The White Book: A Novel

I am grateful for the enlightened and so accurate review of the White Book by "The Nowhere Man". And I am also glad that Amazon has chosen to list his comments as a "top critical review" for readers like me. The Nowhere Man proves to us in the most convincing way that the Korean writer named Han Kang has committed conceptual plagiarism of the work titled Bluets by the great Maggie Nelson who is widely read around the world. OK, Han Kang may have a point about her mother's mourning the loss of her first daughter a few hours after birth. But how can white as the color of morning in Korea possibly compare with American bluets? And what other woman besides the great Maggie Nelson would be able to spontaneously meditate about grief and loss in any meaningful way. How trite, girlish and irrelevant are Han Kang's references to the unnamed city of Warsaw that was levelled by Nazi armies following the 1944 Warsaw Uprising merely because she happened to finish her book in that city during dark and snowy winter days. What a weak reason for Han pretentious meditations on that unnamed city that pro-democracy demonstrations were crushed by the troops of a military dictatorship in the city of Gwangju where she happened to be borne by luck. The Nowhere Man is not a common bully but a respectable leader. He only has Han's best interests in mind - and ours - when he warns us about her obvious misdeed she committed when she wrote the "White Book". What a relief it is that the Booker Prize Committee did not give - again- its prestigious price in 2018 to this conspicuous plagiarist whose "White Book" it had made the embarrassing mistake to shortlist. Clearly, Han Gang who received her first literary prize when she was still a university student cannot think clearly, forcefully and independently by herself. Her entire work is so dull, repetitive and narrow. So typical of plagiarists, Han Kang has cleverly attempted to cover her tracks in a later interview given in Denmark when she says - without any evidence - that she has been struggling all her life with the "unresolved riddle" of the coexistence in humanity of violence and of dignity embodied in a sense of community. How laughable and selfish is her complain about men who rightly like to tell physically weaker women how to live their lives and what they can do because they always know what is best for them. The "Nowhere Man" could not have chosen a better target to campaign against the scourge of plagiarism than this uncreative writer who barely cares about human dignity and integrity. Maggie Nelson must surely agree with him. How shocking is the state of the writing world when such a weak and trivial writer receives 22 prizes in her native country as well as in the UK, France, Italy and Spain. What was the Nobel Committee thinking in 2024? Dear Amazon, congratulations again for your unerring choice of this "top critical review".

This is a remarkably different and profound meditation on consciousness, memory, stories, loss and remembrance. The "white" theme carries throughout the book's poetic chapters, which are often a short paragraph, never much more than a page. I confess that I wasn't happy with the book 2/3 of the way through. "The Vegetarian" was a powerhouse of writing, character-driven and mysterious. The White Book is almost characterless, in the sense of specific identities plodding their way through a narrative. And some, but not all, of the writing is strong. But the themes come through loud and clear: What does it mean to live? Can a baby who lives only briefly really be said to have lived, when she/he never acquires language or sees clearly or learns catalogues of lived experience? Can a person -- a sister -- relate to such an individual, when the condition of the sister's birth depended on the death of the first child? Can the sister know that late sibling in any profound way? Can she memorialize her? Substitute for her life? Can loss ever be transcended? From these and other questions posed about the transience of life and its meaning -- hardly a new literary category -- it's easy to see that this is a difficult book to bear. But it's very well done and creative; and, in contrast to the vividness of the protagonist in "The Vegetarian," the characters in "The White Book" are almost damask-white against the background of the themes themselves.

Like a series of photographs each of which is interesting on its own. The vignettes are expertly woven. But take a step back and see all these wonderful images and another larger image emerges, flickering, its presence uncertain at first and then becomes increasingly evident. What it shows might vary among readers but it will be profoundly human. And beautiful.

Poetic, interesting and pretty writing. Dark subject matter so make sure that’s what you want to read (why I rated lower)

…a brush with the whiteness of death painting a memory of a life only two hours long on the darkness of sadness.

This was like a teaser to a larger book. Appetizer to great literature to follow. Only reason for missing star is there is no deep plot.

You might want to hate this book because it seems ludicrous: a list of white objects, with brief reflections or stories attached. I feared it would be pretentious, or boring But it's not. The writing is gorgeous, affecting, thunderous...there's a list of superlatives on the back in case you need help finding adequate words when you're done. I did. This is great. Han Kang is great. Fade to black.

