[b]Han Kang
Soundlessly, and without fuss, some tender thing deep inside me broke. Something that, until then, I hadn’t even realized was there.[/b]
Just once. Just one fucking time I would like to experience this myself.
I’m fighting alone, every day. I fight with the hell that I survived. I fight with the fact of my own humanity. I fight with the idea that death is the only way of escaping this fact.
And to think that some are actually able to declare themselves the victor.
A soul doesn’t have a body, so how can it be watching us?
A mere technicality, right?
Can only trust my breasts now. I like my breasts, nothing can be killed by them. Hand, foot, tongue, gaze, all weapons from which nothing is safe. But not my breasts. With my round breasts, I’m okay. Still okay. So why do they keep on shrinking? Not even round anymore. Why? Why am I changing like this? Why are my edges all sharpening–what am I going to gouge?
And the male equivalent of this is…?
I never let myself forget that every single person I meet is a member of this human race.
Indeed, and I never let myself forget that, to any one particular individual, this can mean practically anything.
As for women who were pretty, intelligent, strikingly sensual, the daughters of rich families—they would only have served to disrupt my carefully ordered existence.
Or this: As for men who were handsome, intelligent, strikingly sensual, the sons of rich families—they would only have served to disrupt my carefully ordered existence.
You know, if you let them.