I loved this one. A beautiful, dreamlike story encompassing themes of detachment, fleeting connections and the pressure to conform to society’s expectations.
The setting for the novella – this French-Korean writer’s debut – is Sokcho, a coastal city in the far north-east of South Korea, close to the North Korean border. Dusapin’s story revolves around a young woman in her early twenties, currently working as a cook and housemaid in a run-down guest house struggling to keep up with the new hotels in the city.
The narrator – who remains unnamed throughout – is something of a misfit in her community, her French-Korean origins marking her out as a source of speculation amongst the locals. Moreover, she is being made to feel inadequate by her conventional Korean mother, a woman who sells seafood at the nearby fish market. There are repeated references to the narrator’s weight and her status as an unmarried woman, both of which give rise to pressure from the mother. The narrator, for her part, feels at best ambivalent and at worst hostile to her boyfriend, Jun-oh, an aspiring model intent on furthering his career in Seoul.
Into the narrator’s life comes Kerrand, a French graphic artist from Normandy whose speciality is creating comics. Almost immediately, there is a certain frisson to the interactions between the two, an undeniable charge that feels detectable to the reader.
I felt a chill as a draught blew through the kitchen. Turning round I saw Kerrand come in. He wanted a glass of water. He watched me work while he drank it, staring hard as if he were trying to make sense of the image in front of him. I lost concentration and nicked the palm of my hand. Blood welled onto the carrots, hardening to form a brownish crust. Kerrand took a handkerchief from his pocket. He stood close to me and held it to the wound.
‘You should be more careful.’
‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’
‘Just as well.’
He smiled, pressing his hand against mine. I broke away, feeling uneasy. (p. 8)
With few contemporaries of her own age close at hand, the young woman is intrigued by Kerrand and his reasons for coming to Sokcho, particularly in the low season. In truth, the Frenchman is looking for inspiration for his new book, the final instalment in a series featuring a travelling archaeologist – a loner who bears a striking resemblance to Kennard with his dark looks and striking features.
At night, the young woman hears Kennard sketching in the next room, a sound shot through with sadness and melancholy, seeping into her consciousness as she tries to fall sleep.
In bed later, I heard the pen scratching. I pinned myself against the thin wall. A gnawing sound, irritating. Working its way under my skin. Stopping and starting. I pictured Kerrand, his fingers scurrying like spiders’ legs, his eyes are travelling up, scrutinising the model, looking down at the paper again, looking back up to make sure his pen conveyed the truth of his vision, to keep her from vanishing while he traced the lines. (p. 67)
There is a sense that the narrator is disturbed by Kennard’s potential vision of her, reflected in some of the drawings she secretly watches him sketching.
As the narrative unfolds, the connection between Kennard and the narrator waxes and wanes, defined by occasional moments of intensity interspersed with significant periods of latency. At first, the young woman does not reveal her dual nationality to him, choosing to communicate in broken English instead of her competent French. He eschews the Korean meals she cooks for the guests, preferring instead to pick up Western-style junk food which he eats alone in his room. Nevertheless, Kennard is sufficiently interested in the narrator to ask her to show him something of Sokcho. A trip to the border with North Korea follows, complete with a visit to the museum whose ghostly souvenir shop is staffed by a waxwork-like attendant, her face frozen as if in aspic.
Threaded through the novella are signs of tension between the South and the North. At Naksan these are highly visible, from the barbed wire on the beaches to the bunkers with sub-machine guns poking out from their openings. While the scars from WW2 on the beaches of Normandy are old and worn, those in South Korea remain raw, signalling a country still at war with its neighbour.
Our beaches are still waiting for the end of a war that’s been going on for so long people have stopped believing it’s real. They build hotels, put up neon signs, but it’s all fake, we’re on a knife-edge, it could all give way any moment. We’re living in limbo. In a winter that never ends. (p. 88)
Body image is another running theme, particularly the various pressures – both external and self-imposed – an individual can experience to look ‘perfect’ or attractive. Several aspects of the story tap into these anxieties, from the narrator’s battle with bulimia to her boyfriend’s obsession with modelling to a female guest’s recovery from plastic surgery. Food too plays an important role in the novella, mostly through the traditional meals the young woman prepares at the guest house, frequently using octopuses from her mother’s stall. The pufferfish is also highly symbolic here, a poisonous delicacy that must be prepared correctly to avoid death on consumption.
This novella is beautifully-written, characterised by Dusapin’s clipped, crystalline prose. The desolate South Korean landscape is skilfully evoked, the stark imagery reflecting feelings of division and alienation. Winters in Sokcho are especially cold and bleak. As the narrator reflects, one has to live through them to understand this, defined as they are by the essence of the city – the sights, the smells and the isolation – these are the elements that seep into the soul.
