories of the tongue and lips that have been used to pronounce, of the hand that had firmly gripped the pencil, grew remote. She no longer thought and language. She moved without language, and understood without language—as it had been before, she learned to speak, no, before she had obtained life, silence, absorbing the flow of time like balls of cotton, enveloped her body, both outside and in”.
“Why are you studying Greek?”
“Off her guard, she looks down at her left wrist. Beneath the dark purple hair band, which is damp with sweat, the old scar is also clammy. She will not remember. And, if she must remember, if it is absolutely unavoidable, she will not feel anything”.
“She knows that no single specific experience led to her loss of language”.
“Fatigue is like a heady intoxication, dulling her thoughts”.
Thank you Random House Publishing and Netgalley
January 11, 2023
3.5 stars
This is a beautifully tender piece of writing but it doesn't have the glorious strangeness, richness and intensity of Kang's The Vegetarian.
Shuttling between two protagonists, a woman who is no longer speaking and the 1st person narrative from her Greek teacher who is losing his sight, this thinks about issues of intimacy and connection, about the roles of language and the senses in forging relationships between people.
The thematics reminded me a little of Katie Kitamura's Intimacies though the question of linguistics was more centred there - but there is an interest in communication and misunderstandings in both books.
Kang's prose in this (translated, of course) feels more placid than I expected and while she trades in some lovely imagery, there is a slight feel of a lack of personality, possibly due to the style of modern international translation which has a kind of 'voice' of its own.
It's a quick read, an intelligent and, at times, moving one but quite abstract and bloodless - it didn't wow me or trouble me the way The Vegetarian did.
Thanks to Penguin for an ARC via NetGalley.
She no longer thought in language. She moved without language and understood without language - as it had been before she learned to speak, no, before she had obtained life
This is a beautifully tender piece of writing but it doesn't have the glorious strangeness, richness and intensity of Kang's The Vegetarian.
Shuttling between two protagonists, a woman who is no longer speaking and the 1st person narrative from her Greek teacher who is losing his sight, this thinks about issues of intimacy and connection, about the roles of language and the senses in forging relationships between people.
The thematics reminded me a little of Katie Kitamura's Intimacies though the question of linguistics was more centred there - but there is an interest in communication and misunderstandings in both books.
Kang's prose in this (translated, of course) feels more placid than I expected and while she trades in some lovely imagery, there is a slight feel of a lack of personality, possibly due to the style of modern international translation which has a kind of 'voice' of its own.
It's a quick read, an intelligent and, at times, moving one but quite abstract and bloodless - it didn't wow me or trouble me the way The Vegetarian did.
Thanks to Penguin for an ARC via NetGalley.
May 17, 2023
This was too abstract, even for me.
I loved a lot of things about this: the focus on language, some gorgeous writing, the fact that we have a story told from two unique points of view: a woman who can't speak and a man who can't see.
but then we come to the story, there is NONE. It ends abruptly with no resolution and I don't really know what to get from this besides some lyrical quotes about language. The start was strong but then it lost focus and lost me, sadly.
I loved a lot of things about this: the focus on language, some gorgeous writing, the fact that we have a story told from two unique points of view: a woman who can't speak and a man who can't see.
but then we come to the story, there is NONE. It ends abruptly with no resolution and I don't really know what to get from this besides some lyrical quotes about language. The start was strong but then it lost focus and lost me, sadly.
June 14, 2023
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3 ½ stars
In a clinically detached prose Han Kang examines in exacting detail the experiences of two individuals whose ability to perceive the world and be able to express themselves, to interact with others, are impaired. Preoccupied with the notion and the reality of communication, perception, language, and sight these characters feel increasingly alienated from their everyday reality, unsure of themselves, their senses, and their bodies, and attempting to find a new way to occupy space, of navigating their world, by, in the case of the woman, distancing herself from that which was familiar, and, in the case of the man, retreating inward to recollect the past and to understand the origins and effects of his linguistic and cultural disconnect.
Unsparing and analytical, Greek Lessons is permeated by ambivalence. This atmosphere of unease and the characters’ aloofness succeed in making us feel a sense of estrangement from the text, which is compounded by the prose’s impersonal way of addressing the characters and how events that should carry some emotional impact are delivered and/or recounted in a distinctly dispassionate way. Kang places her characters under a microscope, zeroing in on momentary discomforts and sensations, be it a character’s dry lips or quivering eyelids. These close-ups are often uncomfortable, but they do succeed in conveying with precision the characters’ experiences. These coldly anatomical descriptions interrupt the characters’ introspections, which often amount to a lot of navel-gazing. Their preoccupation with the function and reality of a language, of linguistic barriers, of bilingualism, of ‘dead’ languages, of the way language and communication are necessary to navigate many spaces, and without it, one can find themselves on the margins, a passive spectator. The woman’s difficulties in conveying and articulating her thoughts and feelings definitely resonated with me. She is unwilling or avoids explaining her ‘loss’ of language, and there was something like resilience in her silence, in her choice to remain opaque. I was reminded of a Georgian film I watched a while back, My Happy Family, which revolves around a middle-aged woman who decides to leave her husband and family to live by herself and throughout the film refuses to explain her choice or back down from it. Here of course the circumstances of the woman are quite different, soon after the death of her mother the woman loses a drawn-out custody battle over her eight-year-old son. Severed from her son, grieving the loss of her mother, the woman, a professor, falls once again victim to a ‘malady’ that results in a loss of speech.
Yet, her loss of language cannot be easily ascribed to these losses. Feeling disconnected from Korean, the woman attempts to approach the language anew. To do so, she distances herself from her mother tongue and chooses to study a dead language, ancient Greek. These classes are taught by a man who grew up between Korea and Germany, and because of this has long felt not only a linguistic divide but a self-divide, perpetually longing to belong, to feel at ease. For years he has been gradually losing his sight, and so he finds himself questioning how he can retain independence, observing the world around him with regret and yearning. He writes letters to his sister, recounting his childhood experiences, from the shock of moving from Korea to Germany to the pressure to ‘assimilate’, and he also reflects on past friendships and loves.
By switching between these two individuals Kang draws a parallel between their experiences and realities, as they both find themselves having to reevaluate new ways of perceiving and communicating with the world around them. There is, towards the end, a moment of kinship between the two, that felt startlingly poignant.
The narrative expounds on these two individuals' theoretical and personal ruminations, mirroring and juxtaposing their experiences and perspectives. Their reflections on languages, spoken and unspoken ways of communication, expression and perception, memory, grief, and the body (the way they fail and change us), are rendered all the more lucid by the author’s unsparing style. Yet, despite how clinical and ascetic her style was, there are moments where Kang’s prose is elevated by an elegiac, lyrical even, use of language.
Greek Lessons makes for a fascinating read. The two central characters remain slightly outside of our reach, despite the time we spend alongside them. The subject matter and language itself are the core of this novel, making it sure, intellectually and stylistically arresting but, except for a few moments, I felt not only at a remove but as if I was reading a textbook. I couldn't help but compare this unfavourably to two favorites of mine, Whereabouts and All the Lovers in the Night (both novels also explore loneliness in women who assume the role of observer). Nevertheless, I do admire what Kang achieves in Greek Lessons and I found the ending to be quite rewarding.
Some quotes:
My love for you wasn’t foolish, but I was; had my own innate foolishness made love itself foolish? Or is that I myself wasn’t at all that foolish, but love’s inherent foolishness awakened any foolishness latent in me and eventually smashed everything to pieces?
[T]here had once been a word that encapsulated both beauty and the sacred, without their having yet fallen away from each other, just as colour and clarity had formed one body within another word—the truth of this had never before been brought home to me with such vibrant intensity.
Whatever their motivation, those who study Greek share certain tendencies. They walk and talk slowly, for the most part, and don’t show much emotion (I guess this applies to me too). Perhaps because this language is a long-dead one and doesn’t allow for oral communication. Silence, shy hesitation and reactions of muted laughter slowly heat the air inside the classroom, and slowly cool it.
What a strange thing one's flesh and blood is.
How strange are the ways that it brings us sorrow.
Ink overlays ink, memory overlays memory, bloodstain overlays bloodstain. Serenity over serenity, smile over smile, bears down.
Do you ever wonder at the strangeness of it?
That our bodies have eyelids and lips,
That they can at times be made to close from the outside,
and at other times to lock fast from within.
She knows that no single specific experience led to her loss of language.
Language worn ragged over thousands of years, from wear and tear by countless tongues and pens. Language worn ragged over the course of her life, by her own tongue and pen. Each time she tried to begin a sentence, she could feel her aged heart. Her patched and repatched, dried-up, expressionless heart. The more keenly she felt it, the more fiercely she clasped the words.
3 ½ stars
“The lit fuse of the chilly explosive primed in her heart is no more. The interior of her mouth is as empty as the veins through which the blood no longer flows, it is as empty as a lift shaft where the lift has ceased to operate.”
In a clinically detached prose Han Kang examines in exacting detail the experiences of two individuals whose ability to perceive the world and be able to express themselves, to interact with others, are impaired. Preoccupied with the notion and the reality of communication, perception, language, and sight these characters feel increasingly alienated from their everyday reality, unsure of themselves, their senses, and their bodies, and attempting to find a new way to occupy space, of navigating their world, by, in the case of the woman, distancing herself from that which was familiar, and, in the case of the man, retreating inward to recollect the past and to understand the origins and effects of his linguistic and cultural disconnect.
Unsparing and analytical, Greek Lessons is permeated by ambivalence. This atmosphere of unease and the characters’ aloofness succeed in making us feel a sense of estrangement from the text, which is compounded by the prose’s impersonal way of addressing the characters and how events that should carry some emotional impact are delivered and/or recounted in a distinctly dispassionate way. Kang places her characters under a microscope, zeroing in on momentary discomforts and sensations, be it a character’s dry lips or quivering eyelids. These close-ups are often uncomfortable, but they do succeed in conveying with precision the characters’ experiences. These coldly anatomical descriptions interrupt the characters’ introspections, which often amount to a lot of navel-gazing. Their preoccupation with the function and reality of a language, of linguistic barriers, of bilingualism, of ‘dead’ languages, of the way language and communication are necessary to navigate many spaces, and without it, one can find themselves on the margins, a passive spectator. The woman’s difficulties in conveying and articulating her thoughts and feelings definitely resonated with me. She is unwilling or avoids explaining her ‘loss’ of language, and there was something like resilience in her silence, in her choice to remain opaque. I was reminded of a Georgian film I watched a while back, My Happy Family, which revolves around a middle-aged woman who decides to leave her husband and family to live by herself and throughout the film refuses to explain her choice or back down from it. Here of course the circumstances of the woman are quite different, soon after the death of her mother the woman loses a drawn-out custody battle over her eight-year-old son. Severed from her son, grieving the loss of her mother, the woman, a professor, falls once again victim to a ‘malady’ that results in a loss of speech.
“Before she lost words—when she was still able to use them to write—she sometimes wished that her own expressions would more closely resemble inarticulacy: a moan or low cry. The sound of suffering through bated breath. Snarling. Humming in one’s half-sleep to pacify a child. Stifled laughter. The sound of two people’s lips pressing together, pulling apart.”
Yet, her loss of language cannot be easily ascribed to these losses. Feeling disconnected from Korean, the woman attempts to approach the language anew. To do so, she distances herself from her mother tongue and chooses to study a dead language, ancient Greek. These classes are taught by a man who grew up between Korea and Germany, and because of this has long felt not only a linguistic divide but a self-divide, perpetually longing to belong, to feel at ease. For years he has been gradually losing his sight, and so he finds himself questioning how he can retain independence, observing the world around him with regret and yearning. He writes letters to his sister, recounting his childhood experiences, from the shock of moving from Korea to Germany to the pressure to ‘assimilate’, and he also reflects on past friendships and loves.
“Even the occasional memorable event is soon erased without a trace under time’s huge, opaque mass.”
By switching between these two individuals Kang draws a parallel between their experiences and realities, as they both find themselves having to reevaluate new ways of perceiving and communicating with the world around them. There is, towards the end, a moment of kinship between the two, that felt startlingly poignant.
“Sunspots explode, without a sound, in the distance. Hearts and lips touch across a fault line, at once joined and eternally sundered.”