It's perfect

THE WHITE BOOK: HAN KANG Book Review By Varghese V Deasia Han Kang is the winner of the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature. Her novel The Vegetarian won the Man Booker International Prize, The White Book was short-listed for the Man Booker International Prize, and her Human Acts won the Manhae Literary Award. Reading THE WHITE BOOK was a metanoia. The journey changed my mind, heart, self, and perception of existence related to events, persons, and faces. Its sillage, the scent that lingered in the air, and the trace of the perfume Han Kang has left for her readers are resonant. The epiphany the author created in me is a redamancy moment and a phosphenes experience. It took me to the land of the unknown, where I encountered inexplicable existential anxiety, anguish, sorrows, joy, and peace. I screamed for the hiraeth. In the end, I am rich with the solace of Han Kang’s eloquence in spreading her words and ideas. I cannot vouch for whether it is a novel, an anthology of short stories, a collection of poems, an assortment of invocations, an album of meditations, or a sequence of dreams. However, I can proclaim that The White Book is the ultimate example of profound literature, verisimilitude in nature, personal, gentle, passionate, agile, thriving, thrilling, complex, contextual, erotically spiritual, secular, neurotic, phenomenological, fearful, hauntingly intimate, universal, ethereal, challenging, agonising, amazing and astonishing. It leads the reader to meditate on the mysteries of existence, magics of relationships, joys of togetherness, contradictions in desires, passions in hope, sex in life, truth in death, whiteness in darkness, sunrise after sunset, thunder in rain, lightning in the clouds, collage of colours, war in power. It leads you to ponder love in the first meeting of would-be beloved, the first rays of the morning, peace in benevolent hearts, agony in longing, sadism in narcissism, madness in power, dishonesty of an ingrate, grief in loss, peace in Vipassana and warmth in a hug. THE WHITEBOOK reminds its readers about the intimate union of the individual with the Earth in myriad forms, colours, sounds, tastes, and the ultimate merging with the Universe. But there is grief in this merging, pain in this loss, and agony in its reminiscence. “My mother’s first child died, I was told, less than two hours into life. I was told that she was a girl with a face as white as a crescent-moon rice cake. Though she was very small, two months premature, her features were clearly defined. I can never forget, my mother told me, the moment she opened her black eyes and turned them toward my face.” THE WHITE BOOK shakes your heart with its impermeable grief. At the same time, it leads you to think about the mysteries of your awareness, epistemological oneness with the other, ontological search for a person you love, metaphysical togetherness with humanity, and the embrace of emotions and the author’s immeasurable compassion. It breathes within you and tells stories of empathy, love, and kindness. It touches you like the morning breeze over the rice-paddy fields, enveloping you with its eternal proximity. You wonder at the totality of the vastness of human feelings, especially love, honesty, and humility. You wonder about the universality of experiences, the sonder, and your involvement when meeting every stranger. Each human has a story of their own. Each stranger has a universe of their own. Every human we encounter has a mysterious, complex, fascinating and rich life as mine. “The twenty-two-year-old woman lies alone in her house. Saturday morning, with the first frost still clinging to the grass, her twenty-five-year-old husband goes up to the mountain with a spade to bury the baby who was born yesterday. The woman’s puffy eyes will not open properly. The various hinges of her body ache, swollen knuckles smart. And then, for the first time, she feels warmth flood into her chest. She sits up, clumsily squeezes her breast. First a watery, yellowish trickle, then smooth white milk.” THE WHITE BOOK is effervescent, iridescent, and luminous. The incandescence it creates while reading is like the strange wishfulness of a used library where you spent much of your life as a young person. You met your beloved in a corner of the library for the first time. You carry that vellichor for a lifetime. Even though there is an innate melancholy and sorrow, Han Kang creates, the reading is stupefying and, at times, ephemeral, along with the violence we indulge in, the cruelty we perpetrate, the shame we have inherited and the possible reprimands. “As I have imagined her, she walks this city’s streets. At a crossroads, she sees a section of red brick wall. In the process of reconstructing yet another shattered building, the wall had been taken down and rebuilt a metre in front of its original position, along with a low epitaph explaining that the German army used it to line up civilians and shoot them. Someone has put a vase