We Do Not Part by Han Kang
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Thank you to Random House and NetGalley for allowing me to
read an advanced copy of Nobel Laureate Han Kang’s latest book We Do Not Part. I was both looking forward to and somewhat steeling myself to prepare
to read Kang’s latest book. After reading The Vegetarian and Greek
Lessons, I’ve come to realize that Kang’s books tend to dive deep into dark
feelings, exploring emotions and issues below the surface. We Do Not Part
goes even deeper and mines new territory. Where The Vegetarian and Greek
Lessons both examined families, marriage, motherhood, and relationships,
how society sets conventions and roles and what happens when people challenge
or question them, We Do Not Part explores history and trauma as well as
the artist’s role and pain in delving into the past. I also wasn’t sure what to
expect based on the narrative—the story of a writer Kyungha who seeks to help
her friend Inseon rescue her bird from the island of Jeju during a snowstorm
sounded both heartwarming and different from Kang’s other books. However, when
we first encounter Kyungha, who is the narrator of the novel, she seems utterly
defeated, resigning herself to death. Like her other books, this aspect is
bleak, and Kyungha is unable to handle many basic interactions or daily tasks.
She describes the overwhelming heat in her apartment and is separated from her
family. I got the sense that after working on her last project, Kyungha was
seriously affected by it. The research and writing took a lot out of her, and
eventually moved her away from her family. Kyungha is so resigned to death that
she begins to get her affairs in order, leaving instructions for her body, and
laying down to waste away. She exists in like a suspended kind of state, not
willing to live, but also not taking action to die.
We also learn about Kyungha’s relationship with Inseon, who
was a photographer she worked with as a young writer. They eventually worked
together on other projects, and later planned to collaborate on an art project
to memorialize a massacre. They planned to use logs painted black to represent
the people who died. While Inseon wanted to go ahead with the project, Kyungha
eventually backs out. At some point, Kyungha receives a text message from
Inseon asking Kyungha to come to her with ID. We learn that Inseon was injured
working on the project, and severed her fingers in the process, losing a lot of
blood. Kang’s description of the procedure Inseon endures to restore her
fingers is brutal. I found myself wincing, and the level of pain and discomfort
I imagined was probably greater than anything I’ve read in a horror novel.
However, I also got the sense that with Kang’s vivid and grotesque details,
she’s possibly making a point about both the nature of art and also about the
pain of memory, since Inseon was working on a project about a civilian massacre
at the hands of soldiers in Jeju.
Inseon’s other work, as a documentarian, also mines similar territory,
interviewing survivors of the Vietnam War’s atrocities. Despite not speaking
Vietnamese, Inseon seems to understand the pain and suffering these women have
faced, and we also see how she suffered as a result.
Inseon then asks Kyungha to go to her home in Jeju to rescue
her bird, Ama. However, Kyungha must go during an epic snowstorm on Jeju, and
find her way to Inseon’s home, as a promise to her dear friend. Although the
set up seems a little incredulous, Kang’s writing and the emotional connection
between Inseon and Kyungha makes this quest for Kyungha more believable.
Furthermore, it gives Kyungha some purpose in her seemingly bleak life. The
journey to Jeju and through the storm comprises the first of three parts of the
book. It is a harrowing journey to the home, and throughout the journey,
Kyungha seems to plunge deeper into the white nothingness of the storm, moving
further and further away from people. She encounters an elderly woman who seems
to be unable to communicate and a bus driver who doesn’t seem to provide clear
directions or understand Kyungha’s desire to travel to her friend’s home.
Furthermore, not being from Jeju also puts Kyungha at a disadvantage, and she
seems concerned that people will be able to tell she’s from the mainland due to
her language and lack of familiarity with the cultural practices. The snow
storm is blinding and painful. Kyungha’s eyes become sore. Snow gets into her
shows and pants. Kyungha nearly dies due to the snow, but somehow manages to
burry herself in the snow to emerge in the morning near Inseon’s home.
At Inseon’s home, Kyungha discovers more than the birds and
also reminisces about Inseon’s mother, who apparently suffered from dementia, a
disease that affects memory and the processing of reality. Kyungha’s journey to
Inseon’s house also seems to have altered her perceptions, as she looks to find
Ama, the bird. However, Kyungha discovers Inseon’s project and what kind of
research she was conducting for her latest project. We also learn about
Inseon’s personal connection to this massacre, as her father and mother both
had personal connections to the massacre. I wasn’t familiar with this event and
still need to learn more about it, but it sounds like it was suppressed from
the public for many years, and Inseon’s research (and Kyungha’s
reading/learning) is a way to unearth the injustice and violence, the death and
destruction that happened. We can see how both women’s work, writing and
documenting, lead to both physical and emotional trauma, yet, both women are
willing to endure and persist, if not for themselves, then for others. Kyungha
risks her life for a favor for her friend. Inseon endures a brutal treatment to
regain the use of her fingers, so important for her work as a photographer and
the woodworking that initially caused her injury.
The book’s title comes from the collaborative project that
Kyungha abandoned but Inseon continued to work on. Interestingly, they both
seem to have different interpretations of the project’s meaning, and whether it
means that they are never separated, or whether they refuse to say goodbye.
Their friendship proves that both are true, and that despite distances caused
both by geography and the responsibilities of family and professional life,
they maintained a kind of bond that is never really severed. Furthermore, even
when Kyungha is on her quest to save Inseon’s bird, Inseon (and her research)
guide her through the challenges of being alone in Jeju. One of the lines I
highlighted kind of emphasizes some of the surreal qualities of this story:
“Dreams are terrifying things. No—they’re humiliating. They reveal things about
you that you weren’t aware”. In many ways, Kyungha’s journey is dreamlike. She
travels into a blizzard losing a sense of sight and even her body’s feelings,
unsure if she is alive or dead. Similarly, what she learns from Inseon’s
project, the massacre at Jeju and the lack of closure that many of the Jeju
survivors experienced, seems to awaken something in her. Her prior numbness
abates and is replaced by a kind of anger and sadness. Like other Kang books,
this is not an easy journey, but this kind of self-realization, especially on
such an epic, historical scale, is never easy.
The other aspect of the book I wanted to mention was Kang’s
use of birds. Inseon had two birds, but the other bird, Ami, died and only Ama
is left. During her time at Inseon’s, Kyungha remembers first meeting the birds
and experiencing them. She also shares how she learns that “Birds will pretend
like nothing’s wrong, no matter how much pain they’re in. They instinctively
endure and hide pain to avoid being targeted by predators”. The birds serve as
meaningful symbols, and Kyungha’s attempts to rescue Ama both show a burial and
a revival. Although the birds come out of their cage for Inseon, it takes time
for Kyungha to bond with them, and readers can see how similar they are to the
Jeju survivors, trying to just endure without questioning much about what happened
to their loved ones, afraid of further repercussions. However, we learn that
Inseon’s mother, who initially seemed childlike, was actually one of the
citizens of Jeju who really pushed for action to find out more about her
brother, who was likely murdered and dumped in a mine. Kang’s use of birds as
symbols of both vulnerability and a kind of endurance and survival, masking
their pain, was beautifully wrought. She uses birds in such a surreal way, I
kept thinking that this book was kind of like Kafka’s writing—that there’s a
kind of allegorical symbolism to it, and that she takes both beauty and
degradation to explore the range of experiences and emotions. Furthermore, like
Kafka, this isn’t an easy read, but it is a rewarding read. It’s haunting and powerful,
and something I will need to revisit at another time.
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