The narrative expounds on these two individuals' theoretical and personal ruminations, mirroring and juxtaposing their experiences and perspectives. Their reflections on languages, spoken and unspoken ways of communication, expression and perception, memory, grief, and the body (the way they fail and change us), are rendered all the more lucid by the author’s unsparing style. Yet, despite how clinical and ascetic her style was, there are moments where Kang’s prose is elevated by an elegiac, lyrical even, use of language.
“If only she’d made a map of the route her tears used to take.”
Greek Lessons makes for a fascinating read. The two central characters remain slightly outside of our reach, despite the time we spend alongside them. The subject matter and language itself are the core of this novel, making it sure, intellectually and stylistically arresting but, except for a few moments, I felt not only at a remove but as if I was reading a textbook. I couldn't help but compare this unfavourably to two favorites of mine, Whereabouts and All the Lovers in the Night (both novels also explore loneliness in women who assume the role of observer). Nevertheless, I do admire what Kang achieves in Greek Lessons and I found the ending to be quite rewarding.
Some quotes:
My love for you wasn’t foolish, but I was; had my own innate foolishness made love itself foolish? Or is that I myself wasn’t at all that foolish, but love’s inherent foolishness awakened any foolishness latent in me and eventually smashed everything to pieces?
[T]here had once been a word that encapsulated both beauty and the sacred, without their having yet fallen away from each other, just as colour and clarity had formed one body within another word—the truth of this had never before been brought home to me with such vibrant intensity.
Whatever their motivation, those who study Greek share certain tendencies. They walk and talk slowly, for the most part, and don’t show much emotion (I guess this applies to me too). Perhaps because this language is a long-dead one and doesn’t allow for oral communication. Silence, shy hesitation and reactions of muted laughter slowly heat the air inside the classroom, and slowly cool it.
What a strange thing one's flesh and blood is.
How strange are the ways that it brings us sorrow.
Ink overlays ink, memory overlays memory, bloodstain overlays bloodstain. Serenity over serenity, smile over smile, bears down.
Do you ever wonder at the strangeness of it?
That our bodies have eyelids and lips,
That they can at times be made to close from the outside,
and at other times to lock fast from within.
She knows that no single specific experience led to her loss of language.
Language worn ragged over thousands of years, from wear and tear by countless tongues and pens. Language worn ragged over the course of her life, by her own tongue and pen. Each time she tried to begin a sentence, she could feel her aged heart. Her patched and repatched, dried-up, expressionless heart. The more keenly she felt it, the more fiercely she clasped the words.
October 31, 2024
Shortlisted for the 2024 Warwick Prize for Women In Translation
From the deserving winner of the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature for her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life
She leans forwards.
Tightens her grip on the pencil.
Lowers her head further
The words evade her grasp
Words that have lost lips,
words that have lost throat and breath remain out of reach. Like unbodied apparations, their forms evade touch.
A person lies prone in the snow.
Snow in their throat.
Earth in their eyes.
Seeing nothing.
A person stands next to them.
Hearing nothing.
한 사람이 눈 속에 엎드려 있다.
목구멍에 눈雪.
눈두덩에는 흙.
아무것도 보이지 않는다.
한 사람이 그 앞에 멈춰 서 있다.
아무것도 들리지 않는다.
Greek Lessons is Emily Yae Won and Deborah Smith's translation of 한강 (Han Kang)'s novel 희랍어 시간 (2011) and the fourth of her novels to be published in English (each translated by Smith) after:
채식주의자 (2007) translated at The Vegetarian
소년이 온다 (2014) translated as Human Acts (the literal translation is 'A Boy is Coming')
흰 (2016) translated as The White Book
Greek Lessons is a moving story told in finely-crafted, crystalline prose, infused with a blue light inspired by the Chagallian windows in Stephan zu Mainz. I initially found the novel hard to connect with, rather like the Ancient Greek, a language as cold and hard as a pillar of ice, around which the novel is centred, but it opened up on an immediate re-read. At first, with it's German-Korean setting and relative opacity, I almost felt I was reading 배수아, but it is ultimately unmistakably 한강, infused with compassion and beauty, a book the author described as 'the sunniest of which I am capable'.
Overall, impressive and although not my favourite by the author, still a strong contender for the International Booker.
Some favourite passages:
Stephan zu Mainz
A place where the seemingly ice-steeped sunlight streams in through stained-glass windows in various gradations of blue. A place where Christ hangs on the cross without the slightest trace of suffering, his eyes lifted ingenuously towards heaven, and the angels step lightly through the air as though out for a casual stroll. Palm trees with dark and still darker green leaves sweetly unfurled. Bright-faced saints with pale blue-grey hair draped in paler blue-grey vestments. A space without a hint of sin or suffering, and which for that reason I’d felt was almost pagan: the church of St Stephan.
얼음에 담근과 같은 햇빛이 황변의 스테인드글라스들이 나타나서 내려오는 곳. 계략은 극심한 고통에 매달리고 천진하게 하늘을 올려다보고, 천사들이 방해하는 중단나온에서 조금 더 빨리 걸이로 허공을 거니는 곳입니다. 진한푸른색과 더 진한푸른색 잎사귀들이 착하게 밀착을 건너친 종려나무들. 퇴색은 회청색 머리칼에 더 퇴색은 회청색 수도복을 써서 환한 얼굴의 성자들입니다. 전장 눈을 돌려도 고통과 고통의 윤활이 없는, 그 때문에 거의 이교적이라고 했을 때 성 슈테판 성당
On the female character learning 한글 as a child:
When it came to language, that label might have been true. By the age of four, and without being taught, she had a good grasp of Hangul. Knowing nothing of consonants and vowels, she ’d memorized syllable combinations as entire units. The year she turned six, her elder brother gave her an explanation of Hangul’s structure, parroting what his teacher had said. As she listened, everything had seemed vague, yet she ended up spending that entire afternoon in early spring squatting in the yard, preoccupied by thoughts of consonants and vowels. That was when she discovered the subtle difference between theㄴ sound as pronounced in the word 나, na, and when pronounced in 니, nih; after that, she realised ㅅ sounded different in 사, sah, than it did in 시, shi. Making a mental run-through of all the possible diphthong combinations, she found that the only one that didn’t exist in her language wasㅣ, ih, combined withㅡ, eu, and in that order, which was why there was no way of writing it.
언어에 관한 한 그 말은 사실이었는지도 몰랐다. 그녀는 네 살에 스스로 한글을 깨쳤다. 아직 자모음에 대한 인식 없이 모든 글자들을 통문자로 외운 것이었다. 학교에 들어간 오빠가 담임선생을 흉내내어 한글의 구조를 설명해준 것은 그녀가 여섯 살이 되던 해였다. 설명을 들은 순간엔 그저 막연한 느낌뿐이었는데, 그 이른 봄의 오후 내내 그녀는 자음과 모음에 대한 생각을 떨치지 못하고 마당에 쪼그려앉아 있었다. 그러다 ‘나’를 발음할 때의 ㄴ과 ‘니’를 발음할 때의 ㄴ이 미묘하게 다른 소리를 낸다는 것을 발견했고, 뒤이어 ‘사’와 ‘시’의 ㅅ 역시 서로 다른 소리라는 것을 깨달았다. 조합할 수 있는 모든 이중모음을 머릿속에서 만들어보다가, ㅣ와 ㅡ의 순으로 결합된 이중모음만은 모국어에 존재하지 않으며, 따라서 그것을 적을 방법도 없다는 것을 알았다.
After starting primary school, she began jotting down vocabulary in the back of her diary. With neither purpose nor context, merely a list of words that had made a deep impression on her; among them, the one she valued the most was숲. On the page, this single-syllable word resembled an old pagoda:ㅍ, the foundation,ㅜ, the main body,ㅅ, the upper section. She liked the feeling when she pronounced it:ㅅ – ㅜ – ㅍ, s–oo–p, the sensation of first pursing her lips, and then slowly, carefully releasing the air. And then of the lips closing. A word completed through silence. Entranced by this word in which pronunciation, meaning and form were all wrapped around in stillness, she wrote:숲.숲. Woods.
그후 초등학교에 다니면서부터 그녀는 일기장 뒤쪽에 단어들을 적기 시작했다. 목적도, 맥락도 없이 그저 인상 깊다고 느낀 낱말들이었는데, 그중 그녀가 가장 아꼈던 것은 ‘숲’이었다. 옛날의 탑을 닮은 조형적인 글자였다. ㅍ은 기단, ㅜ는 탑신, ㅅ은 탑의 상단. ㅅ-ㅜ-ㅍ이라고 발음할 때 먼저 입술이 오므라들고, 그 다음으로 바람이 천천히, 조심스럽게 새어나오는 느낌을 그녀는 좋아했다. 그리고는 닫히는 입술. 침묵으로 완성되는 말. 발음과 뜻, 형상이 모두 정적에 둘러싸인 그 단어에 이끌려 그녀는 썼다. 숲. 숲.
On the middle voice in Greek which was the inspiration for the novel:
διεφθάρθαι
Musing over the letters on the blackboard, she picks up her pencil and writes the word in her notebook. She hasn’t come across a language with such intricate rules before. The verbs change their form according to, variously: the subject’s case, gender and number; the tense, of which there are various grades; and the voice, of which there are three distinct types. But it is thanks to these unusually elaborate and meticulous rules that the individual sentences are, in fact, simple and clear. There is no need to specify the subject, or even to keep to a strict word order. This one word – modified to denote that the subject is a singular, third-person male; the tense perfect, meaning it describes something that occurred at some point in the past; and the voice middle – has compressed within it the meaning ‘He had at one time tried to kill himself.’
...
She bites down on that sensation, the mere memory of which is chilling, and writes: διεφθάρθαι.
A language as cold and hard as a pillar of ice. A language that does not wait to be combined with any other prior to use, a supremely self-sufficient language. A language that can part the lips only after irrevocably determining causality and attitude.
흑판에 적힌 문자들을 곰곰이 올려다보다가 그녀는 연필을 쥔다. 공책에 그 단어를 옮겨적는다.
이렇게 규칙이 까다로운 언어를 그녀는 접해보지 못했다. 동사들은 주어의 격과 성과 수에 따라, 여러 단계를 가진 시제에 따라, 세 가지 태에 따라 일일이 형태를 바꾼다. 놀랍도록 정교하고 면밀한 규칙 덕분에 오히려 문장들은 간명하다. 주어를 굳이 쓸 필요도 없다. 어순을 지킬 필요조차 없다. 삼인칭의 한 남자가 주체이며, 언젠가 한번 일어난 일임을 나타내는 완료시제를 쓴, 중간태에 따라 변화된 이 한 단어에 ‘그는 언젠가 자신을 죽이려 한 적이 있다’는 의미가 압축돼 있다.
기억만으로 선득한 그 감각을 잇사이로 누르며 그녀는 쓴다.
διεφθάρθαι
얼음 기둥처럼 차갑고 단단한 언어.
다른 어떤 단어와도 결합되어 구사되기를 기다리지 않는, 극도로 자족적인 언어.
돌이킬 수 없이 인과와 태도를 결정한 뒤에야 마침내 입술을 뗄 수 있는 언어.
A street scene in Seoul, embellished with the visually impaired male main character's imagination:
People from all walks of life pass through this alley, in a shopping district on the outskirts of Seoul. A teenage girl wearing earphones, her school skirt clumsily hitched up. A middle-aged man with a shabby tracksuit and a paunch. A woman talking on her mobile whose stunning dress makes her look as though she ’d just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. An elderly woman, with her white hair cropped short and a sparklingly embellished sweater, lighting her cigarette with a leisurely gesture. Someone somewhere is swearing viciously, and the smell of gukbap wafts from a restaurant. A kid on a bike whooshes past me, ringing the bell as loudly as he can.
Even wearing glasses with the highest power I could get, I still can’t make out the details of any of these things. Individual shapes and gestures blur together, and any clarity is brought about only through the strength of my imagination. The schoolgirl will be mouthing the words to the song she ’s listening to, and her lower lip will have a small, bluish mark on the left, just as yours did. The middle-aged man’s tracksuit sleeves will be grubby and worn to a shine, and the laces on his trainers, which would originally have been white, would have turned a dark grey from months of not being washed. Beads of sweat will be trickling down the temples of the boy on the bike. The old woman looks like quite a tough proposition; her cigarette will be some slender, dainty brand, and the twinkling shards of mother-of-pearl encrusted on her sweater will form the shape of a rose or hydrangea.