of flowers in front of it, and several white candles are crowned with wavering flames.” Han Kang takes the reader to the dark corners of human intentions, behaviours, actions, and consequences. The jingling in those bends frightens them and leads them to their inner self to assess the pretensions nourished to show the world in its real colours, especially darkness, as Cardinal Newman says: “The night is dark, I am far away from home”. It permeates the heart, soul, mind, and head. History overpowers them, the present imitates the past to shadow it, and the future remains opaque. However, there is a longing for rebirth in THE WHITE BOOK, a spiritual spontaneity, like in the songs of Mira Bai about her beloved Krishna. The Chandogya Upanishad speaks about rebirth, also known as Punarjanma, the concept of the self’s return after death. This notion can be compared with "Ode to the West Wind" by Percy Bysshe Shelley, a poem that explores themes of death and rebirth, the power of the West Wind as a force that brings renewal. Han Kang uses rebirth as a sign of the transformative power of human life, suggesting that change can arise from destruction. As the Isha Upanishad says: “They who worship both body and the spirit, by the body overcome death, and by the spirit achieve immortality.” For the Taittiriya Upanishad, “What you give to others, give with love and respect.” The inherent spirituality in THE WHITE BOOK is dazzling with philosophical notions. “It was on the outskirts of the city that she saw the butterfly. A single white butterfly, wings folded on a reed bed, one November morning. No butterfly had been seen since summer; where could this one have been hiding? The air temperature had plummeted in the previous week, and it was perhaps on account of its wings frequently freezing that the white colour had leached from them, leaving certain parts close to transparent. So clear, they shimmer with the black earth’s reflection. Only a little time is needed now, and the whiteness will leave those wings completely. They will become something other, no longer wings, and the butterfly will be something that is no longer butterfly.” Han Kang’s writing is profound and representative, creating passions like Jayadeva’s Gitagovindam, magical and mystical like Tagore’s Gitanjali, erotically spiritual like that of St Teresa’s The Way to Perfection, permeating and philosophically perceptive like Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet, mystically splendid and evocative as Rumi’s Masnavi, spiritually surrealistic as Dag Hammarskjöld's Marking: Poems and Meditations, and mystifying in fervent love as Song of Solomon. “When long days finally come to a close, a time to be quiet is needed. As when, unconsciously, in front of a stove, I hold my stiff hands out to the silence, fingers splayed in its scant warmth.” Death is inevitable. Death is the final song of life. But do we die? The memory of the dead person lives on like the baby girl's memory, inscribed in the author's mind, who was the firstborn to her parents. “Don’t die. For God’s sake, don’t die. I open my lips and mutter the words you heard on opening your black eyes, you who were ignorant of language. I press down with all my strength onto the white paper. I believe that no better words of parting can be found. Don’t die. Live.” Han Kang’s THE WHITE BOOK is one of the most enriching meditations ever. It is as profound as The Spiritual Exercise of Ignatius Loyola and on par with The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama or Hope by Pope Francis. “Within that white, all those white things, I will breathe in the final breath you released.” Deborah Smith translated THE WHITE BOOK into English from the Korean. The English translation reads like a mystifying poem: beautiful, enchanting, and enriching. The language is clear, concise, vivid, and reflects a strong, consistent voice. Varghese V Devasia Former Professor and Dean, TISS Mumbai Former Professor and Principal, MSSISW, Nagpur University, Nagpur.

Dieses Buch ist eine Meditation.

インテリア用として購入しました。オブジェを置くのにちょうど良いサイズと厚みがあり、色味も良く、又、書物としても写真がふんだんに掲載されていて見ごたえがあります。

Good price and quality

I have not finished the book, because it’s so wonderful I had to slow down to savour it more. Although some have called it self-indulgence on Author Kang’s part, I think the emotions expressed within 흰 are the kind that cannot be isolated from their owner. And because of that, I felt a perfect understanding with the author and the stories deeply touched my heart. Actually, someone I love very much who passed away last year read this book in its original Korean. As I am grieving for him now, I feel deeply connected and comforted by reading it. This book has moved me to tears, not by attachment to characters or by plot, but by the simple mode of expression which both stirs and soothes my grief. I believe it’s my first experience of the kind. I truly recommend this book to anyone softhearted, and especially anyone who has experienced deep grief.