wow! what to say? let me first start off by saying in no way do i mean to be insulting. thank you to netgalley for the arc, and i really hoped i’d enjwow! what to say? let me first start off by saying in no way do i mean to be insulting. thank you to netgalley for the arc, and i really hoped i’d enjoy it because my experience so far with fantasy arcs have not been the best. spoiler alert: no. just no.
this book, to put it mildly, lacks direction. woven song is a novel that, despite its ambitions (and excellent cover art), ultimately fails to deliver a compelling story. it’s awfully inconsistent, meandering off course in the middle of the story in such a way that leaves you confused on what krotec is attempting to do; certain parts just lack coherent pacing at all. what is supposed to be an action fantasy romance (or certainly feels like one from the synopsis) turns into something that feels more like a daily slice-of-life featuring some fantasy elements, set in ancient japan. on top of that, anything that could’ve been of substance is offscreen- i’m shown the resolution of many problems, but never the process. i can’t bring myself to be emotionally invested when so much of these characters’ journey is ommitted. i don’t have a grasp of them, or what makes them tick: what i have is what only the story chooses to tell me. and what the story tells me, unfortunately, is not enough to make me love this.
because the story shows us only the characters as they are after they’ve bonded with each other (most prominently yuki and daisuke), i find myself hard-pressed to say that i’ve seen much of any character development at all. when you cut the entire process of a character beginning to open up and lower their guard in the face of affection, it just feels like an abrupt 180 change. the potential these characters could’ve had is hampered by the fact that we see absolutely none of their gradual change at all. characters like these come across as flat and one-dimensional. found family is found family, i’ll enjoy it all the same, but it feels insubstantial when all krotec does is establish her characters, plop them into my hands, and label them as family with none of their struggles illustrated. their journey is, for lack of better word, superficial- missing the depth to really make it compelling, especially the main character yuki. supporting characters are similarly underdeveloped, serving more as convenient plot devices rather than fully realised individuals.
woven song goes really hard on the themes of self-realisation and transformation, and while i did like the idea of a kami becoming human before finding her real forgotten self in theory, these themes feel heavy-handed. monologues about true identity and rightful places are thrown around but the lack of characterisation, as i mentioned, dampens their impact. these themes are hammered home in a way that feels slightly repetitive instead of being natural- and i really, really hate to say it, but the lack of subtlety detracts from the emotional impact of the writing.
going off the synopsis alone, you go into this expecting flowy, fantastical writing, a lush and descriptive plot that takes influence from traditional mythology and renders it almost tenderly in a way that feels like a folktale. what you get is not always what you imagined. given the themes it attempts to tackle, woven song surprisingly lacks emotional resonance; it fails to invoke the emotions in me that i can see krotec intended to. it’s abundantly clear that this really could’ve been an engaging read: the premise is beautiful, and it’s going to pull in many readers. but it’s burdened by a weak plot, cardboard cutouts of characters, and a lack of emotional connection.
(i’ve seen some people say that the honourifics in this story are not accurate, and the cultural elements are highly inconsistent. i’m not japanese nor do i know much about japanese customs, so i won’t speak on this, but i’m happy to discuss!)
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pre review: feels like a paradoxically boring acid trip in ancient japan with some very questionable cultural references. ya asian fantasy core...more
when you ask me about han, my first thought is summers spent in seoul. i was never as close to my korean heritage as i would’ve liked– i visited only when you ask me about han, my first thought is summers spent in seoul. i was never as close to my korean heritage as i would’ve liked– i visited only in those eight weeks in between school and life, that in between limbo in the hazy july heat. i don’t remember much, just snapshots, vignettes. here i am, running down the street chasing my friends, the bandaids on my knees tearing off and swallowed by the wind; there i am, propping my chin up on the counter of the poky old grocery store round the corner from my grandma’s apartment because i’m too short to see over it completely.
i’m eight, and i haven’t grown my hair out of that ridiculous bowl cut that asian parents like so much. the shopkeeper who’s watching me, he reaches out to ruffle my hair. later, he gives me a ring pop for free. the radio is playing something using words i’m too young to understand. he sighs. something isn't quite right. but for someone like me, life is good.
that’s what han is to me. something intangible, yet inherently present even in my childhood. even as young as i was, i felt it. it was a kind of ubiquitous back current to my momentary childhood in korea, brushing up against me every now and then. to the old shopkeeper, in a korea ranked among the poorest countries in the 50s, a childhood snack is flour mixed with water and green onions. to me, in the 2000s, a childhood snack is the ring pop the shopkeeper always gives me. and every time the radio plays something and my grandma whispers to my father in words i don’t understand, every time that old shopkeeper regales me with stories about the past, his eyes old and sad— all of this, inherently, is han.
ask any korean what han is and the first reaction may be a surprised smile. a brief silence. contemplation. the idea of han is more easily experienced than described in words. for much of the 20th century, korea has been in an uphill battle against unspeakable tragedy, from the invasion and colonisation from the empire of japan, to the aftermath of world war two, to the korean war. in a way, the term han came about not only as a cultural concept to identify and deal with the trauma of the past, but as a symbol of sorts, to define the korean resilience in the face of injustice and pain. even defined relatively loosely, such a term is difficult to grasp and even more difficult to grasp accurately. so here’s an example.
as i get older, i think about aging more, as we all do. i think of old age as a fallibility akin to illness, a weakness that leaves a person more susceptible to life’s failings than anything else. yet i don’t think i’ve ever thought of my grandma that way. her face worn with wrinkles like the roots of an old tree, the hands streaked with green veins, and her sunken beady eyes— all of those things, to me, are like a badge of survival. a deep rooted resilience, an old tree that refuses to be uprooted. her stubborn will, and her refusal to bow her head— that’s the other side of han. it’s not always grief and sorrow. sometimes, it’s quiet strength.
the eyes are the best part takes what is an indescribable feeling carried in the majority of a people straight off the streets of korea and transcribes it into words. han pervades through every page of this book. rage from being objectified as an east asian woman and frustration at the prejudice and racism that people of colour still go through; the heavy grief and stifling sense of impending unease at the slow unraveling of a mother stranded in a foreign land. the eyes are the best part is not only a turbulent navigation of a mother and daughter relationship on the verge of breaking, but also a criticism of how fetishisation and stereotyping of east asian women affect people as a whole.
for most of her life, main character jiwon has felt uncanny, stuck in her own skin: a feeling that she knows intimately but cannot put into words, the ineffable sadness of being a korean. there’s a mysterious grief that seems to have taken root in her soul. the feeling only seems to intensify when her father leaves the family and her mother brings home a new boyfriend. a new, white boyfriend who seems all too keen on dating asian women— and with an uncomfortable fixation on jiwon’s little sister. he claims to speak korean but in reality only speaks a handful of garbled sentences in a near incoherent accent. he leers at chinese waitresses in restaurants and throws a fit when she refuses to serve them. his comments about jiwon’s little sister when she wears shorts around the house are downright despicable. something… is not right.
lately, jiwon finds she can’t breathe when he’s around. all she can think of are his eyes. blue eyes, wide and round. dreams spiral into sleepwalking, then into daylight hallucinations. she wakes up in places she doesn’t remember. knives find their ways into her hands. like her mother says, stabbing her chopsticks into a fish eye— a squelching, obscene sound— the eyes are always the best part.
needless to say, this book is just brilliant. especially resonant with anyone korean, or with the heritage, the eyes are the best part is the brutal reality of an immigrant family, post industrialisation of south korea. i truly don’t think anyone can do the concept of han more justice in the thriller genre.
thank you to netgalley for the ARC. happy (late) publishing day!...more
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