Reviews

I’ll Go On by Hwang Jungeun

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namakurhea's review against another edition

3.0

Slow-burning story about what makes life worth living. Lots of stream of consciousness passages and there's a lot of grief. But the ending is satisfying and encouraging... Sometimes we think that life should be filled with achievements and great accomplishments. But perhaps, it doesn't have to be this way.

dihafa's review against another edition

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5.0

I love being destroyed by an absolutely beautiful work like this.

ciaochow's review against another edition

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4.0

Nice and sentimental

emsemsems's review against another edition

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5.0

’Don’t ever forget it. Anytime you hurt, remember that other people can hurt just as much. You’ve got to make that connection. But most of the time, that connection, it might not happen as often as we’d think. Most of the time it might seem more natural to pretend otherwise. But that’s why we’ve got to remember. Because if we don’t, we’ll forget, entirely. And forgetting, that’s how people turn monstrous.’

I don’t think Hwang had intended for this to be a ‘feminist novel’; it was just happenstance. Either that, or she wrote it so well that it doesn’t even felt like she ‘tried’. Hwang covers a whole set of domestic, political, and societal problems. The novel explores both women's and men’s issues in the public and domestic spheres. Extremely well-written. Translation’s absolutely fantastic, and the entire novel was so beautifully structured. I’d have been quite happy with just Sora’s story (first section), but Nana’s story came right after – which was mad brilliant, if not more brilliant than Sora’s. She wraps everything up with Naghi’s story which was just such a perfect way to conclude the novel. I expected a basic ‘dosirak’, but this was a glorious literary buffet that I almost feel undeserving of and was definitely unprepared for. Read it in less than 2 days.

‘You know how that sip of milk you have in the morning fattens up your blood and muscles? Well, that’s how his words and his stories got to be in my blood and in my bones, Aeja said, after which she seemed to sink back into her thoughts.’

I complained about Cho's [b:Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982|46041199|Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982|Cho Nam-joo|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1587128688l/46041199._SY75_.jpg|55506509] lacking a male perspective. I complained about ([b:Breasts and Eggs|50736031|Breasts and Eggs|Mieko Kawakami|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1573825173l/50736031._SX50_SY75_.jpg|74401064]) Kawakami’s characters being too in-their-own-heads. Kawakami’s story structure was a bit of a sticky mess, and it lacked control. Hwang is extremely meticulous when it comes that the structure and careful composition of the novel. The men in both Kawakami and Cho’s novel were so underdeveloped in terms of characterisation – they didn’t even feel ‘human’ enough. But I think for Kawakami, it’s not a men/women thing. It’s just what I’ve come to realise after reading her most recent novel, [b:Heaven|53223710|Heaven|Mieko Kawakami|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1615916179l/53223710._SY75_.jpg|7124935] – that she tends to write freakishly ‘simple’ characters (which works for her novels; and which I sort of ‘get’ since it’s a play on ‘naivety’ – leading to again another kind of disparity/imbalance – socioeconomic status and despotism). I didn’t think at first, that my favourite character in Hwang’s novel would be Naghi. But she wrote him so well, it was very hard to not like him. Also, a queer perspective and character(s) in the novel was such a brilliant surprise. Hwang really outdid herself by going at the whole patriarchal tangle from so many angles.

‘Sometimes I refer to myself as Nana. Only people with an inflated ego call themselves by their own name, I’ve been told in one standoffish tone or another. But as far as Nana’s concerned, anyone who finds that much surplus ego offensive enough to point out, is bound to have an inflated sense of self, too. I am Nana. Nana is me. And Nana finds that the list of things about which she feels indifferent outruns the tally of her likes and dislikes. Liking, disliking: either way, one is bound to have to commit, to exert an effort. Better, then, to steer clear and remain ambivalent.’

‘To have a child is to be a mother, and to be a mother is to become Aeja. That’s how my circuit’s been set, twisted or not. Not so much in the way I think, but in the way I feel. And so it’s best not to make a baby in the first place. As long as there’s no baby there’s no mother-to-be, and as long as there’s no mother there’s no Aeja. Not anymore. It’s better that way. Aeja’s to be pitied, yes. She’s pitiful to such a degree that she’s almost loveable, but it’s better if she’s not around – better if she’s not in the world.’