서울 변두리의 이 상가 골목에는 다양한 부류의 사람들이 오갑니다. 교복 치마를 어설프게 줄여 입고 이어폰을 낀 여학생. 후줄근한 트레이닝복 차림에 아랫배가 나온 중년 남자. 패션잡지에서 방금 걸어나온 듯 근사한 원피스를 입고 누군가와 통화를 하며 걷는 여자. 새하얗게 센 쇼트커트 머리에 반짝이 장식이 가득 달린 스웨터를 빛내며 느린 동작으로 담뱃불을 붙이는 노파. 어디선가 욕지거리가 들리고 식당에서는 국밥 냄새가 번져옵니다. 자전거를 탄 소년이 일부러 크게 벨을 울리며 내 앞을 미끄러져 지나갑니다.
최대한 도수를 높인 안경을 끼었지만, 이 모든 것들의 세부를 이제 나는 보지 못합니다. 형상과 동작들은 덩어리로 뭉개어져 있고, 디테일은 오직 상상의 힘으로만 선명합니다. 여학생의 입술은 음악에 맞추어 달싹거리고, 아랫입술 왼쪽에 당신이 가진 것처럼 파르스름하고 작은 점이 있을 것입니다. 중년 남자의 트레이닝복 소매는 때에 절어 반들반들하고, 원래 희었던 운동화 끈은 몇 달을 빨지 않아 진한 회색이 되었을 것입니다. 자전거를 탄 소년의 관자놀이에는 땀방울이 흘러내리고 있을 것입니다. 녹록지 않은 관록이 느껴지는 노파의 담배는 가느다랗고 섬세한 종류의 것이고, 스웨터 가득 박힌 자개 반짝이들은 장미나 수국 문양일 것입니다.
From the deserving winner of the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature for her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life
She leans forwards.
Tightens her grip on the pencil.
Lowers her head further
The words evade her grasp
Words that have lost lips,
words that have lost throat and breath remain out of reach. Like unbodied apparations, their forms evade touch.
A person lies prone in the snow.
Snow in their throat.
Earth in their eyes.
Seeing nothing.
A person stands next to them.
Hearing nothing.
한 사람이 눈 속에 엎드려 있다.
목구멍에 눈雪.
눈두덩에는 흙.
아무것도 보이지 않는다.
한 사람이 그 앞에 멈춰 서 있다.
아무것도 들리지 않는다.
Greek Lessons is Emily Yae Won and Deborah Smith's translation of 한강 (Han Kang)'s novel 희랍어 시간 (2011) and the fourth of her novels to be published in English (each translated by Smith) after:
채식주의자 (2007) translated at The Vegetarian
소년이 온다 (2014) translated as Human Acts (the literal translation is 'A Boy is Coming')
흰 (2016) translated as The White Book
Greek Lessons is a moving story told in finely-crafted, crystalline prose, infused with a blue light inspired by the Chagallian windows in Stephan zu Mainz. I initially found the novel hard to connect with, rather like the Ancient Greek, a language as cold and hard as a pillar of ice, around which the novel is centred, but it opened up on an immediate re-read. At first, with it's German-Korean setting and relative opacity, I almost felt I was reading 배수아, but it is ultimately unmistakably 한강, infused with compassion and beauty, a book the author described as 'the sunniest of which I am capable'.
Overall, impressive and although not my favourite by the author, still a strong contender for the International Booker.
Some favourite passages:
Stephan zu Mainz
A place where the seemingly ice-steeped sunlight streams in through stained-glass windows in various gradations of blue. A place where Christ hangs on the cross without the slightest trace of suffering, his eyes lifted ingenuously towards heaven, and the angels step lightly through the air as though out for a casual stroll. Palm trees with dark and still darker green leaves sweetly unfurled. Bright-faced saints with pale blue-grey hair draped in paler blue-grey vestments. A space without a hint of sin or suffering, and which for that reason I’d felt was almost pagan: the church of St Stephan.
얼음에 담근과 같은 햇빛이 황변의 스테인드글라스들이 나타나서 내려오는 곳. 계략은 극심한 고통에 매달리고 천진하게 하늘을 올려다보고, 천사들이 방해하는 중단나온에서 조금 더 빨리 걸이로 허공을 거니는 곳입니다. 진한푸른색과 더 진한푸른색 잎사귀들이 착하게 밀착을 건너친 종려나무들. 퇴색은 회청색 머리칼에 더 퇴색은 회청색 수도복을 써서 환한 얼굴의 성자들입니다. 전장 눈을 돌려도 고통과 고통의 윤활이 없는, 그 때문에 거의 이교적이라고 했을 때 성 슈테판 성당
On the female character learning 한글 as a child:
When it came to language, that label might have been true. By the age of four, and without being taught, she had a good grasp of Hangul. Knowing nothing of consonants and vowels, she ’d memorized syllable combinations as entire units. The year she turned six, her elder brother gave her an explanation of Hangul’s structure, parroting what his teacher had said. As she listened, everything had seemed vague, yet she ended up spending that entire afternoon in early spring squatting in the yard, preoccupied by thoughts of consonants and vowels. That was when she discovered the subtle difference between theㄴ sound as pronounced in the word 나, na, and when pronounced in 니, nih; after that, she realised ㅅ sounded different in 사, sah, than it did in 시, shi. Making a mental run-through of all the possible diphthong combinations, she found that the only one that didn’t exist in her language wasㅣ, ih, combined withㅡ, eu, and in that order, which was why there was no way of writing it.
언어에 관한 한 그 말은 사실이었는지도 몰랐다. 그녀는 네 살에 스스로 한글을 깨쳤다. 아직 자모음에 대한 인식 없이 모든 글자들을 통문자로 외운 것이었다. 학교에 들어간 오빠가 담임선생을 흉내내어 한글의 구조를 설명해준 것은 그녀가 여섯 살이 되던 해였다. 설명을 들은 순간엔 그저 막연한 느낌뿐이었는데, 그 이른 봄의 오후 내내 그녀는 자음과 모음에 대한 생각을 떨치지 못하고 마당에 쪼그려앉아 있었다. 그러다 ‘나’를 발음할 때의 ㄴ과 ‘니’를 발음할 때의 ㄴ이 미묘하게 다른 소리를 낸다는 것을 발견했고, 뒤이어 ‘사’와 ‘시’의 ㅅ 역시 서로 다른 소리라는 것을 깨달았다. 조합할 수 있는 모든 이중모음을 머릿속에서 만들어보다가, ㅣ와 ㅡ의 순으로 결합된 이중모음만은 모국어에 존재하지 않으며, 따라서 그것을 적을 방법도 없다는 것을 알았다.
After starting primary school, she began jotting down vocabulary in the back of her diary. With neither purpose nor context, merely a list of words that had made a deep impression on her; among them, the one she valued the most was숲. On the page, this single-syllable word resembled an old pagoda:ㅍ, the foundation,ㅜ, the main body,ㅅ, the upper section. She liked the feeling when she pronounced it:ㅅ – ㅜ – ㅍ, s–oo–p, the sensation of first pursing her lips, and then slowly, carefully releasing the air. And then of the lips closing. A word completed through silence. Entranced by this word in which pronunciation, meaning and form were all wrapped around in stillness, she wrote:숲.숲. Woods.
그후 초등학교에 다니면서부터 그녀는 일기장 뒤쪽에 단어들을 적기 시작했다. 목적도, 맥락도 없이 그저 인상 깊다고 느낀 낱말들이었는데, 그중 그녀가 가장 아꼈던 것은 ‘숲’이었다. 옛날의 탑을 닮은 조형적인 글자였다. ㅍ은 기단, ㅜ는 탑신, ㅅ은 탑의 상단. ㅅ-ㅜ-ㅍ이라고 발음할 때 먼저 입술이 오므라들고, 그 다음으로 바람이 천천히, 조심스럽게 새어나오는 느낌을 그녀는 좋아했다. 그리고는 닫히는 입술. 침묵으로 완성되는 말. 발음과 뜻, 형상이 모두 정적에 둘러싸인 그 단어에 이끌려 그녀는 썼다. 숲. 숲.
On the middle voice in Greek which was the inspiration for the novel:
διεφθάρθαι
Musing over the letters on the blackboard, she picks up her pencil and writes the word in her notebook. She hasn’t come across a language with such intricate rules before. The verbs change their form according to, variously: the subject’s case, gender and number; the tense, of which there are various grades; and the voice, of which there are three distinct types. But it is thanks to these unusually elaborate and meticulous rules that the individual sentences are, in fact, simple and clear. There is no need to specify the subject, or even to keep to a strict word order. This one word – modified to denote that the subject is a singular, third-person male; the tense perfect, meaning it describes something that occurred at some point in the past; and the voice middle – has compressed within it the meaning ‘He had at one time tried to kill himself.’
...
She bites down on that sensation, the mere memory of which is chilling, and writes: διεφθάρθαι.
A language as cold and hard as a pillar of ice. A language that does not wait to be combined with any other prior to use, a supremely self-sufficient language. A language that can part the lips only after irrevocably determining causality and attitude.
흑판에 적힌 문자들을 곰곰이 올려다보다가 그녀는 연필을 쥔다. 공책에 그 단어를 옮겨적는다.
이렇게 규칙이 까다로운 언어를 그녀는 접해보지 못했다. 동사들은 주어의 격과 성과 수에 따라, 여러 단계를 가진 시제에 따라, 세 가지 태에 따라 일일이 형태를 바꾼다. 놀랍도록 정교하고 면밀한 규칙 덕분에 오히려 문장들은 간명하다. 주어를 굳이 쓸 필요도 없다. 어순을 지킬 필요조차 없다. 삼인칭의 한 남자가 주체이며, 언젠가 한번 일어난 일임을 나타내는 완료시제를 쓴, 중간태에 따라 변화된 이 한 단어에 ‘그는 언젠가 자신을 죽이려 한 적이 있다’는 의미가 압축돼 있다.
기억만으로 선득한 그 감각을 잇사이로 누르며 그녀는 쓴다.
διεφθάρθαι
얼음 기둥처럼 차갑고 단단한 언어.
다른 어떤 단어와도 결합되어 구사되기를 기다리지 않는, 극도로 자족적인 언어.
돌이킬 수 없이 인과와 태도를 결정한 뒤에야 마침내 입술을 뗄 수 있는 언어.
A street scene in Seoul, embellished with the visually impaired male main character's imagination:
People from all walks of life pass through this alley, in a shopping district on the outskirts of Seoul. A teenage girl wearing earphones, her school skirt clumsily hitched up. A middle-aged man with a shabby tracksuit and a paunch. A woman talking on her mobile whose stunning dress makes her look as though she ’d just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. An elderly woman, with her white hair cropped short and a sparklingly embellished sweater, lighting her cigarette with a leisurely gesture. Someone somewhere is swearing viciously, and the smell of gukbap wafts from a restaurant. A kid on a bike whooshes past me, ringing the bell as loudly as he can.
Even wearing glasses with the highest power I could get, I still can’t make out the details of any of these things. Individual shapes and gestures blur together, and any clarity is brought about only through the strength of my imagination. The schoolgirl will be mouthing the words to the song she ’s listening to, and her lower lip will have a small, bluish mark on the left, just as yours did. The middle-aged man’s tracksuit sleeves will be grubby and worn to a shine, and the laces on his trainers, which would originally have been white, would have turned a dark grey from months of not being washed. Beads of sweat will be trickling down the temples of the boy on the bike. The old woman looks like quite a tough proposition; her cigarette will be some slender, dainty brand, and the twinkling shards of mother-of-pearl encrusted on her sweater will form the shape of a rose or hydrangea.
서울 변두리의 이 상가 골목에는 다양한 부류의 사람들이 오갑니다. 교복 치마를 어설프게 줄여 입고 이어폰을 낀 여학생. 후줄근한 트레이닝복 차림에 아랫배가 나온 중년 남자. 패션잡지에서 방금 걸어나온 듯 근사한 원피스를 입고 누군가와 통화를 하며 걷는 여자. 새하얗게 센 쇼트커트 머리에 반짝이 장식이 가득 달린 스웨터를 빛내며 느린 동작으로 담뱃불을 붙이는 노파. 어디선가 욕지거리가 들리고 식당에서는 국밥 냄새가 번져옵니다. 자전거를 탄 소년이 일부러 크게 벨을 울리며 내 앞을 미끄러져 지나갑니다.
