Greek Lessons

by Han Kang, Deborah Smith (Translator), Emily Yae Won (Translator)

“Now and then, language would thrust its way into her sleep like a skewer through meat, startling her awake several times a night.”

In a classroom in Seoul, a young woman watches her Greek language teacher at the blackboard. She tries to speak but has lost her voice. Her teacher finds himself drawn to the silent woman, for day by day he is losing his sight.

Soon the two discover a deeper pain binds them together. For her, in the space of just a few months, she has lost both her mother and the custody battle for her nine-year-old son. For him, it’s the pain of growing up between Korea and Germany, being torn between two cultures and languages, and the fear of losing his independence.

Greek Lessons tells the story of two ordinary people brought together at a moment of private anguish—the fading light of a man losing his vision meeting the silence of a woman who has lost her language. Yet these are the very things that draw them to each other. Slowly the two discover a profound sense of unity—their voices intersecting with startling beauty, as they move from darkness to light, from silence to breath and expression.

Greek Lessons is the story of the unlikely bond between this pair and a tender love letter to human intimacy and connection—a novel to awaken the senses, one that vividly conjures the essence of what it means to be alive.

Genres: Fiction, Contemporary, Literary Fiction, Asia, Romance, Asian Literature, Audiobook

192 pages, Hardcover

First published November 10, 2011

About the author

Librarian Note: There is more than one author by this name in the Goodreads database.

Han Kang ( 한강) was born in 1970 in South Korea. She is the author of The Vegetarian, winner of the International Booker Prize, as well as Human Acts, The White Book, Greek Lessons, and We Do Not Part. In 2024, she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature "for her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life."

Reviews

[emma · Rating 3 out of 5]

i love to read about words.

the other stuff, on the other hand...

case by case.

i feel that this had moments of being perfectly written, and i could read about han kang writing about language forever, but generally this felt like it had a gauzy curtain over it. if i peered through it, i could make out what was happening, but i felt prevented from truly connecting with any of it, and it took effort to read.

in other words, not my greatest beach read selection of all time.

bottom line: mixed bag.

---------------
tbr review

NEW HAN KANG NEW HAN KANG NEW HAN KANG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Taufiq Yves · Rating 5 out of 5]

I remember in high school biology, I learned about a condition called motor aphasia, which is caused by damage to the motor speech center. This results in muscle coordination issues that prevent speaking but still allows listening, reading, and writing. I used to think this condition was absurd - how could someone normal, understand language but not be able to speak? That was until I read Han Kang’s Greek Lessons.

As a Nobel Laureate, Han Kang’s writing is poetic and delicately touches on deep emotional wounds, evoking empathy from readers, especially in today’s oppressive world. Her book The Vegetarian drew lots of attention and sparked discussions among literature lovers worldwide. This time, she focuses on people with aphasia and those who are blind.

To be honest, Han Kang’s books aren’t exactly easy reads. This novel feels like a linguistic maze that's hard to decode. She doesn’t fill in the plot but uses fragmented sentences to convey equally fragmented emotions. This is the fourth book of hers I've read, and I still can’t fully grasp it in one go, but I’m moved by the emotions. After losing her language, the female protagonist finds herself in a vortex of silence, with amplified environmental sounds - car noises, rain, footsteps - filling the void in her life. The male protagonist, having lost his vision, uses memories to fill the gray fog before him, with words and outlines of loved ones becoming clearer yet distant like a dream. Their dialogues and touches are encounters with another self, both mute and blind, sparking indescribable light in their fading lives.

The female protagonist was a publishing editor and literature teacher who had published poetry. After a divorce, her mother’s death, and losing custody of her son, she developed aphasia for the second time in her life. At 17, she suddenly stopped using language to think, act, or understand. Much later, seeing a French word triggered her ability to pronounce it, and everything returned to normal. She then decided to learn ancient Greek to regain her lost language.