Aeja is such a well-written character. I can’t think of a close contender in terms of problematic maternal figures in a work of literature that uses ‘neglect’ so effectively as a form of abuse – be it in a literal/emotional sense. Flynn executes brilliantly in her own way the characterisation of an abusive maternal figure in [b:Sharp Objects|18045891|Sharp Objects|Gillian Flynn|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1475695315l/18045891._SY75_.jpg|3801]. But Hwang’s portrayal is more subtle, therefore quietly and persistently, effectively disturbing. It reminded me of Miyazaki/Ghibli films where the source of terror/abuse is not the highlight of the show, but a forbidding background. Aeja ceased to truly exist after her husband’s gone because she was never really herself when he was there. She was just his ‘add-on’ in life – a missus something – a wife of a man. Because of this, the children are to her more like another set of ‘chores’ to complete. How many women have backed out of a divorce because the thought of handling their children on their own seemed too daunting – of a ‘chore’? Too much of a ‘burden’ to carry on their own? Why is that? If the children are so dear to them as they might claim, why did they place a bet on them on something so risky? Why does society frown upon single mothers who single-handedly, and intentionally take on that so-called ‘burden’ instead? And even worse on single parents who had chosen to raise their own children without a partner from the start – why?

‘Any more talk and Nana might burst into tears, and when Nana cries, Sora cries – which makes Nana cry in turn, and Sora will cry because now Nana is crying, which will make Nana cry which makes Sora cry. This is a given. There won’t be any stopping once it’s begun, like cogwheels, the mechanism of cogwheels that spin together and against each other on and on and on the moment, they’re set in motion. Nana knows this and Sora knows it too. This is why Nana hardly ever cries and why Sora hardly ever cries. Hardly ever. To give in to crying is plain unacceptable.’

Although Sora and Nana have struggled to relate or ‘be there’ for each other, in their own separately-hurting ways, they keep trying, keep going on. Others have complained that it’s bad ‘weird’ that one sister dreamt of the other being pregnant. But I think ‘realism’ is not quite the point of it. Sora and Nana’s relationship is painfully obligatory because they are the only ‘family’ they have – not by choice in every way. Their relationship is parasitic at times, but always symbiotic.

‘To invite him here and introduce him to Sora is to allow the softest, most tender part of Nana’s world to come into contact with Moseh ssi…The part of Nana that appears tranquil but is in fact forever quivering and vacillating – where the most sensitive of her scales are located. More than anything else, Nana’s not sure if she wants to open up Sora and Aeja and Nana herself to Moseh ssi, not so much the actual Sora, Aeja, and Nana, but as they exist for her, inside her. Between wishing for things to remain as they are and desiring just as strongly to smash things up, to break everything apart, Nana’s internal landscape has been in severe upheaval these days.’

I ache for a film adaptation of Hwang’s book, or at least a short TV series – like something with a similar quality to Gillian Flynn’s ‘Sharp Objects’ made even more glorious by Jean-Marc Valée. When the sisters go over to Sunja and Naghi’s house to make ‘dumplings’, it shows not just the passing of time, but also that they’ve made it through another year despite everything they’ve been through. They don’t just observe and feel the change in the seasons and time but also the change in each other. The acknowledgement of each other’s survival and the promise of living/existence – an unspoken contract to commit to this annual ritual. The unspoken promise to carry on regardless. To ‘go on’ – for another if not for oneself. In the end, it’s almost the same thing, isn’t it?

‘Eat mandu for the filling, eat songpyun for the skin. So Ajumoni declares as she pours in the final ingredient for the filling, long green onions, into the basin. These come last. Added too early, their hollow leaves will only become crushed and ooze out slime, making everything stick and smell. Nana learned this from Ajumoni. Now she deftly mixes in the onions with a few light movements, as she’s been taught to do. Next she picks up a piece of mandu skin that Oraboni and Sora are rolling out, lays it on the palm of her hand, fills it, then folds the ends together to seal it. As the two steps progress at different speeds, once there’s a pile of mandu skins Oraboni or Sora will switch to the filling, and switch back again when they start to run low. Once sealed, the dumplings must be pressed gently in flour before being laid out on the trays to prevent sticking. Arranged in neat rows, the dumplings made by Sora and Nana and Oraboni are all of a different shape.’

