—Hwang In-suk, “Circle Dance” This alley, where snow would not melt. This alley, where a snowfall would turn into an icy path overnight. The world has many hidden alleys inside. Unlit windows. Cold telephone poles. Broken bricks. Tiny, labyrinthine rooms on the other side of the fence. Odor from the sewer. The smell of frying sticky sugar-filled pancakes. The long exposed hallway of an inn . . . The smell from the kerosene stove. A young factory worker with a boil on his head staggers drunk. Life’s anxieties seeping into the booming blare of his sad song. The gates that cannot never be locked, with so many people passing through. Piles of briquette ash. Frozen trash. The drunk young factory worker falls on his knees, holding on to a power pole. Dry vomit surging against the current, up his multiple innards. Oldest Brother’s woman would have disliked this alley. Would have disliked the wig that he had to wear over his naked head, and also me, adjoined to him like a tumor. Perhaps that is how it’s set out to be.
What do You think about The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness?
