Light and Thread by Han Kang
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Many thanks to Random House and NetGalley for sharing an
advanced copy of Nobel Prize winning Han Kang’s latest book, Light and Thread. I was so excited to find this title, and even more excited to learn
that this was Kang’s first book of reflections, a kind of nonfiction journal
and brief exploration of some of her writing. I don’t know if there are other
nonfiction publications in Korean from Kang, but this was the first time I’ve
seen her nonfiction in English. After reading and being haunted by books like The
Vegetarian, Greek Lessons, and last year’s incredible We Do Not Part, I
was excited to see what this book has to offer.
Although the book is slim, there’s much in it, and Kang
provides some insight into her writing, especially around the questions she
attempts to explore with each novel. I loved reading about these influences and
especially how her novels revolve around these questions of the relationship of
the past to the present and the living to the dead. It’s something that emerges
in her writing, and especially in the relationships between characters that are
at the center of her books. In addition, there’s a section where she discusses
some of the writing of We Do Not Part, which I did not realize took her
7 years to write. We Do Not Part is not only a powerful story about
friendship, connection, and the restorative power of art, but it’s also an
incredibly affecting and viscerally moving work of art that readers can feel.
There is something tangible about the book, and in Light and Thread, we
learn that Kang experimented with walking around her home in Jeju Island in the
darkness before dawn to learn exactly how dark it was or how shadows from
candles displayed on walls. More surprising was the fact that Kang went out
into the snowy Jeju forests to see how long she could hold snow in her hands
before succumbing to the numbness of the cold. It makes sense that Kang would delve
into these sensory experiences to create such a vivid and tactile experience
for readers.
There’s also some lovely poetry throughout the book that
feels threaded to We Do Not Part, in which Kang discusses the kinds of
connections she experienced. She notes that some of her earliest writing from
elementary school featured poems that dealt with these kinds of threads and
connections which she sought to bind writers to readers, and possibly members
of society. I’m amazed at the kinds of questions she raises through her
examination of some of the most brutal events in history- although she seems struck
by the violence and brutality, she still wonders how the same humanity that can
punish and brutalize others is capable of such love and forgiveness, or care.
It’s something that is hard to reckon, especially when we tend to not see these
threads that bind us, but often look for the separation and tears.
The last section of the book is titled “Garden Diary,” and
it details Kang’s first how she owned on her own, and how she worked with a
landscaper to plant some trees and greens and deliver light to them, despite the
north-facing garden. The landscaper tells her to bring mirrors to her yard in
order to catch the sunlight and deliver it to the garden, and Kang writes this
lovely poem
“We’re catching the sunlight
shining south. By reflecting it with mirrors.
…
Thus, in my garden
there is light.
There are trees that
grow, nourished by that light.
Leaves sparkle,
translucent, and flowers slowly open.”
The rest of the garden diary details a year and a half of
the growth and life she documents as she continues to bring light and life to
her plants. She observes the bugs, including wonderous fairy bugs, whose luminescence
makes them seem ethereal, and the aphids she worries about eating the leaves of
her plants. These are mostly short observations throughout the year, but it’s
marvelous to read the subtle differences in the changing of seasons, and the
position of the sun gradually evades the garden, rendering the plants lifeless
until the next spring. In one November entry, she mentions that “In winter, a
south-facing house becomes a jar of light,” which was a phrase I just loved.
Throughout the year, we see how the plants and growth connect Kang to her home,
which she says “feels like a friend” when she “heard myself say, ‘Be right back.”
It’s not just the home, but the life and growth that connects her to the space,
and also demonstrates that kind of care and concern that counters the brutality
and violence of humanity and history. Towards the end of these entries, Kang
notes that “I had been wanting to fill the north wall full of green, and now
time is doing the job for me.” Even though these entries are mostly a sentence
or two, it’s a lovely document of how time unfolds in these older, seasonal
ways, similar to Jenny Odell’s wonderous book Saving Time, that looks at
different measures of time, and Donald Quill’s Living the Irish Wheel of the
Year, which also takes a more seasonal approach to the passing of time,
reminding us of the renewal and return that occurs in life. The last few
entries from Kang detail how her viburnum “has grown taller than I am,” and how
“When I step through the front gate, the scent of lilac is everywhere.” Kang’s
entries not only made me long for spring as we made it through a rough winter,
but it also affirmed how important it is to be surrounded by life, and
especially how good it can be to take care of other living things, even if they
are plants. I loved this brief book, and as I look back on rereading certain
sections, my appreciation and joy for it grows more and more like Kang’s
viburnum or lilacs. This is definitely a book to revisit and reread, but also
one to share with others. Highly recommended!
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