Thanks very much to the publisher and NetGalley for the advance review copy of We Do Not Part. This is my first encounter with Han Kang's beautiful prose, but it certainly won't be the last. We Do Not Part is a quietly moving exploration of friendship, family bonds, and lingering trauma from a beyond-horrific event in South Korean history, the 1948 Jeju massacre. Highly recommend!

In We Do Not Part by Han Kang, the author again returns to a long-suppressed part of Korean history—the massacres in the late 1940’s of supposed communists and leftist sympathizers. The story unfolds through the eyes of two women as they attempt to get past their current day struggles to reconcile the past and what their families experienced.

There is stunningly beautiful, poetic writing here that both cocoons the reader inside of the story at times but also works to keep the reader at a distance at other times. It is a strange combination of immediacy and distance as dreams, reality, shadows and swirling snow disorient and play with time and place. Although the references to snow were so frequent, they almost became too much; it was such a good symbol for covering things up while providing a path, cold and suffering but with the ability to insulate, softness and beauty with harshness and silence.

Kang’s exploration of these dark historical periods, both in this novel and in “Human Acts,” is significant. It personalizes nearly unbearable situations, prompting us to reflect on past and present circumstances more directly. This novel is memorable and will reveal new insights with each reading.

Thank you to Random House /Hogarth and NetGalley for the digital ARC.

4.5 stars

Oh, where to begin with the majesty that is Han Kang. I can't string together a sentence that doesn't make me, a humble reader, feel dwarfed by her power over the written word - with all due credit to her amazing translator, of course. Thank you to Random House for entrusting this mesmerizing novel before publication in exchange for this review.

There isn't much I can say that hasn't been said about this treasure. Every word - every image - matters and helps slowly unwind the tragic past shared by these two women. The Jeju massacre was a dark, grisly moment in time that seems all but forgotten by too many Western students of history. I've encountered it only once before in fiction, in Lisa See's Island of the Sea Women. Though that telling is more straightforward, it doesn't pack anywhere near the emotional wallop. Han Kang is unlatched in her gift for use of imagery, so vividly rendered, to show (rather than simply tell) readers what she's trying to convey. It's a blissful reading experience, and I suspect this is a book I'll read every year and come away with something new.

I don't think I am the right audience for this particular novel. I was initially interested in it because I enjoyed Kang's previous novel, The Vegetarian, but I really struggled to connect with this book and story in a meaningful way.

This is likely a case of me being the wrong reader!

We Do Not Part is a poignant tribute to friendship, sisterhood, motherhood, and the cyclical connections between suffering and survival. The novel unfolds in three parts, narrating the journey of a young woman who travels to Jeju Island to rescue her friend's injured pet bird. However, her journey leads her to uncover the harrowing history of the Jeju 4.3 Massacre of 1948. Han Kang masterfully portrays forgotten tragedies—those that are often overlooked outside Korea—with lyrical and evocative prose. In this work, her writing transcends mere evocativeness to become hypnotic, drawing a seamless line between reality and dream in a narrative that could easily have lost its way, yet instead remains deeply poignant as it ties together all its themes.

By the end, the novel left a lasting emotional impact on me, one I can't recommend highly enough. I know I’ll return to this book again, drawn to its intricately layered, beautifully translated text in search of deeper meaning.

4.5/5 stars (rounded up). A powerful, at times repetitive, and often gut-wrenching read. I might even find this novel more moving than Human Acts, and both works would make excellent companion pieces. It’s no surprise that these books contributed to the author’s Nobel Prize.

A heartbreaking yet beautifully told tale. Interwoven stories and history collide. Despite the sensitive subject matter the writing is very palatable. This will haunt me for a long time.

I have almost nothing to say about this book. At a high level, it's about a writer whose friend, an artist, is in the hospital and asks her to go back to the artist's house to make sure her bird is fed, and then when the writer gets there she gets snowed in and we go off on this crazy dream-logic flight of fancy thing in which the first half of the book is mostly jettisoned and Han dives deep into the artist's family's personal history as it touches on atrocities committed by the military/police during the Bad Old Days of South Korean history. But the various parts of the book felt disconnected to me, or connected in some elevated symbolic/thematic level that I was just not plugged into, and as a narrative I found it quite unsatisfying.