최대한 도수를 높인 안경을 끼었지만, 이 모든 것들의 세부를 이제 나는 보지 못합니다. 형상과 동작들은 덩어리로 뭉개어져 있고, 디테일은 오직 상상의 힘으로만 선명합니다. 여학생의 입술은 음악에 맞추어 달싹거리고, 아랫입술 왼쪽에 당신이 가진 것처럼 파르스름하고 작은 점이 있을 것입니다. 중년 남자의 트레이닝복 소매는 때에 절어 반들반들하고, 원래 희었던 운동화 끈은 몇 달을 빨지 않아 진한 회색이 되었을 것입니다. 자전거를 탄 소년의 관자놀이에는 땀방울이 흘러내리고 있을 것입니다. 녹록지 않은 관록이 느껴지는 노파의 담배는 가느다랗고 섬세한 종류의 것이고, 스웨터 가득 박힌 자개 반짝이들은 장미나 수국 문양일 것입니다.
January 17, 2024
Sarebbe così difficile descrivere questo libro. È onirico, delicato, ermetico, violento. Non penso di potergli fare giustizia con una recensione.
September 7, 2023
Esta novela trata de dos personas que han perdido algo y coinciden en unas clases de griego. Ella, poeta y profesora de literatura, ha perdido la capacidad de hablar tras la muerte de su madre y perder la custodia de su hijo. Él, un hombre que no se siente de ninguna parte tras pasar su vida entre dos países, sufre una enfermedad degenerativa de la vista que le sumirá en la ceguera. Esto les aísla del mundo, les sume en una soledad que toma forma de muros que se alzan cada vez más altos. Así, ‘La clase de griego’ nos enseña dos vidas a la deriva, dos personas solas que se encuentran.
En un Seúl que podría ser cualquier parte, la mujer pasa los días observando la vida de los demás, paseando cuando podría coger el autobús, buscando su lugar en el mundo, donde siempre ha querido ocupar el menor espacio posible. Busca en las clases de griego clásico, en aprender una lengua muerta, el camino para conectar de nuevo con las palabras para que estas salgan de su garganta, donde la ahogan. Mientras, eso sí, continúa componiendo poemas (las palabras se abren camino) que nos permiten llegar a conocerla, puesto que su historia se nos narra, en una elección nada casual y muy simbólica, en tercera persona.
Él, en cambio, nos habla directamente, su voz suena alta y clara, pero le falla la vista. Desde sus ojos vemos un mundo que se desdibuja, apenas contornos, con un filtro azul que presagia la oscuridad total que acabará llegando. Un hombre que ve con pavor que perderá su independencia y al mismo tiempo, bloqueado, no hace nada para prepararse (no aprende braille y se violenta si le hablan de su futuro), así vive atrapado en sus sueños y recuerdos, en el pasado, tanto es así, que es profesor de griego clásico.
Un libro que habla de la relación con la soledad y con el mundo cuando se está solo, también de filosofía clásica y budista, pero también ahonda sobre el papel del lenguaje y las palabras en nuestra existencia, y qué pasa cuando estas son insuficientes. La palabra vista como algo con vida propia, con el poder de conectar personas, pero también de separarlas o de ahogarlas.
Una historia sumamente intimista y sensorial, llena de silencios y vacíos, angustiante a ratos, luminosa en otros. Centrada en el dolor individual y contada con esa prosa sublime, limpia, donde cada palabra ha sido seleccionada con precisión, que caracteriza a Han Kang. Donde todo sucede principalmente en el interior de sus protagonistas y se compone de pequeños momentos llenos de simbolismos que hablan del miedo, de sentirse atrapado, del desarraigo y la soledad.
En un Seúl que podría ser cualquier parte, la mujer pasa los días observando la vida de los demás, paseando cuando podría coger el autobús, buscando su lugar en el mundo, donde siempre ha querido ocupar el menor espacio posible. Busca en las clases de griego clásico, en aprender una lengua muerta, el camino para conectar de nuevo con las palabras para que estas salgan de su garganta, donde la ahogan. Mientras, eso sí, continúa componiendo poemas (las palabras se abren camino) que nos permiten llegar a conocerla, puesto que su historia se nos narra, en una elección nada casual y muy simbólica, en tercera persona.
Él, en cambio, nos habla directamente, su voz suena alta y clara, pero le falla la vista. Desde sus ojos vemos un mundo que se desdibuja, apenas contornos, con un filtro azul que presagia la oscuridad total que acabará llegando. Un hombre que ve con pavor que perderá su independencia y al mismo tiempo, bloqueado, no hace nada para prepararse (no aprende braille y se violenta si le hablan de su futuro), así vive atrapado en sus sueños y recuerdos, en el pasado, tanto es así, que es profesor de griego clásico.
Un libro que habla de la relación con la soledad y con el mundo cuando se está solo, también de filosofía clásica y budista, pero también ahonda sobre el papel del lenguaje y las palabras en nuestra existencia, y qué pasa cuando estas son insuficientes. La palabra vista como algo con vida propia, con el poder de conectar personas, pero también de separarlas o de ahogarlas.
Una historia sumamente intimista y sensorial, llena de silencios y vacíos, angustiante a ratos, luminosa en otros. Centrada en el dolor individual y contada con esa prosa sublime, limpia, donde cada palabra ha sido seleccionada con precisión, que caracteriza a Han Kang. Donde todo sucede principalmente en el interior de sus protagonistas y se compone de pequeños momentos llenos de simbolismos que hablan del miedo, de sentirse atrapado, del desarraigo y la soledad.
November 8, 2024
Had it not been for its title and beautiful cover, I wouldn’t have bought this book on impulse a year ago. Had it not been for the Nobel prize its author won this year, I would not have sought it out among the half-forgotten-books-bought-on-impulse cramming my shelves.
The paths of two lonely souls cross in a class of Ancient Greek lessons. The student is a woman who has lost her ability to speak as a reaction to an unspecified trauma, and the teacher is a man on the edge of losing his sight. The blurb describes this as a love letter to intimacy and connection, but I found it to be more of a self-indulgent ode to alienation and depression.
“The Vegetarian”, that other famous novel of Han Kang, never really tempted me into reading it despite its popularity, and after struggling through the hundred or so pages of this one (mercifully, a short struggle), I regretted not having trusted my instinct.
In her short bio, it’s stated that Han Kang made her literary debut as a poet; poetry does indeed permeate her prose, which contained too many metaphors and abstraction for my taste. The book’s premise (which, imo, was what happens when language fails to serve as a means of communication and as a tool for perception) was lost in a maze of half-baked philosophical theories that contributed to the overall doom and gloom more than they served the story or explored the questions they posed.
That is not to say that this is not a well-crafted book; it only says that I’m not the right audience for its craftsmanship. I guess that, same as the Swedish Academy, there are readers who will be inclined to find more meaning in its vagueness. No prize, however prestigious, persuades me to make the effort.
(**1/2)
The paths of two lonely souls cross in a class of Ancient Greek lessons. The student is a woman who has lost her ability to speak as a reaction to an unspecified trauma, and the teacher is a man on the edge of losing his sight. The blurb describes this as a love letter to intimacy and connection, but I found it to be more of a self-indulgent ode to alienation and depression.
“The Vegetarian”, that other famous novel of Han Kang, never really tempted me into reading it despite its popularity, and after struggling through the hundred or so pages of this one (mercifully, a short struggle), I regretted not having trusted my instinct.
In her short bio, it’s stated that Han Kang made her literary debut as a poet; poetry does indeed permeate her prose, which contained too many metaphors and abstraction for my taste. The book’s premise (which, imo, was what happens when language fails to serve as a means of communication and as a tool for perception) was lost in a maze of half-baked philosophical theories that contributed to the overall doom and gloom more than they served the story or explored the questions they posed.
That is not to say that this is not a well-crafted book; it only says that I’m not the right audience for its craftsmanship. I guess that, same as the Swedish Academy, there are readers who will be inclined to find more meaning in its vagueness. No prize, however prestigious, persuades me to make the effort.
(**1/2)
October 10, 2024
Durch einen Spiegel in einem dunklen Wort – die Stimme zurückfinden. (Literaturnobelpreis 2024)
Ausführlicher, vielleicht begründeter auf kommunikativeslesen.com
Inhalt: 4/5 Sterne (zarte Liebesgeschichte)
Form: 5/5 Sterne (melodiöses, lyrisches Herantasten)
Komposition: 3/5 Sterne (vorhersehbar, aber mit Liebe zum Detail)
Leseerlebnis: 4/5 Sterne (glänzendes Kleinformat)
Viele Romane streben heutzutage eine Literatur der kleinen Form an. Sie besteht in äußerst verdichteten Minimalszenerien, die sofort, ohne längeren Aufschub, auf die Erzählidee eingehen, den inneren Konflikt thematisieren und auf nur wenigen Seiten dann, oftmals sogar berechenbar, diesen auflösen. Im Zentrum dieser Art Literatur steht oftmals ein bereits auf viele Weise tradierter Stoff wie bei Alan Lightman in „Und immer wieder die Zeit“ Einsteins Relativitätstheorie, oder bei Cees Nootebooms "Rituale", die japanische Teezeremonie. Bei Han Kangs „Griechischstunden“ steht Platons Idee auf dem Programm, das Übersinnliche, Überzeitliche, das Nicht-Sichtbare:
Aber stimmt das überhaupt? Hat mich Platons Universum aus den Gründen fasziniert, die du angeführt hast [die drohende Blindheit] – und so, wie ich schon zuvor vom Buddhismus angezogen wurde, weil er sich mit einem einzigen Schnitt vom spürbaren Dasein loslöst? Weil es mir bestimmt war, den sichtbaren Teil der Welt zu verlieren?
In dem Roman „Griechischstunden“ finden eine Lehrerin, die ihre Stimme verloren hat, und ein Lehrer, der fast vollständig erblindet ist, zueinander. Mit verschiedenen Stilmittel inszeniert Kang dieses Kennenlernen zweier sehr zurückgezogener, sich versteckender, verängstigender Menschen. Die behutsame Art, wie sie zueinander finden, gibt dem Buch die innere, klare Linie, die es benötigt, um um diese eine Wolke assoziativen Dichtens und Schwebens, eine Atmosphäre des Sich-Verlierens in der Sprache zu inszenieren:
Herz an Herz gepresst, kennt er die Frau immer noch nicht. Er weiß nicht, dass sie als Kind in den dämmrigen Hof ihres Wohnhauses starrte und sich fragte, ob sie überhaupt das Recht hatte, auf dieser Welt zu sein. Er kennt den Panzer nicht, dessen Kettenglieder aus Wörtern ihren nackten Körper wie tausend Nadeln stechen. Er weiß nicht, dass sich ihre Augen in seinen spiegeln und umgekehrt … bis ins Unendliche. Er weiß nicht, dass sie ihre bläulich-violetten Lippen fest geschlossen hält, weil all dies ihr Angst macht.
„Griechischstunden“ spielt auf der Klaviatur des bewusst-eingegangenen Verzichts, um durch diesen, durch den Abstand, durch diese Klinge, die Träume von Realität, Worte von Bedeutung, Gefühle von Anschauungen trennt, das, was noch nicht ist, was nur sein könnte, eine besondere Bewandtnis zu verleihen. Wer jahrelang nicht spricht, dessen erstes Wort bedeutet etwas. Wer jahrelang flieht und fortrennt, bei dem bedeutet es etwas, wenn er stehenbleibt und sich zeigt.
Aber kannst du mir glauben, wenn ich dir sage, dass ich jeden Abend das Licht lösche, ohne zu verzweifeln? Weil ich die Lider vor Sonnenaufgang wieder öffnen werde. Weil ich die Vorhänge aufziehen und das Fenster aufreißen werde, um den verhangenen Himmel durch das Mückennetz hindurch zu sehen. Weil ich in meiner Phantasie, nur in einer dünnen Jacke, das Haus verlassen und Schritt um Schritt auf düsteren Gehsteigen entlangwandeln werde. Weil ich beobachte, wie das Gewebe der Dunkelheit allmählich ausfranst, die bläulichen Fäden sich auf meinen Körper und die Stadt legen.