The male protagonist is a Greek teacher who lived in Germany for 17 years and is going blind due to a hereditary disease. In his class, he encounters the female protagonist, reminding him of a former lover, the daughter of an ophthalmologist, who was also deaf. He wanted her to communicate through language, not realizing that silence was their most precious connection.

The female protagonist’s aphasia is closely tied to her childhood. Her family had told her she was almost aborted, instilling a coldness in her heart, making her cautious in every step as if constantly questioning her right to exist. Suppressing her true nature, her mother’s death and losing custody made her life darker and led to minimal living standards.

Meeting the male protagonist becomes a turning point. They connect through eye contact; he respects and understands her, and she helps him when he gets injured.

”Isn’t it strange? Our bodies have eyelids and lips that sometimes close from the outside but can also lock tightly from within.”

Initially, I thought the writing was average and hard to get Han Kang’s point. It wasn’t until the middle that the story began to make sense.

Greek Lessons offered more thought-provoking insights compared to The Vegetarian, Human Acts, and The White Book. This novel elevates Han Kang from merely a wordsmith to a nurturer of thought. Aphasia means losing the ability to speak, often associated with deafness, making life imperfect. Braille and sign language are substitutes but not the same as the original. This complexity simplifies human stories, as verbal attacks and insults become unknown, adding a protective layer to the silent heart. Han Kang shows a deeper understanding of humanity: persistence without guaranteed results. People are not sages.

Structurally, the whole story is fragmented, making it a challenging read. It lacks gripping twists, focusing on the tragic pasts, unfortunate futures, and mundane present of the protagonists. While the framework could’ve created a compelling narrative, Han Kang chose a tougher path, deepening her reflection on life: losing vocal cords or throat function isn’t the end. Instead, expressing acceptance of incompleteness forms a complete life path. This highlights individual identity and humanity.

I have a strong feeling that this novel explores feminism, addressing the plight of women stripped of everything in modern society. As global attention on feminism rises, Han Kang’s expression becomes more subtle and implicit. Yet, in this silent struggle, a powerful voiceless strength emerges.

The protagonist, compressed by reality until almost transparent, loses her language, finding solace only in French and Greek. Meeting a man about to lose his sight, she experiences mutual comfort and warmth. These two souls on the edge of life question if they can find mutual understanding and redemption or if it is another cry for help.

Through Han Kang’s writing, I can sense her hidden pain, calm on the surface but bordering on despair. If language is a tool of harm and violence, then silence becomes her self-protection and search for redemption. Silence isn’t compromise; sometimes, it’s resistance.

Han Kang delves a lot into the struggles of women and similarly situated men, seeking shared understanding of repressed anger and dissatisfaction. The mutual understanding and redemption in the characters’ journey provide us with reflection and caution. Every reader can find their shadow in the story, reevaluating their challenges. This may be the book’s significance.

And this book has many memorable quotes showcasing Han Kang’s literary prowess. Yet, after finishing it, I can’t recall specific plot points, similar to remembering many quotes but none specific.

You might ask if a book that doesn’t leave a strong impression can still be considered good. The answer is simple: because it mirrors the experience of aphasia. I am speechless.

4.6 / 5 stars

[Alwynne · Rating 4 out of 5]

First published in 2011, Han Kang’s short novel grew from a year when she retreated from writing, unable to focus on fiction of any kind, her return to language was slow and arduous. It also builds on themes centred on violence and suffering that run through her fiction, but here these themes play out in more muted tones, and on a smaller scale than in Human Acts or The Vegetarian. Kang has noted the influence of reading Sebald on her narrative, and there is something of his approach here, at times Kang’s story reads like a hybrid of contemplative prose poetry and essay-like, philosophical exploration. It’s intricate, sometimes deliberately opaque. It’s also a potent reminder of Kang’s roots in poetry, lyrical and filled with striking images and phrasing.