The thing is, every time it snows, it comes back. I try not to think about it, but it keeps coming back.

The past is prologue in this book about the ways tragedy and trauma continue to haunt people—and how after effects of violence lives on through generations. The importance of shedding light on atrocities, but also the toll it can take. It took me a while to get into the rhythm of the writing, but by the second half of the book I found myself really affected by the grief infused in every page. This feels like a book I’ll keep thinking for a long time.

It’s been so hard for me to gather my thoughts about We Do Not Part to even attempt to put them into words. I would almost describe this book as a story within a story. There’s the framework setup of Inseon’s injury and Kyungha’s journey to Jeju, as well as the overarching theme of their friendship. And then there is the story that is revealed to Kyungha upon her arrival to Jeju, which is really the bulk of this novel.

I didn’t know much about the Jeju uprising prior to reading this novel, but I’m grateful for Kang’s signature searing prose for making me aware. I think this is a timely and necessary read. It was hard for me to ignore parallels between the story being told in this novel - mass extermination in the name of rooting out “rebels” or “resistors to the government” - and what is occurring today in Gaza. Especially considering US involvement in both. I do highly recommend checking content warnings before diving into this book.

It’s worth mentioning too that the framework story here is also still incredibly engaging and haunting in typical Kang fashion. I’m not sure that I fully know exactly what happens here, but I’m not sure I’m meant to. Overall, I will be thinking about this book for a long time to come.

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.

This is the story of a friendship and of a deep trauma in the history of Korea.
The two women meet as students and reconnect when one has an accident and needs the other's help to save her beloved bird.
But this book is so much more than a story of friendship. It's a story of family, of history, and of brutal genocides that took place in Korea before, during, and after the 'Korean' War. It's a history I knew nothing of - one that hits very hard.
And it's a story of a deep friendship, with deep secrets and trauma and healing and dreams.
This novel was a complex read for me, and one that I had to reread parts of to keep the story line going. Definitely not an easy read or an easy subject. Very dreamlike.
Thanks to NetGalley and publisher Random House for the ARC.

We Do Not Part by Han Kang is a beautifully written, haunting exploration of friendship, memory, and historical trauma. I loved how she seamlessly weaves between different time periods and shifts in and out of reality—it creates a dreamlike, almost nightmarish atmosphere. The book’s mood of solitude really pulls you in, the backdrop of the snowstorm along with the atrocities depicted of the Jeju Massacre in the 1940s add to an over all hopelessness throughout. While it got to be a bit challenging at times, the lyrical prose and thought-provoking themes make it a rewarding read. Definitely a solid 4-star experience for fans of introspective, literary fiction.

This was my third book by Han Kang (I’ve read The Vegetarian and Greek Lessons). I love her writing, find her and her translators brilliant, and can’t get enough of her books. I think this is so far my favorite of her books, even if it’s also the darkest of the ones I’ve read.

The book starts off with Kyungha receiving a mysterious message from her friend Inseon. Hospitalized in Seoul, she asks Kyungha to go to Jeju island and feed her bird. She goes, taking the first plane out and finding herself in the middle of a blizzard as she makes her way to her friend’s remote home. From this point on, the book makes a bit of a turn. Without revealing too much, Han straddles the line between reality and dreams, masterfully weaving in details of the Jeju massacre in the months leading up to the Korean War.

The first part reminded me a lot of Jon Fosse’s A Shining (both books made me feel cold!). While in a lot of ways this part feels like a separate book from the rest, I was intrigued by the ways that Kyungha‘s journey to Jeju reflects the exile of other persons mentioned. There’s one character in particular that Kyungha meets at a bus stop that I kept reflecting on in the later account of the massacre.

I also think Han is doing something interesting with snow throughout the book. Not only is it a hostile element to Kyungha, there seems to be some connection between the magical and the otherworldly and the snow. It also plays a role in some of the stories told during the massacre. There are other objects that have dual meanings in the story, such as bloody fingers. I think there is a lot to unpack here and I’d love to re-read this at some point to make those connections.

Thank you very much to NetGalley and Hogarth for an ARC of this novel.

