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A review by nakuhrs
Winter in Sokcho by Elisa Shua Dusapin
4.0
Oozing winter and fish, Sokcho waited.
That was Sokcho, always waiting, for tourists, boats, men, spring.
We are living in limbo. In a winter that never ends.
What matters is the light. It shapes what you see.
Looking again, I realised that I didn't see the ink. All I saw was the white space between the lines, the light absorbed by the paper, the snow bursting off the page, real enough to touch. Like a Chinese ideogram.
That's it.
That's the best way to really express this novel.
Two cultures meeting and coexisting:
a static being in a static town encounters a wanderer in search for new perspectives.
A delicate look into existence's real meaning.
That was Sokcho, always waiting, for tourists, boats, men, spring.
We are living in limbo. In a winter that never ends.
What matters is the light. It shapes what you see.
Looking again, I realised that I didn't see the ink. All I saw was the white space between the lines, the light absorbed by the paper, the snow bursting off the page, real enough to touch. Like a Chinese ideogram.
That's it.
That's the best way to really express this novel.
Two cultures meeting and coexisting:
a static being in a static town encounters a wanderer in search for new perspectives.
A delicate look into existence's real meaning.