Kang imagines two isolated people both living in Seoul, one a lecturer in Ancient Greek who is gradually losing his sight, the other one of his pupils, a poet and teacher who’s lost custody of her child, and finds herself no longer able to speak. Both are adrift in the city, spending their spare time pacing the streets, confronted by its sounds and smells, both alienated on some level but for entirely different reasons. The man retracing his past, his mind given over to memories of his childhood in Germany where his family relocated when he was still very young; the woman attempting to exhaust herself, to cut herself off from memories she’d rather not confront. The woman has enrolled in Greek lessons because this long-dead language is so far removed from her own, suggesting a way back into speaking that isn’t also a way back into her own past.

Kang has talked about her sense of the inadequacies and limitations of language and her fascination with the idea of Ancient Greek, its structure and particularly its use of a middle rather than a passive voice. A form that enables a single word to operate on a variety of levels but also involves a different relationship with agency - one of the reasons the middle voice was often used in wall-writing during Greece’s financial crisis, a choice that enabled protesters to express their feelings without taking on the role of either perpetrator or victim. Kang’s ideas about language and identity are reflected in her chosen style which concretises her characters’ predicaments – the woman is represented in the third person, unable to express herself directly, and the man in the first, as someone caught up in his thoughts and impressions. Both are attempting to come to terms with the suffering and losses that are an unavoidable consequence of existence – steeped in what Kang calls “the pain of the world.” Yet it’s not a pessimistic piece but one that ultimately rests on possibilities for connection and reconciliation. Translated by Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Woon.

Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Hamish Hamilton for an ARC

[Meike · Rating 2 out of 5]

Now Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature 2024
Let's not kid ourselves: This is the weakest Han Kang I've ever read (and for someone restricted to reading in translation, I've read and enjoyed quite a few of her novels: The Vegetarian, Human Acts, The White Book, and Deine kalten Hände). The issue with "Greek Lessons" is, IMHO, that it is fully based on metaphors that determine the structure of the story and the characters, which makes for a hazy, vague reading experience that yells at you: "Hey, I'm ART"! Granted, of course Han Kang can write singular intriguing sentences, but where's the elegance in the construction of the plot, where's the vision, where's the overall narrative or aesthetic force? More than anything, this novella is: Timid.

The text is narrated in alternating chapters by a teacher for Ancient Greek losing his eyesight and one of his students, a woman who recently got divorced and lost custody of her son, which made her stop speaking. Both feel an increasing sensation of losing touch with the world, for one because of their impediments, but also because of the direction their lives have taken: Two lonely people meet in a course that keeps a dead language alive by passing it on. The heavy implications are hard to miss, and the evocation of doom and gloom is well rendered.

But all in all, this novella didn't get to me, because it's too forced and on the nose, and the plot construction is rather clunky. Apparently, Han Kang wrote it while in an artistic crisis of sorts, and I hope that getting this one out of her system helped her find new footing.

[Radwa · Rating 2 out of 5]

This was too abstract, even for me.

I loved a lot of things about this: the focus on language, some gorgeous writing, the fact that we have a story told from two unique points of view: a woman who can't speak and a man who can't see.

but then we come to the story, there is NONE. It ends abruptly with no resolution and I don't really know what to get from this besides some lyrical quotes about language. The start was strong but then it lost focus and lost me, sadly.

[Laubythesea · Rating 4 out of 5]

Esta novela trata de dos personas que han perdido algo y coinciden en unas clases de griego. Ella, poeta y profesora de literatura, ha perdido la capacidad de hablar tras la muerte de su madre y perder la custodia de su hijo. Él, un hombre que no se siente de ninguna parte tras pasar su vida entre dos países, sufre una enfermedad degenerativa de la vista que le sumirá en la ceguera. Esto les aísla del mundo, les sume en una soledad que toma forma de muros que se alzan cada vez más altos. Así, ‘La clase de griego’ nos enseña dos vidas a la deriva, dos personas solas que se encuentran.
 
En un Seúl que podría ser cualquier parte, la mujer pasa los días observando la vida de los demás, paseando cuando podría coger el autobús, buscando su lugar en el mundo, donde siempre ha querido ocupar el menor espacio posible. Busca en las clases de griego clásico, en aprender una lengua muerta, el camino para conectar de nuevo con las palabras para que estas salgan de su garganta, donde la ahogan. Mientras, eso sí, continúa componiendo poemas (las palabras se abren camino) que nos permiten llegar a conocerla, puesto que su historia se nos narra, en una elección nada casual y muy simbólica, en tercera persona.
 