In dichter Atmosphärik zieht Han Kang auf engsten Raum alle Register, die die Emotionen zweier Menschen bewegen, denen die Welt abhanden gekommen ist. Sie träumen von Platons Ideen als zeitenthobene Entitäten, weil sie noch nicht im Kreislauf des Lebens Eingang gefunden haben. Sie träumen und wandern durch die Stadt ihrer Kindheit auf der Suche nach sich selbst, und Han Kang stärkt ihnen mit ihren „Griechischstunden“ den Rücken. Ein hoffnungsvolles, weites, sich öffnendes Buch, das mich über weite Strecken an Cees Nooteboom erinnert hat, der eine ähnliche freundliche und poetische Sicht auf die Welt zu haben pflegt.
Ausführlicher, vielleicht begründeter auf kommunikativeslesen.com
Inhalt: 4/5 Sterne (zarte Liebesgeschichte)
Form: 5/5 Sterne (melodiöses, lyrisches Herantasten)
Komposition: 3/5 Sterne (vorhersehbar, aber mit Liebe zum Detail)
Leseerlebnis: 4/5 Sterne (glänzendes Kleinformat)
Viele Romane streben heutzutage eine Literatur der kleinen Form an. Sie besteht in äußerst verdichteten Minimalszenerien, die sofort, ohne längeren Aufschub, auf die Erzählidee eingehen, den inneren Konflikt thematisieren und auf nur wenigen Seiten dann, oftmals sogar berechenbar, diesen auflösen. Im Zentrum dieser Art Literatur steht oftmals ein bereits auf viele Weise tradierter Stoff wie bei Alan Lightman in „Und immer wieder die Zeit“ Einsteins Relativitätstheorie, oder bei Cees Nootebooms "Rituale", die japanische Teezeremonie. Bei Han Kangs „Griechischstunden“ steht Platons Idee auf dem Programm, das Übersinnliche, Überzeitliche, das Nicht-Sichtbare:
Aber stimmt das überhaupt? Hat mich Platons Universum aus den Gründen fasziniert, die du angeführt hast [die drohende Blindheit] – und so, wie ich schon zuvor vom Buddhismus angezogen wurde, weil er sich mit einem einzigen Schnitt vom spürbaren Dasein loslöst? Weil es mir bestimmt war, den sichtbaren Teil der Welt zu verlieren?
In dem Roman „Griechischstunden“ finden eine Lehrerin, die ihre Stimme verloren hat, und ein Lehrer, der fast vollständig erblindet ist, zueinander. Mit verschiedenen Stilmittel inszeniert Kang dieses Kennenlernen zweier sehr zurückgezogener, sich versteckender, verängstigender Menschen. Die behutsame Art, wie sie zueinander finden, gibt dem Buch die innere, klare Linie, die es benötigt, um um diese eine Wolke assoziativen Dichtens und Schwebens, eine Atmosphäre des Sich-Verlierens in der Sprache zu inszenieren:
Herz an Herz gepresst, kennt er die Frau immer noch nicht. Er weiß nicht, dass sie als Kind in den dämmrigen Hof ihres Wohnhauses starrte und sich fragte, ob sie überhaupt das Recht hatte, auf dieser Welt zu sein. Er kennt den Panzer nicht, dessen Kettenglieder aus Wörtern ihren nackten Körper wie tausend Nadeln stechen. Er weiß nicht, dass sich ihre Augen in seinen spiegeln und umgekehrt … bis ins Unendliche. Er weiß nicht, dass sie ihre bläulich-violetten Lippen fest geschlossen hält, weil all dies ihr Angst macht.
„Griechischstunden“ spielt auf der Klaviatur des bewusst-eingegangenen Verzichts, um durch diesen, durch den Abstand, durch diese Klinge, die Träume von Realität, Worte von Bedeutung, Gefühle von Anschauungen trennt, das, was noch nicht ist, was nur sein könnte, eine besondere Bewandtnis zu verleihen. Wer jahrelang nicht spricht, dessen erstes Wort bedeutet etwas. Wer jahrelang flieht und fortrennt, bei dem bedeutet es etwas, wenn er stehenbleibt und sich zeigt.
Aber kannst du mir glauben, wenn ich dir sage, dass ich jeden Abend das Licht lösche, ohne zu verzweifeln? Weil ich die Lider vor Sonnenaufgang wieder öffnen werde. Weil ich die Vorhänge aufziehen und das Fenster aufreißen werde, um den verhangenen Himmel durch das Mückennetz hindurch zu sehen. Weil ich in meiner Phantasie, nur in einer dünnen Jacke, das Haus verlassen und Schritt um Schritt auf düsteren Gehsteigen entlangwandeln werde. Weil ich beobachte, wie das Gewebe der Dunkelheit allmählich ausfranst, die bläulichen Fäden sich auf meinen Körper und die Stadt legen.
In dichter Atmosphärik zieht Han Kang auf engsten Raum alle Register, die die Emotionen zweier Menschen bewegen, denen die Welt abhanden gekommen ist. Sie träumen von Platons Ideen als zeitenthobene Entitäten, weil sie noch nicht im Kreislauf des Lebens Eingang gefunden haben. Sie träumen und wandern durch die Stadt ihrer Kindheit auf der Suche nach sich selbst, und Han Kang stärkt ihnen mit ihren „Griechischstunden“ den Rücken. Ein hoffnungsvolles, weites, sich öffnendes Buch, das mich über weite Strecken an Cees Nooteboom erinnert hat, der eine ähnliche freundliche und poetische Sicht auf die Welt zu haben pflegt.
January 7, 2023
Reading a Han Kang book is a singular pleasure like no other. It's been a week since I finished GREEK LESSONS, and I can't stop thinking about it (and I don't want to). It's about two people who have lost their loved ones and are slowly being cut off from the world--a woman who has lost her voice and a man who can't see. Han Kang is a poet and a philosopher, and that shows in the beautiful precision of her prose and her thought-provoking exploration of the paradoxes of language, the senses, and human connection and intimacy. I really loved it.
August 22, 2024
Contada a diferentes voces, “La clase de griego” sigue la vida de dos personas con un punto de unión. Una mujer a la que le han quitado la custodia de su hijo, acaba de perder la facultad de hablar, por lo que se apunta a una clase para aprender griego antiguo con la esperanza de que la estimulación ante un nuevo idioma le haga recuperar el habla. Su profesor, un hombre que acaba de volver a Seúl después de haber pasado media vida en Alemania, vive con la agonía de saber que cada vez está más cerca de quedarse completamente ciego, solo es cuestión de tiempo. Ambos sienten una gran dificultad para comunicarse con los demás, y la soledad inunda sus vida. ¿Sería posible que al conocerse puedan encontrar una forma de comunicarse y encontrar cobijo el uno en el otro?
A estas alturas, debo admitir que no sé si soy objetivo con Han Kang, ya que es mi autora favorita, o es que realmente todo lo que escribe me parece espectacular porque lo es y punto. Prefiero decantarme por lo último, la verdad. Los cuatro libros que tenemos de ella traducidos al español han conseguido sumergirme en emociones y sensaciones muy profundas, hasta el punto que transforman mis emociones durante la lectura, me afectan. Siempre que leo algo de esta escritora digo lo mismo, pero es que se cumple con cada nuevo trocito de su obra que descubro, y es que lo hago en un estado de agitación, casi de nerviosismo, con el pecho encogido.
Es una maestra a la hora de hablar de emociones, de poner en palabras lo que sienten sus personajes y que el lector no solo entienda el sentimiento del que habla, sino que consiga sentirlo. A lo largo de su obra tengo la sensación de que uno de los grandes temas que la autora trata en ella es la falta o imposibilidad de comunicarse, ya sea por falta de entendimiento con los demás, por no tener permitido expresarse o por sentirse, de alguna manera, limitado para hacerlo. Sin embargo, pese a que sus historias siempre se me antojan tremendamente tristes y dolorosas, sí que consiguen transmitirme esa sensación de lo sanador que es poder comunicarnos, poder compartir con otros nuestros sentimientos, las cosas que nos hace vulnerables, creando esos vínculos que nos hacen sentir más comprendidos, menos solos.
La soledad es un tema igualmente importante en la obra de la autora, esa falta de comunicación, lleva a sus protagonistas a sentirse solos, apartados e incomprendidos. La carga que llevan a sus espaldas nunca es compartida y esto profundiza sus heridas. Creo que en este sentido “La clase de griego” trata de darle un giro a eso, mostrándonos a dos personas que se sienten limitadas y viven con el terror de que esta sensación vaya a más, hasta que sea irrevocable y no tengan a nadie en quien confiar. No obstante, aun con la tristeza y el desasosiego que siempre me provocan sus historias, esta última me ha dejado cierto regusto bonito, tierno incluso. Esa idea de ayudarnos los unos a los otros, ya que, al final, todos buscamos ese afecto, esa compañía y esa compresión que nos haga más fácil la vida.
Creo que para leer a Han Kang es importante que los lectores no se acerquen esperando encontrar un determinado fin. A veces hay obras que están escritas para que tengan un fin concreto, pero en el caso de Han Kang, lo importante es el viaje, lo que te hace sentir durante la lectura. Si consigues enganchar con ella, sumergirte en las emociones que presenta, os aseguro que es una experiencia imperdible. Eso sí, Han Kang, no es una autora sencilla, hay que estar con los cinco sentidos, atento a cada mensaje que te intenta trasmitir, a través de sus constantes metáforas y con una escritura tan increíble que deja huella. Mención aparte merece su increíble traductora, Sunme Yeon.
En definitiva, con cada obra de la autora reafirmo mi amor por ella, y me convenzo más de que, sin lugar a dudas, es mi autora favorita. No creo que sea una autora para todo el mundo, es peculiar y es diferente, pero, amigas y amigos, ojalá tengáis el placer de engancharos a ella como lo hice yo, porque es una absoluta gozada.
A estas alturas, debo admitir que no sé si soy objetivo con Han Kang, ya que es mi autora favorita, o es que realmente todo lo que escribe me parece espectacular porque lo es y punto. Prefiero decantarme por lo último, la verdad. Los cuatro libros que tenemos de ella traducidos al español han conseguido sumergirme en emociones y sensaciones muy profundas, hasta el punto que transforman mis emociones durante la lectura, me afectan. Siempre que leo algo de esta escritora digo lo mismo, pero es que se cumple con cada nuevo trocito de su obra que descubro, y es que lo hago en un estado de agitación, casi de nerviosismo, con el pecho encogido.
Es una maestra a la hora de hablar de emociones, de poner en palabras lo que sienten sus personajes y que el lector no solo entienda el sentimiento del que habla, sino que consiga sentirlo. A lo largo de su obra tengo la sensación de que uno de los grandes temas que la autora trata en ella es la falta o imposibilidad de comunicarse, ya sea por falta de entendimiento con los demás, por no tener permitido expresarse o por sentirse, de alguna manera, limitado para hacerlo. Sin embargo, pese a que sus historias siempre se me antojan tremendamente tristes y dolorosas, sí que consiguen transmitirme esa sensación de lo sanador que es poder comunicarnos, poder compartir con otros nuestros sentimientos, las cosas que nos hace vulnerables, creando esos vínculos que nos hacen sentir más comprendidos, menos solos.
La soledad es un tema igualmente importante en la obra de la autora, esa falta de comunicación, lleva a sus protagonistas a sentirse solos, apartados e incomprendidos. La carga que llevan a sus espaldas nunca es compartida y esto profundiza sus heridas. Creo que en este sentido “La clase de griego” trata de darle un giro a eso, mostrándonos a dos personas que se sienten limitadas y viven con el terror de que esta sensación vaya a más, hasta que sea irrevocable y no tengan a nadie en quien confiar. No obstante, aun con la tristeza y el desasosiego que siempre me provocan sus historias, esta última me ha dejado cierto regusto bonito, tierno incluso. Esa idea de ayudarnos los unos a los otros, ya que, al final, todos buscamos ese afecto, esa compañía y esa compresión que nos haga más fácil la vida.