I love most kinds of dumplings - whether it be the suet-filled, bone marrow-filled dumplings in a dark, meaty stew; or a tenderly steamed delicate dough parcels carrying fermented vegetables and minced meat/fish. A close equivalent to ‘dumplings’ although not quite the same – would be pancakes/waffles. It’s transgressive; it’s not just a simple form of sustenance. There’s a warm, fuzzy intimacy in the process. I’ve learned from reading Hwang’s book about why sometimes my frozen dumplings would break when boiled. According to Sunja, having them par-steamed before freezing them helps prevent that kind of heart-wrenching disaster. Dumplings have been used in the media in so many different ways, and for different reasons. I watched ‘Dumplings’ (2004), by (Second Wave (arguably the ‘golden era’) Hong Kong filmmaker) Fruit Chan and so it’s long remained an awkward stain in my memory. But Hwang’s representation of dumplings will probably triumph all the others for me now.

‘By first light, half of them would need to be thrown out…The food bin will have to be packed full of mandu. It’s no use suggesting we try to make a bit less since there aren’t enough of us to eat it all: every year it’s the same. I wonder if she does this just to show me, if insisting on making more mandu than we can handle is her way of belabouring a point. A silent reproach implying that it’s my refusal to expand the family that leads to all this waste.’

Naghi having a parent with a substance abuse issue was an interesting choice on Hwang’s part because it’s such a prevalent issue; it’s extremely medieval, yet so contemporary. It’s hard to convey the everlasting effect it has on one (to someone else without a similar experience) because I suppose it’s not as direct and visible as being physically abused, yet it’s not quite the same as living with a mate who’s constantly shitfaced. Whenever I think about ‘abusive’ parents, I am reminded of the guinea pigs I had as a child. When one of them died, the other one starved itself to death. Call it romantic, but at whose expense? The bildungsroman subplot of Naghi’s story reveals a sensitive male character. Being sensitive is never a weakness but a strength. It allows one to navigate the ‘world’ better, communicate better, and inevitably understand better. I’d like to think that it’s not something one is ‘born with’. Like everything else it takes practice, and a deliberate, conscious choice to perpetuate the habit. The emotional distance between the characters in the novel may come across as being mildly triggering. But the ways in which they (individually) work to fill those gaps with light and love is something worth reading. It reminds me of my Hoya plants – to water only when necessary. To be fed gently, but consistently. Filtered light only, and not too harshly. Destroy all mealybugs, but not at the expense of the leaves. Each Hoya requires a different pattern of ‘care’ – but each a tender promise – and that’s the beauty of it all.

‘Tatami are tatami. The food was generally salty and didn’t suit me. The high streets were full of people. I worked, ate, slept, and yes, felt the occasional earthquakes. I suffered from skin problems. People tend to develop skin problems when they’re nutritionally deprived and under stress.’

‘Trifles and things of no consequence. That’s life for you: it can be halted at any moment, and trifles are all any human life ever amounts to, she says, and Nana does find herself, for the most part, agreeing with her. People are trifling, their lives meagre and fleeting. But this, Nana thinks, is also what makes them loveable. For keeping on amid the inconsequential.’

Cho’s [b:Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982|46041199|Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982|Cho Nam-joo|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1587128688l/46041199._SY75_.jpg|55506509] felt too one-sided; too little care and attention was given to the themes she was covering. It might have slightly underwhelming as a novel, but the film adaptation did it a grand favour by delivering what the novel didn’t/couldn’t – making the characters a lot more believable and humane. Cho’s novel/film adaptation works brilliantly as a social litmus test because the it was written in a more direct form – not as multi-layered as Hwang’s. I appreciate how both Cho and Hwang portrayed the maternal figure as a primary source of trauma for daughters (an actually too common concept/issue that is often overlooked/ignored). Abusive neglect, misplaced priorities, preferential/biased feelings and decisions; and mental/emotional battering with everlasting aftershocks. To treat the daughters like a societal burden while the sons are always perceived as an ‘auspicious’ symbol and a ‘priority’. It’s not very long ago (esp. in Asia) that daughters were illegally and legally aborted, and in more rural or poverty-stricken areas – just tossed away and let die. And like instead of questioning it, the society just let that slide and be like ‘yea, makes sense’. Hwang covers both the cultural and political situation of the problem. She takes the primary and secondary ‘caregivers’ in and out of the picture and composed the whole thing brilliantly. I’ve certainly underestimated Hwang, and I feel utterly ashamed, apologetic. I’m both embarrassed, and in utter awe, in the best possible way.