��l, en cambio, nos habla directamente, su voz suena alta y clara, pero le falla la vista. Desde sus ojos vemos un mundo que se desdibuja, apenas contornos, con un filtro azul que presagia la oscuridad total que acabará llegando. Un hombre que ve con pavor que perderá su independencia y al mismo tiempo, bloqueado, no hace nada para prepararse (no aprende braille y se violenta si le hablan de su futuro), así vive atrapado en sus sueños y recuerdos, en el pasado, tanto es así, que es profesor de griego clásico.
 
Un libro que habla de la relación con la soledad y con el mundo cuando se está solo, también de filosofía clásica y budista, pero también ahonda sobre el papel del lenguaje y las palabras en nuestra existencia, y qué pasa cuando estas son insuficientes. La palabra vista como algo con vida propia, con el poder de conectar personas, pero también de separarlas o de ahogarlas.
 
Una historia sumamente intimista y sensorial, llena de silencios y vacíos, angustiante a ratos, luminosa en otros. Centrada en el dolor individual y contada con esa prosa sublime, limpia, donde cada palabra ha sido seleccionada con precisión, que caracteriza a Han Kang. Donde todo sucede principalmente en el interior de sus protagonistas y se compone de pequeños momentos llenos de simbolismos que hablan del miedo, de sentirse atrapado, del desarraigo y la soledad.

[♑︎♑︎♑︎ ♑︎♑︎♑︎ · Rating 3 out of 5]

Oh I feel so bad about what I’m about to write. I had such a yearning as I read this novel for it to linger longer on the ideas and poetics of what was being said and experienced by these characters. I felt like maybe a half-dozen masterpieces began and carried me forward into new, brave thoughts—and then they were abandoned. Some other, amazing story began. Maybe these threads tied together a little by the end but along the way the weave kept getting torn apart as tense and place and time all changed from one page to the next. I’m grieving for the novel that might have been. It needed a center for me. A grounding that wasn’t there. I saw some pretty ideas flash by as I read. Maybe that should be enough.

[Jasmine · Rating 3 out of 5]

I liked The Vegetarian when I read it years ago, so when I saw Han Kang’s latest offering, I snatched it up. Unfortunately, Greek Lessons went mostly over my head. Even though it’s quite short, it’s one you may want to take your time with.

This story follows a young woman who signs up for Ancient Greek Language lessons after losing her voice. Meanwhile, her Greek Language instructor is losing his sight.

As the title suggests, this book examines language and the variety of ways people communicate. It is very introspective and philosophical-leaning.

The writing is stunning, as you’d expect from this author. Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Won translated it beautifully.

Even though the writing was exceptional, it felt detached. I don’t need to connect or relate to characters, but if I feel there is any distance or detachment in the writing style, then it’s hard for me to become invested in the story, which was the case here.

If you enjoy philosophy and languages, you may enjoy this novel. It’s been years since I’ve studied Greek, so bumbling my way through the few bits in this book was fun.

Thank you to Random House for providing an arc via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

https://booksandwheels.com

[Orsodimondo · Rating 3 out of 5]

LA BIBLIOTECA DI BABELE


Come quella sulla copertina, qui e a seguire sono tutte immagini di opere di Ji Seok Cheol.