This never quite reaches the level of THE VEGETARIAN or GREEK LESSONS, but no one tells a heartbreaking, unrelentingly sad novel like Han Kang. Wow, this was a lot. I found the first half of this extremely compelling, but it lost me quite a bit in the second half. I struggled with its depiction of real life violent history through a dreamlike lens. It made me wonder about its success in portraying an important part of Korean history considering its parallel interest in art and filmmaking. Still, Kang is a one-of-a-kind author, an incredibly deserving Nobel Laureate. I will read everything she ever writes.

This book is more grounded than The Vegetarian so it was easier to understand (although it was still a bit bizarre.) Kyungha ends up on Jeju Island during a blizzard after her friend cuts off two fingers in a woodworking accident. Her task is to get to her friend's bird before it dies. But then the book takes a turn. It's not necessarily a bad turn because it tells the history of the Jeju Massacre. Having spent time in both Jeju and Daegu, it was interesting but disturbing to learn more about the massacre. I don't know if I'll ever fully appreciate how Han Kang blends genres but this book should give sophisticated readers lots to ponder and discuss.

This beautifully written novel depicts the horrors of trauma and takes place in the paradisiacal Jeju Island, a reconstructed land with a lot of scars in history and in its people, and it addresses the massacres during the late 40s and early 50s.

The novel opens when Kyungha, a writer hunted by nightmares after publishing her last book about a mass killing, is asked by her hospitalized friend Inseon, to look after her bird in her home located in Jeju Island. Snowstorm hits this place and what it could happen is uncertain but throughout the novel we can learn about the friend, her background, and some brutal stories of suffering and death.

The narrative is oniric at times and also includes recollections and different voices. Han Kang majestically can put pain into deep and lyrical words and the way she addresses trauma and manages to picture people hunted by dreams because of shocking events in their lives is really impressive.

I loved this novel and I think her research is remarkable because she really imprinted this story in all her senses and transmits through it all the pain in its wounds.

It was fascinating to find connections with her previous books, but as well it can also be as difficult and painful to read as in the others.
If you are a very sensitive reader, I'd suggest to check the TW.

Thank you Hogarth and Netgalley for this digital advanced copy.
Publication date: January 21st, 2025

Absolutely haunting with lyrical writing that truly does blend the realms of dream and reality. The Vegetarian and Greek Lessons are books that follow me to this day, and We Do Not Part is joining in their ranks - possibly in the most straightforward way. This is a perfect, perfect winter read that explores the loneliness and desolution of the season - so please be warned for very open and honest discussions of suicidal ideation - while also engaging with a portion of history that I had no idea about and am glad to have learned more of. History and magical realism go so well together, and Han Kang illustrates that perfectly here.

We Do Not Part is the highly anticipated new novel from Han Kang after recently winning the Nobel Peace Prize in literature largely tied to The Vegetarian. She was awarded this prize for "“her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.” This statement could not be more true in We Do Not Part.

This is the perfect book to pick up in the winter. The snowy setting feels like a character in itself. But pick this up when you are prepared to work for a pay off. Kang does not hand you anything, but the investment is oh so worth it. We open with Kyungha receiving an urgent message from her injured friend Inseon to visit her at a hospital in Seoul. Inseon begs Kyungha to return to head to her home on Jeju Island to save her pet bird. Kyungha does this immediately and is greeted with a vicious snowstorm that threatens her very existence and blurs the lines between dream and reality for the reader.

It's a little hard to talk about what makes this book great without spoiling some of its greatness. Kang is exploring trauma from the Korean War and the power of memory through the friendship between these two women. I'm not going to lie, I thought about giving up on this book when I truly had no grasp on what was going on or why, but I am SO GLAD the gorgeous sentences kept me reading. The ending of this book absolutely floored me and cemented it as a book I'll be talking about all year. I know I need to read Human Acts soon, but I can't stress enough how important timing can be with Kang's works. Read when you can give it the time and attention it demands!

WE DO NOT PART is Han Kang’s most recently published novel with the English translation forthcoming in January 2025, where she revisits another part of Korean history that has been largely suppressed by the government—the 1948 Jeju Uprising/Massacre when 30,000 people were killed. As we saw in HUMAN ACTS with the Gwangju Uprising/Massacre, with WE DO NOT PART, Kang has once again given a voice to the voiceless, to the forgotten, to the ones waiting.