Creo que para leer a Han Kang es importante que los lectores no se acerquen esperando encontrar un determinado fin. A veces hay obras que están escritas para que tengan un fin concreto, pero en el caso de Han Kang, lo importante es el viaje, lo que te hace sentir durante la lectura. Si consigues enganchar con ella, sumergirte en las emociones que presenta, os aseguro que es una experiencia imperdible. Eso sí, Han Kang, no es una autora sencilla, hay que estar con los cinco sentidos, atento a cada mensaje que te intenta trasmitir, a través de sus constantes metáforas y con una escritura tan increíble que deja huella. Mención aparte merece su increíble traductora, Sunme Yeon.
En definitiva, con cada obra de la autora reafirmo mi amor por ella, y me convenzo más de que, sin lugar a dudas, es mi autora favorita. No creo que sea una autora para todo el mundo, es peculiar y es diferente, pero, amigas y amigos, ojalá tengáis el placer de engancharos a ella como lo hice yo, porque es una absoluta gozada.
January 11, 2023
7th book of 2023.
As The Vegetarian deals with a woman slowly being ostracised from her family and even society after choosing to remove meat from her diet, Greek Lessons deals with two characters facing their own forms of loneliness and removal from the world: this time in the forms of blindless and losing one's voice.
A Greek lecturer has always known he will go blind, and a woman, a student of Greek, at one point loses the ability to speak. Most of the book is quite abstract. The Greek professor's parts are in first and second person, recounting time in Germany, addressing an old friend/lover. The woman's parts delve into an ex-husband, a child no longer under her care. In the final third or so of the book the two characters properly come together in a long scene involving a trapped bird. Kang writes poetically but simply. One gets the impression that a lot is going on behind every sentence, every scene. By the end though I found the story of the blind man and the mute coming together fairly inconsequential. The exploring of the Greek language and letters was interesting, bits of Plato, etc., and helped the theme of communication and language, which the novel is above all else, about. A strange lonely sort of book. Thanks to Penguin for the advance copy for review.
As The Vegetarian deals with a woman slowly being ostracised from her family and even society after choosing to remove meat from her diet, Greek Lessons deals with two characters facing their own forms of loneliness and removal from the world: this time in the forms of blindless and losing one's voice.
A Greek lecturer has always known he will go blind, and a woman, a student of Greek, at one point loses the ability to speak. Most of the book is quite abstract. The Greek professor's parts are in first and second person, recounting time in Germany, addressing an old friend/lover. The woman's parts delve into an ex-husband, a child no longer under her care. In the final third or so of the book the two characters properly come together in a long scene involving a trapped bird. Kang writes poetically but simply. One gets the impression that a lot is going on behind every sentence, every scene. By the end though I found the story of the blind man and the mute coming together fairly inconsequential. The exploring of the Greek language and letters was interesting, bits of Plato, etc., and helped the theme of communication and language, which the novel is above all else, about. A strange lonely sort of book. Thanks to Penguin for the advance copy for review.
April 27, 2023
Beautiful writing and interesting ideas, but a bit too abstract and skipping too much from one thought to another. I just couldn’t connect. Thank you Hamish Hamilton and Netgalley for an ARC.
October 24, 2024
মূক এক নারী আর প্রায় দৃষ্টিহীন এক পুরুষের গল্প পড়তে যেয়ে "দোজখনামা"র কথা মনে পড়লো অকস্মাৎ -
"আমার সবসময়ই মনে হয়েছে, মির্জা আর আমি যেন মুখোমুখি দুটি আয়না।সেই আয়না দুটোর ভিতরে শূন্যতা। দুই শূন্যতা একে অন্যের দিকে তাকিয়ে বসে আছে। শূন্যতারা কি আর কথা বলতে পারে নিজেদের মধ্যে?"
দেখা যাচ্ছে, পারে। কিংবা পারার চেষ্টা করে। সেই নারী, যাকে তার সন্তান নাম রেখেছে " পড়ন্ত তুষারের দুঃখ" আর সেই পুরুষ, যে ভাবে অন্ধ হয়ে গেলে ���ুধু স্বপ্নেই তার পক্ষে কিছু "দেখা" সম্ভব হবে - এ দুজনের শূন্যতা আর ব্যাকুল হয়ে সেই শূন্যতা পূরণের গল্প greek lessons। হান কাং আমাদের অনুভূতির সে স্তরে নিয়ে যান, যেখানে শব্দ তার অর্থ হারায়, যেখানে নিঃসীম শূন্যতার সামনে দুর্বল মানুষকে সমস্ত শক্তি জড়ো করে প্রতিরোধ করতে হয়। ক্ষমাহীন এ জগতে আর কি-ই বা করার আছে নিঃসঙ্গ মানুষের!
"আমার সবসময়ই মনে হয়েছে, মির্জা আর আমি যেন মুখোমুখি দুটি আয়না।সেই আয়না দুটোর ভিতরে শূন্যতা। দুই শূন্যতা একে অন্যের দিকে তাকিয়ে বসে আছে। শূন্যতারা কি আর কথা বলতে পারে নিজেদের মধ্যে?"
দেখা যাচ্ছে, পারে। কিংবা পারার চেষ্টা করে। সেই নারী, যাকে তার সন্তান নাম রেখেছে " পড়ন্ত তুষারের দুঃখ" আর সেই পুরুষ, যে ভাবে অন্ধ হয়ে গেলে ���ুধু স্বপ্নেই তার পক্ষে কিছু "দেখা" সম্ভব হবে - এ দুজনের শূন্যতা আর ব্যাকুল হয়ে সেই শূন্যতা পূরণের গল্প greek lessons। হান কাং আমাদের অনুভূতির সে স্তরে নিয়ে যান, যেখানে শব্দ তার অর্থ হারায়, যেখানে নিঃসীম শূন্যতার সামনে দুর্বল মানুষকে সমস্ত শক্তি জড়ো করে প্রতিরোধ করতে হয়। ক্ষমাহীন এ জগতে আর কি-ই বা করার আছে নিঃসঙ্গ মানুষের!
Read
April 10, 2024I didn’t hate this book, but I didn’t exactly like it either, although I wonder if it’s more a translation issue. It’s full of vaguely abstract sentences that don’t actually mean anything, like “does a fissure form in foolishness when it destroys truth?” The prose is elegant if a bit sterile, but the story lacks a beating heart.
January 5, 2023
When the Greek lesson is over, she walks the dark streets as she has always done. The vehicles on the road speed past daringly as they always do. Motorbikes carrying midnight snacks in red metal boxes weave in and out of the traffic, ignoring both lanes and lights. Past drunks young or old, weary workers in skirt suits or short-sleeved shirts, elderly women staring blankly from the entrance of empty restaurants, she carries on walking.
The first novel I read by Han Kang — International Booker winner The Vegetarian — was pretty much my idea of perfection: weird and affecting, equally engaging my heart and mind, it drew me in and taught me something of what it is to be a woman in modern-day South Korea. But Kang is no one-trick pony, no two of her books are quite alike, and while each of the novels I have read by her since has been undeniably well-written, none of them has quite sparked that original magic for me again. Greek Lessons is something new yet again — poetic and philosophical, it twines the stories of a woman who has unexpectedly lost the ability to speak with that of a man who is slowly losing his sight — and for the most part, I found the plot kind of predictable and bland; the two voices confusing in their interchangeability. I’m not disappointed to have read this — Kang’s sentences are delightful — and I’m rounding down to three stars as a rating against her earlier work. (Note: I read an ARC and passages quoted may not be in their final forms. Spoilerish from here.)
“Are you okay, seonsaengnim?” asked the young woman with the curly hair and sweet eyes who sat at the very front of the class. The woman had tried to force a smile, but all that happened was that her eyelids spasmed for a while. Trembling lips pressed firmly together, she muttered to herself from somewhere deeper than her tongue and throat: It’s come back.
For the second time in her life, “the woman” finds herself suddenly, physically, incapable of speaking; even the noises she makes breathing make her feel tense and nauseous. The first time this happened (as a teenager), she felt the dam burst during a French lesson and she regained the power of speech. This time — after the death of her mother and recently losing a custody battle for her son, then losing her job as a lecturer with the loss of her voice — she decides to take lessons in Ancient Greek at the community college; at least it fills a few of her empty hours even if there’s no quick miracle forthcoming.
Interspersed with the woman’s tortured musings on her life and predicament (presented in an omniscient third-person POV) are scenes from the Greek teacher’s life, told in both first-person and second-person POVs as he intermittently mentally addresses the friend of his youth who had been his first (unrequited) love. Suffering a congenital eye disorder, he has always known that blindness was in his future, but perversely, not only has he refused to learn Braille, but he left his expat family in Germany to return to the Seoul of his childhood and attempt to live his dimming life on his own terms.
There is something interesting in examining Ancient Greek (both the structure of the language itself and the philosophy and literature written in it) to draw metaphors for how meaning is defined and derived in modern life, but honestly, the plot arc of an emotionally needy mute woman and an increasingly helpless blind man stumbling into a relationship of mutual aid wasn’t very satisfying to me. Their stories twin and twine in the fine details, too (in a way that wasn’t to my liking), as when the man finds himself in inexplicable tears:
There are times when my eyes burn and suddenly start to water; when these tears, which are but physiological, fail to stop for some reason, I quietly turn away from the road and wait for the moment to pass.
And the woman finds herself incapable of tears despite her recent losses:
She wipes her cheeks, dry as ever, with the back of her hand. If only she’d made a map of the route her tears used to take. If only she’d used a needle to engrave pinpricks, or even just traces of blood, over the route where the words used to flow. But, she mutters, from a place deeper than tongue and throat, that was too terrible a route.
Rather than try to guess what the author means by all of this, I’ll let Kang herself explain by quoting from an interview found on Korea.net:
In "Greek Lessons," we are introduced to a man gradually losing his sight and a woman who suddenly loses her voice. In the man’s case, it feels as if he is a portrait of the universal everyman. Slowly losing the world of sight and enduring the human condition of the inevitable yet gradual approach of death are one and the same. During the process of mortality, we struggle against death even as our lives are being consumed. This is akin to speech and silence occurring simultaneously. Human consciousness always coexists with darkness, but our voices are heard most clearly in the blackest darkness. During this battle against mortality, our power of speech becomes ragged, and ultimately the female protagonist loses her voice entirely. I think that she could also be a portrait of us all. This opinion reflects my experience of working on Leave Now, the Wind is Blowing for over four years. At that time I became extremely sensitive to language. Rather than conceptual concerns about language, the sensual act of writing itself became unbearable to me. All the words I was using felt like they had become ragged, which pained me. I overcame most of that torment while writing "Greek Lessons."
Reading Greek Lessons, it’s obvious that the author put much thought and craft into every word chosen — and I can see how another reader might gel precisely with this kind of thing — but it wasn’t quite to my own tastes (or, more unfairly, not to my expectations). I still look forward to reading whatever Kang comes up with next.
October 11, 2024
Es un 3.8. Así de puntillosa es esta calificación. A ver, esta es una reseña compleja de escribir, porque, como ya sabemos, Han Kang acaba de ganar el Nobel y no muchos están contentos. Lo que puedo decir es que tenía muy bajas expectativas y éstas han jugado a favor. Indudablemente había varios escritores y escritoras que se lo merecerían por su trayectoria. Y aunque Han Kang no haya sido uno de los nombres que aparecía en las quinielas, lo cierto es que no es por falta de calidad literaria que se podría cuestionar este premio, sino por los criterios de seleccion, cada vez más resbaladizos. Intuyo una necesidad de la Academia sueca cada vez más notoria de ser plurales como política fija. No digo ya inclusivos, que sería ya apelar a la palabra woke o progre a la que muchos tienen alergia. Aunque los criterios de la Academia intentan estar por encima de las ideologías binarias en boga, aún así terminan acogiéndose a ello, y creo que eso le hace un flaco favor a la autora (aunque va a vender como nunca) al prácticamente tomarla como patrimonio o representante de lo woke. Es decir, que Han Kang tiene una pluma literaria más que aceptable, que en esta novela particularmente sobresale la intención lírica en su visión de la construcción literaria, que esa voluntad de juntar narrativa y poesía está bien lograda, no obstante tampoco es sobresaliente o su estilo demasiado innovador o rupturista, pero, sobre todo, el que se le abandere (en silencio) por representar todas las ideas en boga actuales (disidencias, discapacidades, vegetarianismo, minorías, neurodivergencias, etc.) creo que desmerita su literatura, ya que si bien, no es difícil rastrear esas nociones en esta novela, lo cierto es que no es discursiva ni panfletaria en lo absoluto, y creo que su supuesta afinidad con aquellas ideas viene más por una visión occidental y políticamente correcta del asunto y no de la propia escritora (aunque podría equivocarme). En esta novela los protagonistas han perdido algo profundo en su identidad que se representa como la pérdida de un sentido: el habla en la mujer, la vista en el hombre. Estos dos seres, con esta especie de mutilación vital, se encuentran en un camino que se entronca a través de unas clases de griego que él dicta y que ella recibe. Aquí vamos conociendo su historia y el por qué llegaron a este punto. Pero todo esto como en un juego de cintas que se envuelven y desenvuelven según avanza la trama. Finalmente hay un halo que arropa toda la narración, que se debate entre la nostalgia, la desesperanza y lo desconocido.