Lei non parla più, ha smesso di farlo: succede che venga scambiata per sordomuta, ma non parlare è in qualche modo una sua scelta. Anche se è avvenuto dopo un trauma. Come quando aveva sei anni: allora la morte violenta del suo cane, questa volta la morte della madre seguita dalla perdita dell’affidamento di suo figlio nella causa di divorzio.
Il linguaggio che l’aveva imprigionata e torturata come un vestito intessuto di migliaia di spilli era sparito… Il suo corpo era assediato dentro e fuori da un silenzio che risucchiava lo scorrere del tempo, un silenzio ovattato come prima di imparare a parlare – anzi, come prima di venire al mondo.
Ha deciso di studiare il greco antico perché ha “regole astruse”, oppure perché affascinata da quell’alfabeto dai tratti così belli, artistici, che in qualche modo ricorda il suo, quello coreano. Spera di ritrovare la parola con lo studio di una lingua morta?
A raccontarla è un classico narratore (narratrice?) in terza persona.



Lui sta progressivamente perdendo la vista, già adesso vede tutto sfocato, è destinato a diventare cieco. Stessa sorte del padre, morto da tempo, anima fredda.
Insegna greco antico. È coreano e vive a Seoul, ma è cresciuto in Germania, dove era emigrato da bambino e dove è rimasta la sua famiglia, mamma e sorella minore.
Conosce lei al corso di greco antico, dove lui insegna e lei impara.
Si racconta da solo, io-narrante, con l’espediente di scrivere lettere alla sorella. Lettere che mi pare di capire gli tornano indietro.



Tra citazioni di Borges e Platone, riferimenti alla filosofia occidentale e più o meno dichiarati influssi buddhisti, si susseguono pagine vaghe, sfuggenti, in cui emerge una prosa elegante e ancor più una valanga di immagini poetiche come se Han Kang, incapace d’esprimere in altro modo le mancanze, i vuoti dei due personaggi, avesse scelto una prosa lirica.



Sono due solitudini. Sono per caso destinate a incontrarsi davvero? Lei traccia col dito sulla mano di lui le parole che non dice, lui le riconosce al tatto, non ha bisogno di leggerle, operazione che per lui sarebbe complicata. Riusciranno ad avvicinarsi più di così? A conoscersi?



Ci sono volte in cui i personaggi faticano a sollevarsi dalla pagina, a uscire dalle righe, a prendere forma e volume, tridimensionalità. A risultare credibili. Mi è successo qui: ho avvertito questi due personaggi rinchiusi nelle parole scritte, molto letterari, impossibilitati ad assumere un corpo, un’entità fisica. Un po’ come quando qualcuno ci racconta un sogno, difficile riuscire a entrarci, a farselo proprio, a indossarlo.



PS
Sulla traduzione: il primo libro di Han Kang pubblicato in italiano è stato La vegetariana che era tradotto dalla traduzione inglese, non dall’originale coreano. Traduzione inglese che sembra venisse giudicata dalla stessa Han Kang migliore dell’originale (!?!): poi, invece, ho capito che la traduzione in inglese è stata aspramente criticata in Corea del Sud, sia per una serie di veri e propri errori, sia per una generale tendenza a non rispettare la prosa di Kang, perlopiù alterandone il registro. La traduttrice inglese, Deborah Smith, ha finito con l’ammettere alcune sviste, sommate a una versione “informata dalla sua prospettiva personale” sul romanzo di Kang.
E quindi, noi in Italia che abbiamo letto?
Recensendo il libro su Alias, Remo Cesarani sottolineava come la versione italiana risultasse tuttavia più accurata di quella inglese, l’unica su cui era stata condotta la traduzione (magia?).
E quindi, trovare Han Kang piuttosto diversa in questa seconda lettura, dipende dal fatto che questa volta la traduzione è stata fatta sull’originale coreano?

[Roman Clodia · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 stars

She no longer thought in language. She moved without language and understood without language - as it had been before she learned to speak, no, before she had obtained life

This is a beautifully tender piece of writing but it doesn't have the glorious strangeness, richness and intensity of Kang's The Vegetarian.

Shuttling between two protagonists, a woman who is no longer speaking and the 1st person narrative from her Greek teacher who is losing his sight, this thinks about issues of intimacy and connection, about the roles of language and the senses in forging relationships between people.

The thematics reminded me a little of Katie Kitamura's Intimacies though the question of linguistics was more centred there - but there is an interest in communication and misunderstandings in both books.

