My heart wanted to linger, one more moment in the pages my eyes just departed.
Between the covers was flora and fauna of white, revealed to me stroke by stroke, with the hands of a Korean author. The book was light, yet weighted down by scattered melancholy. The melancholy carried a scent, like my laundry linen. The smell of the spring, the smell of papers, sinking deeper in my body, as the day grew thicker, heavy with the dense air.
Unaware of the topic, only knew it got shortlisted by the renowned Man Booker, I made my city library to purchase a copy, 2 months before the book was in the market. As its first reader caressing the jacket, so neat and bright, waiting to take root, I arrived. How delight, before I set eyes on the black print against the stark white. Compelled to wash clean, my fingers slowed down to leaf through with care. The rustling unlocked my heart, with the touch of the unusual thickness and whiteness of the paper. What’s more, there was so much blank space, on every other page between both margins, soaking me with dampness found in snow white. Oh mama mia, I just stepped out of the frigid weather, why did Han Kang drag me all the way back, with both gentleness and vigor? How unfortunate! And how fortunate, to meet face to face a surprise, a much welcomed one.
It’s about the author living through the memory of her dead baby sister, in winter Warsaw, with fictious bite size narration. How to make out the genre of the book is of little concern. Less than half way through, I was awakened by recognition of what this book was about. The whispers, the murmurs, the hums heaved louder. I no longer desired to finish the book in one shot, as intended before turning the cover. I let my eyes wander, around the blank pages, to pick up what the author dropped. How empty did she endure, in a foreign city barely known, walking long hours each day? How sad could it be, to pass through buildings once 95% smashed in ruins, to see with the eyes and flesh of her unmet sister? How cold was it for her, to shoulder the open questions about fragile life, in a bone chill winter, without an answer? Nothing could describe these all weaved together, except the color of white.
At the mentioning of the color of white, tell me your first thought.
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Peaceful?
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Sad?
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Lightheaded?
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Cold?
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Pure?
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Open?
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Blank?
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Clean?
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Soft?
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Spiritual?
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Simple?
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Drifting?
All of the above!
It is true, 157 pages, on all of the above.
Years ago, I started my list of 50 white objects to photograph. A stalled project, Han Kang finished it for me, with words more elegant photos would depict, sharper than eyes can see ——
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To her, flash is a thousand points of silver.
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Milky way like grains of salt, streaming down, scouring her mind of all memories.
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The sight of a dish of wrapped sugar cubes evokes the sense of witnessing something precious, as if saving from the ravages of time and suffering.
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White nights are days in which darkness and light are both imperfect swell with memories of the past.
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A stage is an island of light, beyond which is a sea of black. Do you go down into that ocean floor, or stand your ground here in this island of light?
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She remembers one of her bosses, a middle-aged man who used to say how he longed to see a former lover again in old age, when her hair would be feather-white. When we’re really old... when every single strand of our hair has gone white, I want to see her then, absolutely.
If there was a time when he would want to see her again, it would certainly be then.
When both young and flesh would have fallen away.
When there would be no time left for desire.
When only one thing would remain to be done once that meeting was over: to separate. To part from their own bodies, and thus to part forever.
If you ever imagine the book is a collection of smart talks, the blame is on me. It's unreasonable of you if you ever expect drama, for it is far from a novel. I surely saw a butterfly flapping between her lines, beautiful yet slippery to catch. Alright, forget what it is, come with a pair of wings, dissolving into her words, in peace will your admiration emerge.
作家韩江 摄影 Lee Chunhee
THE END
At the late-night desk, my comfort lies in the possibility of introducing an otherwise impossible book, done beautifully by the British translator Debra Smith. My first read of Han Kang Human Acts was just another book on my list, The White Book, however, turned it around -- Han Kang earned a special spot on my catalog. Hours later, when the day breaks, The Vegetarian will be my third read, her 2016 Man Booker International Prize winner. Translator Debra can be a writer herself, she chose instead to be a writers’ cloak. This is a gift, from her through me to you.
以下是我的几张白色题材摄影作品，谁有稀有纯白物件，欢迎自告奋勇当“模特”，比方白猫、白金......：-）
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