On the surface, this is about a writer named Kyungha, a novelist, who is struggling with her mental health in the aftermath of her latest book about a massacre. When her longtime friend, Inseon, reaches out for her help after an accident, Kyungha finds herself on her way to Jeju island in the middle of a snowstorm. The book explores the dynamics of their friendship through their history and decision to create a joint art installation remembering the lives lost in 1948—a project that never comes into fruition. Until Inseon decides to start work on it herself and gets into an accident.

Before I go any further, it’s important to note that this book begins where HUMAN ACTS ends. Immediately we see Kyungha having intense and harrowing nightmares—an experience Han can attest to and has publicly acknowledged after writing about the 1980 Gwangju Uprising/Massacre in HUMAN ACTS. In fact, the dream in the opening chapter of WE DO NOT PART that serves as a the inspiration of the art installation project is a dream Han has dreamed herself back in 2014 upon finishing HUMAN ACTS, a deeply personal book for her. The last chapter of HUMAN ACTS can be seen as a prologue to this book, and thus, WE DO NOT PART should be seen as a continued meditation of trauma and “profound love” (지극한 사랑), which is how Han herself describes this book.

In WE DO NOT PART, Han explores the lasting trauma of the Jeju Uprising/Massacre and the shared mourning of that horrific event between friends and between a nation and its people. And she does this with such beautiful precision and craftsmanship. The book is full of symbolism and metaphors that not only carry the thematic issues of suffering, loss, grief, healing, and finally, memorialization of those lost, but also provide bridges to her other works. In this book, snow serves as a metaphor for its cyclical nature—a reminder that this intergenerational trauma is also cyclical, that the snow that quietly covered and buried the 30,000 dead was/is the same rain and snow that falls on us today. As Inseon says, “every time it snows, tit comes back. I try not to think about it, but it keeps coming back.” Snow also ties back to another one of Han’s work, THE WHITE BOOK, where she explores the loss of her sister through white objects. While THE WHITE BOOK is about a personal loss versus a national one, it is another meditation on loss and one that I need to urgently finish.
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There are also very small nuanced moments that are so specifically Jeju that evoke beautiful but painful imagery—specifically, my favorite, were the red camellia flowers against the white snow. For Koreans, this is an obvious one, since camellia flowers are very common on Jeju island and it’s significance even more profound as this flower is worn as a remembrance for those whose lives were lost on 4:3 or the Jeju Uprising/Massacre. But for many Western readers I think this is a nuanced cultural expression that may not resonate but hope in reading this might appreciate. In Korea, the camellia flower means 기다림 (to wait) and wearing it is a symbol of memorial and remembrance to Jeju people who lost their lives and the bereaved families who are still waiting for justice and recognition. And with the current South Korean government, reconciliation in the near future seems unlikely.

This book is not only extremely important because of Han Kang’s well deserved win of the Nobel Prize in Literature, but because of the urgent need in preserving the true historical events of Korea. Han, who was once blacklisted by the South Korean government for writing HUMAN ACTS and her persistence to write about the struggle of humanity is the reason why she won the Nobel Prize and why it is imperative that the rest of the world read this book and all of her books.
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It took 7 years for her to write this book. She wrote this with the intent of exploring the depth of humanity and with it, she found profound love. And I wholeheartedly agree.
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Reading WE DO NOT PART was an a surreal experience especially now during the live-streaming of a g3n0cid3 happening before our eyes. The reminder that our struggles are all connected is strong and decades later, even now, I am reminded that we are not free until all of us are free.
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Thank you so much to @hogarthbooks for this review copy. I will treasure it forever.

Kang decidedly explores themes of the permanence of people and their tragedies in our lives. Focusing on the Jeju Massacre, we follow a friend of a documentarian, who suddenly shifts to focus on "ghosts" from her past. The narrator follows the friend to a hospital and then eventually to Jeju, where the narrator begins to see the psychological and cultural remnants of the massacre.

Fans of Human Acts will enjoy the social and cultural commentary about the impacts of mass-scale tragedy. The pacing is fast. and I was glued to the novel.