Kang's prose in this (translated, of course) feels more placid than I expected and while she trades in some lovely imagery, there is a slight feel of a lack of personality, possibly due to the style of modern international translation which has a kind of 'voice' of its own.

It's a quick read, an intelligent and, at times, moving one but quite abstract and bloodless - it didn't wow me or trouble me the way The Vegetarian did.

Thanks to Penguin for an ARC via NetGalley.

[Elyse Walters · Rating 5 out of 5]

I actually finish this book about a week ago. I’ve notes, but
I’m not sure I fully comprehend everything — so I’m going to do some re- reading before I write a review…..
but there were times I thought her writing reminded me of e. e. Cummings (as in beautiful)….

Review in a day or two. —
FACT IS—
…if you happen to have a thing for Kang’s books —- then pick this one up as well.
It’s not as heavy as “The Vegetarian”…..but it’s not a light walk in the park either.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️……UPDATE REVIEW BELOW

This is the fourth book I’ve read by Han Kang….
I admire Kang’s writing, and the depth of her powerful thought processes.
The three other books, “The Vegetarian”, “The Human Acts”, and “The White Book”, were each five stars from me — and each for different reasons….

I’ve been thinking about this book for a couple of weeks — I re-read parts a second time. I can’t remember ever waiting this long to write a review though — ‘after’ having read the book…..
but for me — this book was the hardest for me to fully comprehend……
and…..
I’ve been struggling with medical and physical issues — so I couldn’t be sure if my own ‘warped’ thoughts were coming from my reading or my own meshugana thoughts.

But here goes my ‘take-away’ thoughts, feelings, and experience….[may be different for everyone]….
I reflected inward….(if I clearly missed the boat in comprehending this novel - I apologize to Han Kang)….
So….
Here goes ….(embarrassing as can be)…..
First….
I thought deeply about the title ….(perhaps symbolically—there are several meanings?)….well, my search for meaning threw me…
When I looked up the word Greek, I got:
…..”Greek is a term used by prostitutes to describe anal sex. Often examples contain alternate symbols for letters.
Okay, I thought - well the ‘symbols’ explain the letters (which readers will discover themselves in this novel) ….. but not so much ‘the anal sex’….. (fine, I can easy let that go)…..
But Kang used ‘her stories in ‘Greek Lessons’ to help us understand communicating with words.
The term “It all sounds Greek to me”, is fitting…..
but symbolically ‘GREEK LESSONS’ with the use of symbols, words, images, and mental representations of objects, stories, and events allows for mental/intellectual meditative understanding….
For example….the female protagonist is dealing/ struggling/ suffering with sensory loss. It seems as if her brain is adapting — but clearly there is loss.
I was thinking about how crazy complicated it is for people to fully understand each other - with language- with our voices -
But with non-commutation …. one is left to rely on facial expression, tone of the voice, touch, lip reading, and sign language ….
Our male protagonist, a Greek instructor, was dealing with vision loss…..age-related macular degeneration.

Don’t laugh (or do - what do I care)….I was wondering if I could join the characters—bond with them over bodily loss - and deeper emotional pain….
I have my voice and eyesight - but with a degenerative spine condition—I’m experiencing loss of normal structure and function….limitations….and chronic pain…..
What I found beautiful about “Greek Lesson”…..besides the prose being super-stupendously spectacular. …..
was that as long as we ‘are’ breathing - alive as we know it — we are blessed to find even one person - whom we can share our pain with - our darkness with ….our alternatives to what others presumed normal….and share a closeness connection deeply satisfying….quieting….calm….and serene …..
……unlocking the true value of another ….of a friendship….harmony and intimacy.

On my first reading I gave it 4 stars but the more time I spent re-reading parts — I’m clearly began to ‘feel’ the unique brilliance…I raise my rating to 5 stars.
(still had a little e.e. Cummings experience-déjà vu-re-reading ‘Greek Lessons’ a second time)

I’ll leave some excerpts…. (but remember- without reading the entire book - they are just tasters)….
‘Greek Lessons’ is a must ….if already a Han Kang fans.