Es la primera novela que leo de la autora, no podría decir mucho más de su obra pero, seguramente, si le dan el Nobel a alguien de cincuenta y cuatro años, tranquilamente se lo podían dar a Cârtârescu o a Kraznahorkai... Pero este año tocaba mujer.
Es la primera novela que leo de la autora, no podría decir mucho más de su obra pero, seguramente, si le dan el Nobel a alguien de cincuenta y cuatro años, tranquilamente se lo podían dar a Cârtârescu o a Kraznahorkai... Pero este año tocaba mujer.
September 30, 2023
Conocí a Han Kang con la publicación de «La vegetariana» que por todo lo que conllevó su publicación y las diversas y tan enfrentadas opiniones que suscitó, estuvo sobre la palestra varios meses. Aunque todavía no he leído ese título ya que mi primer y hasta ahora único encuentro con su obra se presentó con «Actos humanos», que fue una lectura que me arrolló y se llevó parte de mí por la inusitada y reveladora capacidad de la autora de hablarnos sobre un acto atroz y sus inevitables consecuencias. Así he llegado a «La clase de griego», sin demasiadas expectativas (porque no ha dado tiempo a que exploten las redes con infinidad de reseñas), con la mente abierta y en absoluto preparada para lo que me iba a encontrar.
Dejadme que os ponga en contexto: tenemos a dos personajes, dos seres marcados por un dolor arrollador, que les bloquea, no les permite avanzar y les aísla de la rígida y marcada sociedad que no tiene espacio para personas diferentes. Una clase de griego los sitúa en un mismo escenario, aunque la conexión, más espiritual que física entre ellos, se cuece a fuego lento entre reflexiones, pensamientos y recuerdos rescatados de las tinieblas del alma de nuestros protagonistas. Sus situaciones, tan distintas entre sí, tienen un nexo común que conoceremos gracias a sus testimonios: la desesperación, la depresión y la triste soledad que los acompaña en su existencia.
Han Kang escribe con una facilidad pasmosa, te envuelve y te acompaña de la mano en una odisea de sentimientos sin querer detenerse en ofrecer una trama enrevesada o con el único fin de satisfacer al lector. Encarna el dolor, la pérdida con una sensibilidad que traspasa las páginas, homenajea el lenguaje y crea una unión intimista que no necesita de un excesivo y recargado estilo narrativo. Plantea numerosas preguntas, varias de ellas sin una respuesta concreta pero sumamente interesantes y profundas. He disfrutado y devorado esta novela, me ha cautivado lo poética que resulta la estrecha conexion de los personajes y las posibilidades que hay para comunicarse. Porque hay veces en las que sobran las palabras. Se incrementan mis ganas de seguir descubriendo la obra de esta escritora que sin duda se postula como una imprescindible de la literatura contemporánea.
Dejadme que os ponga en contexto: tenemos a dos personajes, dos seres marcados por un dolor arrollador, que les bloquea, no les permite avanzar y les aísla de la rígida y marcada sociedad que no tiene espacio para personas diferentes. Una clase de griego los sitúa en un mismo escenario, aunque la conexión, más espiritual que física entre ellos, se cuece a fuego lento entre reflexiones, pensamientos y recuerdos rescatados de las tinieblas del alma de nuestros protagonistas. Sus situaciones, tan distintas entre sí, tienen un nexo común que conoceremos gracias a sus testimonios: la desesperación, la depresión y la triste soledad que los acompaña en su existencia.
Han Kang escribe con una facilidad pasmosa, te envuelve y te acompaña de la mano en una odisea de sentimientos sin querer detenerse en ofrecer una trama enrevesada o con el único fin de satisfacer al lector. Encarna el dolor, la pérdida con una sensibilidad que traspasa las páginas, homenajea el lenguaje y crea una unión intimista que no necesita de un excesivo y recargado estilo narrativo. Plantea numerosas preguntas, varias de ellas sin una respuesta concreta pero sumamente interesantes y profundas. He disfrutado y devorado esta novela, me ha cautivado lo poética que resulta la estrecha conexion de los personajes y las posibilidades que hay para comunicarse. Porque hay veces en las que sobran las palabras. Se incrementan mis ganas de seguir descubriendo la obra de esta escritora que sin duda se postula como una imprescindible de la literatura contemporánea.
Shelved as 'dnf'
June 24, 2023This is a book I want to come back to someday because I think if I was in the mood I would really like it. For whatever reason, right now I don't feel motivated or excited to pick it up at all so I'm putting it aside.
August 28, 2022
Μωρή Χαν Γκανγκ θεάρα
October 10, 2024
2024 Nobel Prize Laureate
*Updating after watching the film 'Persian Lessons' directed by Vadim Perelman on Jan 3, 2023.
Miscommunication and misunderstanding is a key aspect that appears in Han Kang's novels, as well as feminism and mentally deranged/socially victimized characters. In this particular novel, we watch as on the screen, distant figures begin to merge, the lines growing sharper and clearer with every page, until at long last the camera focuses on a Greek class. A partially blind professor stands by the chalkboard as several students sit watching... From the very get-go, the two main characters are apparent: the muted woman who sits morosely staring in a trance at the exotic, crawling Greek letters, staggering (both physically and mentally) due to a divorce, and the man who stands by the chalkboard who is teaching, yet feels foreign in his own country, foreign everywhere, so that the world seems foreign to him, mosaic, all with his dimming eyesight, and at the end of the lane language once again becomes the only way for him to connect... Gradually, their days begin to intermingle, their lives holding together tight in the common field of Greek. Greek-her voice, her consciousness, and his sight thrice combined!
At the point when I just finished this book, Han Kang was rather beginning to have a fond place in my heart, but there were some flaws hard to let fly by. Some parts of the book I enjoyed, and let out an inaudible gasp for the sheer beauty of the language. Especially in my early stages of reading Greek Lessons, I felt dismal that there was no version of this translated for English readers to experience the exquisite poignance of her ideas. (Note: I have since found there is an English translation published 2023, and though I would suggest retaining a careful distance with the translated text, as I am rather dubious of Deborah Smith's translation and have found other sources that further strengthen my doubt (see Translations In Korea: Theory And Practice) it comes as a welcome relief, for the parts I found most lovely of this book were about language, the love for learning, the hidden analogies and patterns in language, which many readers may empathize with.) Han Kang's prose is beautiful. For instance, there is a particular part of this book where the narrator describes dreaming of a language constituted of all languages in the world combined, and how incredibly fearful she felt tasting the word upon her tongue. Her use of metaphors is at its finest. Every metaphor is written with an intention, meticulously depicted in a way that highlights the characteristic of the auxiliary idea. In particular, there was a part where she fondly reminisces her childhood memories of a kaleidoscope, which initially threw me off course because I couldn't see what role the story would play in light of the whole pictures, but in the following pages her descriptions of fractured visages of her memory mingling together like a kaleidoscope simply took my breath away. Yes, these were the moments that make me fall in love with her writing, because there is an enlightening touch to her words that throw me off guard, then as I rebound, stretches me to look at things from different, creative perspectives.
But at times the dialogue seems distant, stilted, parched, not there at all, and I cannot picture anyone in real life using speech forms so far detached from reality. The main characters in Han Kang's novels are typically mentally unstable, so much that they suffer from dreams that continue to affect them in daylight, conjure unwelcome fantasies and act without either sequence or synthetic movement. Of course, there are many classics and respected works with mentally unstable, unreliable narrators, and as in The Catcher in the Rye such narrators may conversely(and unexpectedly) become the main appeal of the novel, yet in Han Kang's novel, while the characters carry a certain aura of mystique, the character's actions feel abrupt, as if the writer dug out certain parts of the thinking process vital to understanding the end result. Thus, reading Greek Lessonswas not that different from my experience with her other book The Vegetarian, but whereas back then because it was awarded a Man Booker Prize and so well received by the international reading population I had thought myself unqualified to understand her work, this time around I felt it wasn't just my understanding of the subject but something about her style of writing that indeed made the novel feel off. I could not identify the problem the first time reading Han Kang, but upon much rumination realized the crux of her distance: most of her characters felt like mentally suffering crucifixes made to convey certain ideals which the author aims to propagate. Which is, of course, what all authors aim to do, but in this particular book because of the singular monotonous feeling each character emanated, made worse by the fact that conversations between the characters felt like written words as opposed to the spoken word, the attempt miserably failed. The characters were well-written though, mind, but each character seemed like people of the exact same intelligence put in different circumstances. Which sounds good, superficially, but if anyone picked out dialogues from the book and randomly asked me to name each character, I wouldn't be able to identify many of the sub-characters, which takes away the point of creating a cast of characters in the first place. Adding to that, as a result of such formalized intentions, the children in her books tend to be overly, unimaginably mature, consequently (and also disappointingly) lessening the immense joy I felt reading other parts of the book. Due to these visible downsides, I was unable to properly organize my thoughts on this particular book.
Having just watched 'Persian Lessons(2020, Vadim Perelman)' today, I conclude this book is the most beautiful homage to language I have witnessed. Both the film and this book discusses the power of language. For Greek Lessons, Greek appears as the twilight of segregation formerly initiated by dimming eyesight and mutism, and for 'Persian lessons,' the made-up secret Persian, articulated between its creator Gilles and the much-agitated learner deputy commandment, and created with the later deceased names of Jewish imprisoners at concentration camps, acts as a subtle end-of-war declaration of prominent barriers of human hatred between Germans and the Jews. In both media, language is the magnetic field on which different laws operate, understanding can be achieved, and overall both can be seen as promoting the common function of language-a bridge between differences, only retainable through the healing power of human bonding and relationships. Yet personally, the book (and Han Kang's beautiful prose) was a better medium for highlighting this topic. 4.25 stars.
*Updating after watching the film 'Persian Lessons' directed by Vadim Perelman on Jan 3, 2023.
"A knife lay between us...The mind was dreaming. The world was its dream.-Jorge Luis Borges"
Miscommunication and misunderstanding is a key aspect that appears in Han Kang's novels, as well as feminism and mentally deranged/socially victimized characters. In this particular novel, we watch as on the screen, distant figures begin to merge, the lines growing sharper and clearer with every page, until at long last the camera focuses on a Greek class. A partially blind professor stands by the chalkboard as several students sit watching... From the very get-go, the two main characters are apparent: the muted woman who sits morosely staring in a trance at the exotic, crawling Greek letters, staggering (both physically and mentally) due to a divorce, and the man who stands by the chalkboard who is teaching, yet feels foreign in his own country, foreign everywhere, so that the world seems foreign to him, mosaic, all with his dimming eyesight, and at the end of the lane language once again becomes the only way for him to connect... Gradually, their days begin to intermingle, their lives holding together tight in the common field of Greek. Greek-her voice, her consciousness, and his sight thrice combined!