‘And how is it, the world? Fine, is it? Fit enough that I can bring a child into it? What if the baby asks me why I let it be born? Look, the average lifespan these days is about eighty years, right. What if in all that time there’s nothing but misery? What if the baby, born because of me, spends thirty, forty years of its life being plain miserable? What if it regrets being born? No matter how much you weigh and consider beforehand, there’s still all this other stuff to think about, isn’t there. So I want to, I want to think more on it, but when I do then I have to also think about whether it’s right or good to spend so much time thinking so deeply in the first place. Listen, how does everyone manage it. How do people make babies at all, in fact? How do they dare have them? Is everyone thinking these same thoughts, being ever so conscientious, and all the while busily trying to make a baby? Are they all tirelessly considering all this, in fact, with as much fervour as they can muster, and only afterwards, once they’ve reached a decision resolving to have and raise a child?’

I believe I'd struggled, and took such a long time to write this review because of how much I adore this novel. This is probably the longest review I’ve ever written on GR. As a reader, a daughter, and a woman, I can’t be more grateful to Hwang for having written it. It opens up a fresh perspective in the literary scene that is too often not given enough attention, or even treated too lightly. A few writers have experimented and scratched the surface of such sensitive, delicate, domestic, familial themes, but I think Hwang struck a far deeper dig at this. Hwang portrayed a complicated but not uncommon domestic life brilliantly. I love that Hwang did not romanticise the ‘neglect’ and emotional/mental abuse that the characters had to bear. The ending was pretty much perfect; it would feel too much to ask for more than that because it was so wonderfully delivered. This novel is for everyone.

‘Don’t erase things from the world just because you are incapable of imagining them.’

portabletime's review against another edition

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emotional reflective medium-paced

Plot- or character-driven? Character
Strong character development? No
Loveable characters? Yes
Diverse cast of characters? Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated

3.5

sanmeow's review against another edition

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emotional reflective sad slow-paced

Plot- or character-driven? Character
Strong character development? Yes
Loveable characters? Yes

5.0

the story is told by three people: sora, nana, and naghi. sora and nana are sisters, and their mother aeja is also discussed often. i thought the character work was just stunning, because i felt connected to all three of the storytellers, mostly nana and naghi though.
something that i thought was handled well is the concept of neglect as a form of abuse. hwang jungeun wrote about it so well through aeja as a character, i think i haven't seen anybody else handle it quite as well in a book. aeja is a complex character and you can definitely understand her and connect with her, yet somehow the author makes her feel quite distant to the reader at the same time. i think that's a great choice considering her role in sora and nana's life. abuse was also explored well through naghi's father.
since i speak korean, i thought the usage of korean terms and phrases was wonderful. korean traditions were well incorporated as well. the mentions of korean food made me quite happy too ^_^
though the connection between sora, nana, and naghi was well written, i also really loved reading about naghi's relationship with the boy he had a crush on. its intensity and unhealthy nature were intriguing to read about and this really helped me connect with naghi. he's definitely my favorite character, i also liked reading about how he treated nana and what he taught her.
nana is a bit of an odd character, especially when she was a kid, but she's so well written and i connected with her as well. through her we explore the theme of how women are treated in society. not just women, but also pregnant women and single mothers. this is also explored through what nana thinks of aeja.
i thought the translation was excellently done and the author's writing style from the original korean book really shines through. i'm very happy about it since the writing style is one of my favorite parts of the novel. this is definitely one of the best books i've ever read and i love rereading it ♡