The book finishes on an enigmatic note, an ending that feels at once both mysterious and strangely inevitable. All in all, this is a haunting yet captivating novella of great tenderness and beauty. Very highly recommended indeed.
Winter in Sokcho is published by Daunt Books; my thanks to the publishers/Independent Alliance for kindly providing a reading copy.
I just read the last few chapters this morning and I was also captivated by the atmosphere. The ending was certainly enigmatic – I’m still wondering about it! I liked the way Dusapin made the setting so central to the feel of the novel without overdoing it.
I loved the ending! And yes, enigmatic is a great way of describing it, with that slight sense of ambiguity floating through the air. I hope you’ll write about it at some point – it’s a beautiful little book, one that deserves quite a bit of attention..
Great review, Jacqui. I’m looking forward to reading this one very much. Someone at Daunt Books has a very sharp editorial eye. I’m not sure I’ve read anything from their list I haven’t enjoyed.
Yes, they do seem to have a keen sense for these things! I think you’ll enjoy this, Susan. The writing is spare yet haunting, and the story itself will stay with you, especially towards the end. A beautiful little book in more ways than one.
I just read this a couple of days ago Jacqui, one of those novellas I had to finish in a day. It’s very beautifully written and so haunting. I loved the sense of isolation depicted, both in terms of the place and the narrator’s life. The fact that Sokcho is so close to an impenetrable country made it all the more atmospheric. I’ll admit I don’t quite know what to make of the ending, whether it was meant to be ambiguous or if there’s more to it that I’ve missed!
I agree, it’s all the more powerful for its brevity and compactness, qualities that magnify the sense of detachment and isolation. It’s a bit difficult to discuss the ending on here without revealing spoilers, but I think there’s a sense of closure to it, if you get what I mean…
This sounds very good. It seems like there are lots of interesting themes at play here. I like your description of the book being dream – like. That is one of this reason that this seems appealing.
It’s great. For such a slim novella it punches well above its weight. Definitely worth reading.
This sounds excellent, an atmospheric novel set in a fascinating part of the world. I’m intruiged by the ambiguity of the ending. Lovely review.
I think you’d like this, Ali. It’s beautifully written, and the sense of isolation running through it taps into the haunting sense of place.
Lovely post, Jacqui – it sounds marvellous, and not an author or title I’ve come across before. I love a book with atmosphere, and this seems to have it in spades!
Having fallen for the gorgeous cover, I took a bit of a chance on this without knowing very much about the author or the narrative itself. Luckily, it turned out to be a real gem – a quiet, contemplative book with hidden depths.
I haven’t got to South Korean writers yet, but this sounds quite beautiful There is a wonderful blogger here who reads a great deal of South Korean literature. You may like to check him out at tonysreadinglist.wordpress.com
Ah, thanks. Yes, I know Tony as we were both part of a shadow panel for the International Foreign Prize some 6 or 7 years ago, back in the days before it joined forces with the International Booker. He reads quite a lot of fiction from South Korea and Japan – quite the expert, I think!
Returning to the Dusapin for a mo, I think you’d really like this. For such a slim book, there’s quite a lot going on here – plus, as you’ve gathered, it’s beautifully written. An understated gem.
This sounds excellent and I’ve just been looking for good novellas. I like how it sounds like political ideas are inlaid behind the very personal story.
I think you’d love this, Eric, and I’d be fascinated to hear your take on it. Yes, the political context is inescapable, partly because the setting is so close to the border with North Korea. But, as you say, it feels like part of the fabric of the more personal elements of the story, like a pall or shadow over the narrator’s somewhat isolated existence.
This sounds very different and very well done. A good choice from Daunt as usual.
It’s excellent. Probably one of the most atmospheric novels in translation I’ve read in recent years.
This sounds stunning. The quotes you pulled are so precisely written and so evocative.
Yes, evocative is a good word for it. Haunting, atmospheric, evocative – it’s all those things. One for your next novella project, maybe?
I genuinely think you would like this. Different country, but it put me in mind of some of Hiromi Kawakami’s fiction, which I know you tend to enjoy.
I do enjoy Kawakami a lot. I’m very tempted by this, It will definitely make an appearance in my novella project next year, if I can wait that long!
Willpower! Mind you, it’s a bit difficult to get hold of books until the shops start opening up again. June, hopefully…as long as everything doesn’t kick off again.
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Ah, this sounds like quite the read. That scratching pen. And the description of the beaches. It all sounds so to-the-bone disturbing. In some surprisingly innocuous ways. I think I’d like to read this one.
It’s an interesting one – very enigmatic, especially towards the end. I’ve been thinking about it a lot since I read it, one of those books with the potential to endure.
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