한국국제교류재단

Many of us take for granted the ability to speak to others and see the world around us. What would life be like without those faculties? Without language, for example, would we even be able to think? The protagonist of Han Kang’s Greek Lessons finds out when a childhood disability envelops her in a “foggy silence” without language. Although she overcomes this initial silence, it returns later, at least partly. She can process the language she hears and reads, but she is unable to speak. She is once again wrapped in a cocoon of silence, detached from her surroundings.

Interwoven with our protagonist’s story is the tale of a young man who moves to Germany with his family and returns to Korea 17 years later. He is also haunted by a disability: the slow deterioration of his sight that will eventually leave him blind. His family opposes his return to Korea and worries about his wellbeing, but he makes a living as an instructor at a hagwon, where he teaches the Ancient Greek he learned as a student in Germany. The silent woman joins his class, attempting to reconnect with language through a language that is no longer spoken. They share this space for some time, never fully communicating with each other, until a chance accident brings them together.

Greek Lessons is, on the most obvious level, a meditation about loss. In addition to the loss of their faculties, the novel’s main characters struggle with the loss of people in their lives. The woman aches with longing for her son, of whom she lost custody to her ex-husband after their recent divorce. The man learns of the death of a close friend in Germany and is haunted by the violent rejection of a girl he loved. Their lost or deteriorating faculties — that is, their ability to connect with the world — function as metaphors for the relationships that have been shattered.

Underneath all of this is the question of what it means to be “whole.” The man’s departed friend, Joachim, who also suffered from a disability, had once pondered that the person best able to think about life would be one who “faces death at every turn,” one such as himself. Per-haps, then, those best able to contemplate what it means to be whole are those who have lost a significant part of themselves and their connection to the world.

Yet despite these themes of loss and lack, Greek Lessons leaves us with hope. Having circled each other for so long, when the woman and the man are finally brought together, the future seems full of possibility. There is no easy solution to their problems, no simple happy ending, but somehow tomorrow looks brighter than today.

When Kim Suhyun found herself failing to live up to society’s expectations, she wondered where she had gone wrong. But then a thought occurred to her: “What if it’s not my fault?” The journey she embarked on to answer that question resulted in I Decided to Live as Me. The subtitle may call it a “checklist” for learning to love yourself, but the author makes it clear that she has no desire to replace one set of stifling rules with another.

Kim writes from a decidedly Korean perspective and for a Korean audience, and she occasionally compares Confucian, collectivist Korean society with the more individualistic Western society. Thus, it might seem at first glance as if reading this book would be an exercise in being on the outside looking in. Thankfully, this is not the case. The non-Korean reader will certainly glean from the book insights into Korean society and culture, but most of Kim’s advice is in fact universal. Cultural differences are real, but people are people, and deep down we share the same hopes and fears, dreams and anxieties. And nothing is ever merely black-and-white. Labels like “collectivist” and “individualist” may provide a handy shorthand for talking about societies at large, but on the level of the individual human being they often obscure more than they reveal.

The book is definitely written for our times, when so many of us are steeped in social media and victim to its attendant neuroses. No matter where you come from, you may find here an antidote for the pressures of modern society. At the very least, the book will provide the opportunity to stop and think about what you have taken for granted.

Seaweed Mustache from Busan has been carving out a niche for itself in Korea’s rock scene since 2014. Their 2016 EP The Whistle received favorable reviews, but it was their full-length debut album Bombora, released in 2022 after a long hiatus, that struck a chord with rock aficionados and catapulted the four-member band to the forefront of Korea’s heavy music scene.

Their sophomore album 2 builds brilliantly on their debut’s foundation. The record washes over you like a tempestuous wave, drawing from shoegaze, post-metal, and blackgaze. Across eight tracks spanning 44 minutes, the band weaves a tapestry of jarring dissonance and hypnotic melodies, where fuzzy noise meshes with crystal-clear rapid-fire instrumentation. What should be clashing elements instead create an oddly harmonious force — the aggressive onslaught of guitars, bass, and drums somehow perfectly cradles the fragile, sweeping vocal lines. Adding another layer of intrigue are the cryptic lyrics in both English and Korean, rich with metaphysical storytelling.

The opening track “FALL,” starting with thunderous, slow bass and drum hits that seem to echo across a vast expanse, serves as an overture that distills Seaweed Mustache’s artistic vision. The following track “HEX” takes the listener in an entirely different direction. Here, the band crafts a strange and compelling mosaic through the interweaving of suffocating, dissonant guitars, female vocals that punch through like rap, and male vocals that prowl with menacing growls.

Does Seaweed Mustache, known for their extreme musical style, have anything resembling a ballad? The answer lies in their sixth track “SWEETHOME,” a piece of heartbreaking beauty.