“The only person who knew that her life with split violently in two was she herself”.

“It first happened in the winter when she just turned sixteen. The language that had pricked and confined her like clothing made from a thousand needles abruptly disappeared. Words still reached her ears, but now a thick, dense layer of air buffered the space between her cochleas and brain. Wrapped in thot foggy silence, the memories of the tongue and lips that have been used to pronounce, of the hand that had firmly gripped the pencil, grew remote. She no longer thought and language. She moved without language, and understood without language—as it had been before, she learned to speak, no, before she had obtained life, silence, absorbing the flow of time like balls of cotton, enveloped her body, both outside and in”.

“Why are you studying Greek?”
“Off her guard, she looks down at her left wrist. Beneath the dark purple hair band, which is damp with sweat, the old scar is also clammy. She will not remember. And, if she must remember, if it is absolutely unavoidable, she will not feel anything”.

“She knows that no single specific experience led to her loss of language”.

“Fatigue is like a heady intoxication, dulling her thoughts”.

Thank you Random House Publishing and Netgalley

[Maziyar Yf · Rating 4 out of 5]

درس‌های یونانی کتابی از هان کانگ، نویسندهٔ سرشناس کره‌ای است. این رمان که به تازگی به فارسی ترجمه شده ، داستانی ظریف وشاعرانه دربارهٔ فقدان، ارتباطات انسانی، و جستجوی معنا در دل رنج را روایت می‌کند. هان کانگ در این اثر، به زندگی دو شخصیت پرداخته که هر کدام به نوعی با از دست دادن‌های بزرگ و فقدان رو به رو هستند : یک معلم زبان یونانی که به تدریج بینایی‌اش را از دست می‌دهد و مادری که صدایش را از دست داده و با خاطره‌ای تلخ از فقدان فرزندش ، با فریادی بی صدا و گریه ای خاموش زندگی می‌کند .

خط داستانی کتاب :
درس‌های یونانی ، حکایت زنی است که صدایش را از دست داده و استادی که به‌تدریج چشمانش کم سو می‌شود. آشنایی اتفاقی این دو در کلاس زبان یونانی سئول، در حالی که هر کدام با دنیای خاموش و تاریک خود رو به رو هستند و تلاش برای ایجاد رابطه ، موضوع اصلی کتاب است . این کتاب، روایتگر تاملات درونی آنها در دل سکوت و تاریکی و مواجهه با آینده ای ساکت ، تاریک و رو به زوال و سرشار از تنهایی است. در این میان ، زبان تمدن و فلسفهٔ باستانی غرب ، زبان عجیب یونانی ، نقشی فراتر از یک وسیلهٔ ارتباطی پیدا کرده و به ابزاری برای یافتن هویت و امید بدل می‌شود.

داستانی کم رنگ ، توصیفاتی قوی :
در درس‌های یونانی آن‌چه در اولویت قرار دارد، فضاسازی، کندوکاو درونی شخصیت‌ها، و بیان حالات و احساسات آن‌ها است، نه یک خط داستانی پرفراز و نشیب و سرشار از اتفاقات بیرونی.
در واقع، داستان در این کتاب بسیار مینیمال و کم‌رنگ و تمرکز اصلی خانم کانگ بر وضعیت روحی و تجربه‌های حسی دو شخصیت اصلی است . آنچه در طول رمان خواننده مشاهده می کند ، بیشتر تصویری از درون این دو شخصیت ، احساسات آن‌ها در مواجهه با فقدان، ترس، انزوا، تلاش برای پذیرش و سازگاری ، تغییر در درک آن‌ها از جهان ، رابطهٔ میان آن‌ها در کلاس زبان یونانی است .
درپایان، اگر خواننده‌ای به دنبال یک داستان با گره‌های داستانی پیچیده و اتفاقات متعدد باشد، ممکن است درس‌های یونانی چندان برایش جالب نباشد. جذابیت این رمان بیشتر در لحن شاعرانه، فضاسازی‌های دقیق، و روانشناختی شخصیت‌های آن در مواجهه با فقدان است. هان کانگ از طریق توصیفات حسی و درونیات شخصیت‌ها، تجربه‌ای متفاوت از خواندن را نشان می دهد که بیشتر بر احساس و تأمل تکیه دارد تا بر پیشبرد یک داستان پرحادثه.

