In her 2024 Nobel Prize for Literature acceptance speech, the esteemed South Korean author Han Kang opened up about a profound personal struggle. She revealed, “I had long lost a sense of deep-rooted trust in humans.” This introspection left her questioning, “How then could I embrace the world?” This sense of existential questioning is a recurring theme throughout Han’s literary works, notably in her Man Booker Prize-winning novel “The Vegetarian,” where the protagonist abstains from eating meat and ultimately imagines herself transforming into a plant.
Han’s latest translated novel in English, “We Do Not Part,” delves into this fundamental dilemma with haunting beauty. Her mysterious main character, Kyungha, undergoes a transformation of her own. While researching a book about the victims of the tragic 1948 Jeju Uprising, she’s confronted with such profound inhumanity that she is unable to maintain her belief in the inherent goodness of people. Reflecting on her decision to write about mass killings and tortures, Kyungha muses, “How could I have so naively—brazenly—hoped to evade the agony of it?” Even after completing the book, the stories continue to haunt her, leaving her feeling isolated from the world.
When we are first introduced to Kyungha, she has withdrawn from her job and severed ties with most of her loved ones. Her personal life feels like “a sugar cube dropped in water,” dissolving rapidly. She retreats into a gloomy existence in a secluded flat outside Seoul, spending her days in bed overwhelmed by intense migraines that drain her energy and appetite, with nightmares invading her nights. One particularly vivid dream haunts her—a snowy hillside by the sea, a mass grave site marked by dark tree trunks, akin to “black torsos.” This vision pushes her to reach out to a friend, Inseon, a documentary filmmaker, hoping to collaborate on a tribute to this haunting image.
Inseon, having relocated from Seoul to Jeju Island to care for her dying mother, who was deeply affected by a massacre backed by the government that claimed 30,000 lives, remains in her childhood home after her mother’s death, working as a carpenter. A harrowing accident leaves her hospitalized in Seoul, and she reaches out to Kyungha, asking her to travel to Jeju to look after her pet bird—a task that becomes nearly impossible due to a blizzard.
Snow serves as a powerful metaphor in this novel, representing both allure and peril. The way Han describes it—”As the snow lands on the wet asphalt, each flake seems to falter… like a dying note of a final cadence”—is exquisite, showcasing her poetic touch.
Though Kyungha can only travel so far from Jeju airport by bus, she trudges through snowbanks to reach the remote hillside cottage, darkness closing in. Exhausted and disoriented, she nearly succumbs to the cold until she rallies herself to keep going. After experiencing an acute hypothermic daze, she eventually spots the glow of a lantern and reaches Inseon’s workshop.
While sequestered alone in her flat, Kyungha teetered on the edge of reality; on Jeju, this boundary completely blurs. Amidst the intensifying storm, she finds herself without electricity, uncertain about the bird’s fate. Despite a sense of foreboding regarding Inseon’s worsening health, she experiences a vivid encounter with Inseon, who appears like a ghostly silhouette suddenly animated— “The black, rounded form shuddered and grew long. The body extended from its crouched position… face emerging from hidden arms.”
Seemingly unfazed by the surrounding surrealism, the two settle into conversation as if everything is normal. Inseon plays the gracious host, making tea and lighting candles, setting them down at the kitchen table. Kyungha’s awareness oscillates between an imagined presence and concern that her friend is actually dying in a hospital, leaving readers questioning the line between reality and illusion.
The narrative takes a shift, adopting a more factual tone as Inseon recounts the tragic history of her family’s experiences during the Jeju massacre. It becomes apparent that her visitation is meant for Kyungha to bear witness. Once Inseon finishes relaying her family’s saga, she disappears, leaving Kyungha to ponder an uncertain presence: “Is that someone you?”
Han Kang has mentioned that each time she embarks on writing a book, she lives within a realm of questions, evolving along with her storytelling process. By the end, she describes, “I am no longer as I was when I began,” mirroring her characters’ profound transformations.
This haunting novel is enigmatic, offering no clear answers. Immersing oneself in “We Do Not Part” means embracing uncertainty. Whether the characters exist between life, death, or in a liminal state remains ambiguous. As readers, we’re left wondering if Kyungha ever emerges from her grief or reawakens to the beauty around her, or if Inseon survives her injuries.
Han’s brilliance lies in her ability to weave connections between the corporeal and the ethereal, constantly experimenting with style and form, confirming her reputation as one of today’s most influential writers. Even a simple description like striking a match can become a poetic image: “Up leaped a flame. Like a blooming heart. Like a pulsing flower bud. Like the wingbeat of an immeasurably small bird.”
As for how Han navigates through personal despair without succumbing, she notes, “Writing was my only means of getting through and past it… Can it be that by appreciating the gentlest aspects of humanity, by acknowledging the undeniable warmth within, we might continue living in this brief, tumultuous world after all?”
Leigh Haber, an experienced writer, editor, and publishing strategist, has served as director of Oprah’s Book Club and books editor for O, the Oprah Magazine.