At the point when I just finished this book, Han Kang was rather beginning to have a fond place in my heart, but there were some flaws hard to let fly by. Some parts of the book I enjoyed, and let out an inaudible gasp for the sheer beauty of the language. Especially in my early stages of reading Greek Lessons, I felt dismal that there was no version of this translated for English readers to experience the exquisite poignance of her ideas. (Note: I have since found there is an English translation published 2023, and though I would suggest retaining a careful distance with the translated text, as I am rather dubious of Deborah Smith's translation and have found other sources that further strengthen my doubt (see Translations In Korea: Theory And Practice) it comes as a welcome relief, for the parts I found most lovely of this book were about language, the love for learning, the hidden analogies and patterns in language, which many readers may empathize with.) Han Kang's prose is beautiful. For instance, there is a particular part of this book where the narrator describes dreaming of a language constituted of all languages in the world combined, and how incredibly fearful she felt tasting the word upon her tongue. Her use of metaphors is at its finest. Every metaphor is written with an intention, meticulously depicted in a way that highlights the characteristic of the auxiliary idea. In particular, there was a part where she fondly reminisces her childhood memories of a kaleidoscope, which initially threw me off course because I couldn't see what role the story would play in light of the whole pictures, but in the following pages her descriptions of fractured visages of her memory mingling together like a kaleidoscope simply took my breath away. Yes, these were the moments that make me fall in love with her writing, because there is an enlightening touch to her words that throw me off guard, then as I rebound, stretches me to look at things from different, creative perspectives.
But at times the dialogue seems distant, stilted, parched, not there at all, and I cannot picture anyone in real life using speech forms so far detached from reality. The main characters in Han Kang's novels are typically mentally unstable, so much that they suffer from dreams that continue to affect them in daylight, conjure unwelcome fantasies and act without either sequence or synthetic movement. Of course, there are many classics and respected works with mentally unstable, unreliable narrators, and as in The Catcher in the Rye such narrators may conversely(and unexpectedly) become the main appeal of the novel, yet in Han Kang's novel, while the characters carry a certain aura of mystique, the character's actions feel abrupt, as if the writer dug out certain parts of the thinking process vital to understanding the end result. Thus, reading Greek Lessonswas not that different from my experience with her other book The Vegetarian, but whereas back then because it was awarded a Man Booker Prize and so well received by the international reading population I had thought myself unqualified to understand her work, this time around I felt it wasn't just my understanding of the subject but something about her style of writing that indeed made the novel feel off. I could not identify the problem the first time reading Han Kang, but upon much rumination realized the crux of her distance: most of her characters felt like mentally suffering crucifixes made to convey certain ideals which the author aims to propagate. Which is, of course, what all authors aim to do, but in this particular book because of the singular monotonous feeling each character emanated, made worse by the fact that conversations between the characters felt like written words as opposed to the spoken word, the attempt miserably failed. The characters were well-written though, mind, but each character seemed like people of the exact same intelligence put in different circumstances. Which sounds good, superficially, but if anyone picked out dialogues from the book and randomly asked me to name each character, I wouldn't be able to identify many of the sub-characters, which takes away the point of creating a cast of characters in the first place. Adding to that, as a result of such formalized intentions, the children in her books tend to be overly, unimaginably mature, consequently (and also disappointingly) lessening the immense joy I felt reading other parts of the book. Due to these visible downsides, I was unable to properly organize my thoughts on this particular book.
Having just watched 'Persian Lessons(2020, Vadim Perelman)' today, I conclude this book is the most beautiful homage to language I have witnessed. Both the film and this book discusses the power of language. For Greek Lessons, Greek appears as the twilight of segregation formerly initiated by dimming eyesight and mutism, and for 'Persian lessons,' the made-up secret Persian, articulated between its creator Gilles and the much-agitated learner deputy commandment, and created with the later deceased names of Jewish imprisoners at concentration camps, acts as a subtle end-of-war declaration of prominent barriers of human hatred between Germans and the Jews. In both media, language is the magnetic field on which different laws operate, understanding can be achieved, and overall both can be seen as promoting the common function of language-a bridge between differences, only retainable through the healing power of human bonding and relationships. Yet personally, the book (and Han Kang's beautiful prose) was a better medium for highlighting this topic. 4.25 stars.
November 10, 2024
Late to the party with this one. I needed the prodding of the Nobel Committee to get going. Kang’s Nobel win is the first to have thrown me into the land of the unknown with literature. It forced me to recognize that I did care about the prize more than I cared to admit, and that I had a conception of what I thought an author needed to “achieve” prior to being awarded the prize. I had thought that an extensive body of work was required, all more or less digging the same hole of a niche portion of the human condition. Those may both still be the case. For one, the fact that Kang only has 4 books translated into English (and a 5th upcoming) does not mean anything. English, after all, is not the final arbiter of who can and cannot get a prize. What’s more, I have only read 3 books of Kang’s. Digging for the same themes may still be there. So far, I have been unable to pick out the pattern–is it something to do with living with a disability (visible or not)? Vaguely. Maybe.
This was another book in the realm of those that are pleasant to read but that may be forgotten within a few months. Already, I am losing touch with the exact moments. A woman who is mute, crossing paths with a man who is slowly losing his sight. Echoes of Borges, who is explicitly referenced. The climax of the writing occurs when these two forces come together for a “dialogue” of sorts. Lack of a clear vision mingled with pure silence.
This was another book in the realm of those that are pleasant to read but that may be forgotten within a few months. Already, I am losing touch with the exact moments. A woman who is mute, crossing paths with a man who is slowly losing his sight. Echoes of Borges, who is explicitly referenced. The climax of the writing occurs when these two forces come together for a “dialogue” of sorts. Lack of a clear vision mingled with pure silence.
October 16, 2024
Was ist Sprache, wenn sie nur plappert, wenn sie aus jemandem heraus etwas spricht, was von Generationen vorformuliert worden ist? Was bedeutet Sehen, wenn es nur Äußerlichkeiten erfasst und ohne wirklichen inneren Bezug bleibet? Eine der sich in den Griechischstunden findenden Gestalten hat das Plappern verlernt und sucht als gewesene (?) Lyrikerin nach dem inneren Mechanismus von Sprache, nach dem Geheimnis, das die Bedeutung von Wörtern vor ihrer alltagssprachlichen Verwendung prägte oder prägt. Wo könnte sie es finden, wenn nicht in einer alten toten Sprache, deren komplexe Grammatik von der heute verlorenen Strenge des (schönen) Gedankens z.B. bei Platon kündet? Die Sprache bewegt sich im Innern, wird wesentlich dort, wo sie sich nicht ausspricht, wo sie nicht kontaminiert wird von einem unerträglichen Alltag, in dem sie u.a. dem Streit um das Sorgerecht für das Kind der verstummten Protagonistin dienen müsste. Sprache soll aber nicht dienen; sie ist an sich die Existenzweise des fühlenden und denkenden Geistes, der sich in ihr bewegt, ausgesprochen jedoch trivial wird.
Der andere Protagonist verliert die Kraft des Sehens und gewinnt dabei das Schauen als inneres Erlebnis, indem er aus der Erinnerung heraus rekonstruiert, wie Menschen aussehen, sich bewegen usw. Er genießt das Verschwimmen der Flächen, des Hell und des Dunkel, das ihm Sonne und Wärme und Nacht und Kälte zugleich ist. In dem Moment allerdings, in dem der Griechischlehrer durch den Verlust seiner Brille vollkommen hilflos wird, öffnet sich das Schauen zu einer die Seelen zweier Menschen verschmelzenden Sehnsucht, die sich nicht einfach aussprechen lässt und also wesentlich unausgesprochen bleibt. Da jedoch der eine nichts mehr sehen und die andere nicht (mehr) sprechen kann, muss die spontane Berührung ein Momentum bleiben, das - auch wenn sich im Anschluss daran ein Ton in dem sonst stummen Mund formt - keine Fortsetzung haben kann. Ein vor dem geschilderten Ereignis platzierter Brief, der aus dem Abstand vieler Jahre kommentiert und um Entschuldigung bittet, macht klar, dass die bedingungslose Zuwendung eben ein inneres, durch Kuss und Berührung zerstörtes Erlebnis war und bleiben musste. Geblieben sind eine hoffnungslose Liebe und eine Verletzung, deren Grund nicht restlos aufgeklärt wird, zumal sich die Gestalten der Schwester und die der stummen Schülerin ineinander schieben. Macht aber nichts; die Atmosphäre stimmt.
Kein Abenteuerroman also, kaum Handlung. Ein zartes Buch, das starke seelische Zerstörungen ahnen lässt, sie aber nicht ausspricht, denn Ausgesprochenes ist einfach, zu einfach in einer gnadenlos komplexen Welt, die eher ahnend und unbestimmt fühlend erfasst, denn rational beschrieben werden kann. Ein Buch, das von dem Geheimnis von Nähe und Distanz zu anderen Menschen lebt, deren innere Welt wir weder sehend noch sprechend/ zuhörend jemals ganz erfassen können. Kein Grund zu verzweifeln, aber doch der Grund für die leichte Melancholie, die über dem Schreiben von Han Kang wie ein poetischer Schleier liegt. Das ist meisterhaft gemacht. Mir hat es gefallen.
Der andere Protagonist verliert die Kraft des Sehens und gewinnt dabei das Schauen als inneres Erlebnis, indem er aus der Erinnerung heraus rekonstruiert, wie Menschen aussehen, sich bewegen usw. Er genießt das Verschwimmen der Flächen, des Hell und des Dunkel, das ihm Sonne und Wärme und Nacht und Kälte zugleich ist. In dem Moment allerdings, in dem der Griechischlehrer durch den Verlust seiner Brille vollkommen hilflos wird, öffnet sich das Schauen zu einer die Seelen zweier Menschen verschmelzenden Sehnsucht, die sich nicht einfach aussprechen lässt und also wesentlich unausgesprochen bleibt. Da jedoch der eine nichts mehr sehen und die andere nicht (mehr) sprechen kann, muss die spontane Berührung ein Momentum bleiben, das - auch wenn sich im Anschluss daran ein Ton in dem sonst stummen Mund formt - keine Fortsetzung haben kann. Ein vor dem geschilderten Ereignis platzierter Brief, der aus dem Abstand vieler Jahre kommentiert und um Entschuldigung bittet, macht klar, dass die bedingungslose Zuwendung eben ein inneres, durch Kuss und Berührung zerstörtes Erlebnis war und bleiben musste. Geblieben sind eine hoffnungslose Liebe und eine Verletzung, deren Grund nicht restlos aufgeklärt wird, zumal sich die Gestalten der Schwester und die der stummen Schülerin ineinander schieben. Macht aber nichts; die Atmosphäre stimmt.
Kein Abenteuerroman also, kaum Handlung. Ein zartes Buch, das starke seelische Zerstörungen ahnen lässt, sie aber nicht ausspricht, denn Ausgesprochenes ist einfach, zu einfach in einer gnadenlos komplexen Welt, die eher ahnend und unbestimmt fühlend erfasst, denn rational beschrieben werden kann. Ein Buch, das von dem Geheimnis von Nähe und Distanz zu anderen Menschen lebt, deren innere Welt wir weder sehend noch sprechend/ zuhörend jemals ganz erfassen können. Kein Grund zu verzweifeln, aber doch der Grund für die leichte Melancholie, die über dem Schreiben von Han Kang wie ein poetischer Schleier liegt. Das ist meisterhaft gemacht. Mir hat es gefallen.
Shelved as 'abgebrochen'
April 26, 202417% reingehört
Das ist mir zu künstlerisch. Eine Art Kunst die an mir abgleitet. Das Buch kommuniziert nicht mit mir, oder ich nicht mit dem Text. Absurd, da es ausgerechnet um Form der Kommunikation und Sprache geht.
Eine öde Wüste von Befremdung. Einzelne Szenen die Irritationen hervorrufen ohne dass ich interessiert wäre diese zu erschließen. Evtl ist mir das sogar zu intellektuell? Zu feinsinnig?
Dh wahrscheinlich ein sehr gutes Buch, an dem mein Stumpfsinn scheitert.
Das ist mir zu künstlerisch. Eine Art Kunst die an mir abgleitet. Das Buch kommuniziert nicht mit mir, oder ich nicht mit dem Text. Absurd, da es ausgerechnet um Form der Kommunikation und Sprache geht.
Eine öde Wüste von Befremdung. Einzelne Szenen die Irritationen hervorrufen ohne dass ich interessiert wäre diese zu erschließen. Evtl ist mir das sogar zu intellektuell? Zu feinsinnig?
Dh wahrscheinlich ein sehr gutes Buch, an dem mein Stumpfsinn scheitert.
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