Scan barcode
A review by bill369
Greek Lessons by Han Kang
s. 9
The woman’s eyelids tremble. Like insects’ wings rubbing briskly together.
s. 20
The lit fuse of the chilly explosive primed in her heart is no more. The interior of her mouth is as empty as the veins through which the blood no longer flows, it is as empty as a lift shaft where the lift has ceased to operate. She wipes her cheeks, dry as ever, with the back of her hand.
If only she’d made a map of the route her tears used to take.
If only she’d used a needle to engrave pinpricks, or even just traces ofblood, over the route where the words used to flow.
But, she mutters, from a place deeper than tongue and throat, that was too terrible a route.
s. 36
τὴν ἀμαθίαν καταλύεται ἡ ἀλήθεια.
This sentence, written in the middle voice, states that truth destroys foolishness. Is this true? When truth destroys foolishness, is truth necessarily altered by the encounter, influenced by the very thing it has destroyed? Does a fissure form in foolishness when it destroys truth? When my foolishness destroyed love, if I claim that that foolishness was equally undone in the process, would you call that sophistry? Voice. Your voice. The sound I have not forgotten in more than twenty years. If I said that I still loved that voice, would you slam your fist into my face again?
s. 54–5
But now there are no words inside her.
Words and sentences track her like ghosts, at a remove from her body, but near enough to be within ear- and eyeshot.
It is thanks to that distance that any emotion not strong enough drops away from her like a scrap of weakly adhering tape.
She only looks. She looks, and doesn’t translate any of the things that she sees into language.
Images of objects form in her eyes, and they move, fluctuate, or are erased in time with her steps, without ever being translated into words.
s. 56
χαλεπὰ τὰ καλά
Chalepa ta kala.
The beautiful is beautiful.
The beautiful is noble.
The beautiful is difficult.
It was possible for all three translations to be correct, because beauty, difficulty and nobleness were, for the Ancient Greeks, concepts not yet split apart. As 빛, bhit, in my mother tongue has always meant both “brightness” and “hue,” a light that is both clarity and color.
s. 58
“The world is an illusion, and living is dreaming,” I muttered.
Yet blood runs and tears gush forth.
s. 69
παθεῖν
μαθεῖν
“These two verbs mean ‘to suffer’ and ‘to learn.’ Do you see how they’re almost identical? What Socrates is doing here is punning on these words to remark on the similarity of the two actions.”
s. 139
If snow is the silence that falls from the sky, perhaps rain is an endless sentence.
Words fall on to paving slabs, the roofs of concrete buildings, black puddles. Bounce off the ground.
Letters of my mother tongue, shrouded in black raindrops.
Strokes both rounded and straight; dots fading away.
Curled-up commas and stooped question marks.
The woman’s eyelids tremble. Like insects’ wings rubbing briskly together.
s. 20
The lit fuse of the chilly explosive primed in her heart is no more. The interior of her mouth is as empty as the veins through which the blood no longer flows, it is as empty as a lift shaft where the lift has ceased to operate. She wipes her cheeks, dry as ever, with the back of her hand.
If only she’d made a map of the route her tears used to take.
If only she’d used a needle to engrave pinpricks, or even just traces ofblood, over the route where the words used to flow.
But, she mutters, from a place deeper than tongue and throat, that was too terrible a route.
s. 36
τὴν ἀμαθίαν καταλύεται ἡ ἀλήθεια.
This sentence, written in the middle voice, states that truth destroys foolishness. Is this true? When truth destroys foolishness, is truth necessarily altered by the encounter, influenced by the very thing it has destroyed? Does a fissure form in foolishness when it destroys truth? When my foolishness destroyed love, if I claim that that foolishness was equally undone in the process, would you call that sophistry? Voice. Your voice. The sound I have not forgotten in more than twenty years. If I said that I still loved that voice, would you slam your fist into my face again?
s. 54–5
But now there are no words inside her.
Words and sentences track her like ghosts, at a remove from her body, but near enough to be within ear- and eyeshot.
It is thanks to that distance that any emotion not strong enough drops away from her like a scrap of weakly adhering tape.
She only looks. She looks, and doesn’t translate any of the things that she sees into language.
Images of objects form in her eyes, and they move, fluctuate, or are erased in time with her steps, without ever being translated into words.
s. 56
χαλεπὰ τὰ καλά
Chalepa ta kala.
The beautiful is beautiful.
The beautiful is noble.
The beautiful is difficult.
It was possible for all three translations to be correct, because beauty, difficulty and nobleness were, for the Ancient Greeks, concepts not yet split apart. As 빛, bhit, in my mother tongue has always meant both “brightness” and “hue,” a light that is both clarity and color.
s. 58
“The world is an illusion, and living is dreaming,” I muttered.
Yet blood runs and tears gush forth.
s. 69
παθεῖν
μαθεῖν
“These two verbs mean ‘to suffer’ and ‘to learn.’ Do you see how they’re almost identical? What Socrates is doing here is punning on these words to remark on the similarity of the two actions.”
s. 139
If snow is the silence that falls from the sky, perhaps rain is an endless sentence.
Words fall on to paving slabs, the roofs of concrete buildings, black puddles. Bounce off the ground.
Letters of my mother tongue, shrouded in black raindrops.
Strokes both rounded and straight; dots fading away.
Curled-up commas and stooped question marks.