[Alberto Villarreal · Rating 4 out of 5]

Este es el cuarto libro que leo de Han Kang y con esto termino todos los que han traducido al español.

Una prosa poética que se siente a pesar de no haberla leído en el coreano original. La historia de los personas marcadas por la pérdida y por el lenguaje.

Mircea Cărtărescu (rumano) es uno de mis escritores favoritos y en algunos de sus libros menciona a Borges (argentino), también en La clase de griego (corea) se le menciona. Yo solo he leído sus poemas, pero quizá este es el momento para seguir con su narrativa.

[Oleh Bilinkevych · Rating 5 out of 5]

Розтягував задоволення наскільки міг. Однозначно, один із найкращих текстів, які доводилось читати цьогоріч.

[Violeta · Rating 3 out of 5]

Had it not been for its title and beautiful cover, I wouldn’t have bought this book on impulse a year ago. Had it not been for the Nobel prize its author won this year, I would not have sought it out among the half-forgotten-books-bought-on-impulse cramming my shelves.

The paths of two lonely souls cross in a class of Ancient Greek lessons. The student is a woman who has lost her ability to speak as a reaction to an unspecified trauma, and the teacher is a man on the edge of losing his sight. The blurb describes this as a love letter to intimacy and connection, but I found it to be more of a self-indulgent ode to alienation and depression.

“The Vegetarian”, that other famous novel of Han Kang, never really tempted me into reading it despite its popularity, and after struggling through the hundred or so pages of this one (mercifully, a short struggle), I regretted not having trusted my instinct.

In her short bio, it’s stated that Han Kang made her literary debut as a poet; poetry does indeed permeate her prose, which contained too many metaphors and abstraction for my taste. The book’s premise (which, imo, was what happens when language fails to serve as a means of communication and as a tool for perception) was lost in a maze of half-baked philosophical theories that contributed to the overall doom and gloom more than they served the story or explored the questions they posed.

That is not to say that this is not a well-crafted book; it only says that I’m not the right audience for its craftsmanship. I guess that, same as the Swedish Academy, there are readers who will be inclined to find more meaning in its vagueness. No prize, however prestigious, persuades me to make the effort.

(**1/2)

[Repellent Boy · Rating 5 out of 5]

Contada a diferentes voces, “La clase de griego” sigue la vida de dos personas con un punto de unión. Una mujer a la que le han quitado la custodia de su hijo, acaba de perder la facultad de hablar, por lo que se apunta a una clase para aprender griego antiguo con la esperanza de que la estimulación ante un nuevo idioma le haga recuperar el habla. Su profesor, un hombre que acaba de volver a Seúl después de haber pasado media vida en Alemania, vive con la agonía de saber que cada vez está más cerca de quedarse completamente ciego, solo es cuestión de tiempo. Ambos sienten una gran dificultad para comunicarse con los demás, y la soledad inunda sus vida. ¿Sería posible que al conocerse puedan encontrar una forma de comunicarse y encontrar cobijo el uno en el otro?

A estas alturas, debo admitir que no sé si soy objetivo con Han Kang, ya que es mi autora favorita, o es que realmente todo lo que escribe me parece espectacular porque lo es y punto. Prefiero decantarme por lo último, la verdad. Los cuatro libros que tenemos de ella traducidos al español han conseguido sumergirme en emociones y sensaciones muy profundas, hasta el punto que transforman mis emociones durante la lectura, me afectan. Siempre que leo algo de esta escritora digo lo mismo, pero es que se cumple con cada nuevo trocito de su obra que descubro, y es que lo hago en un estado de agitación, casi de nerviosismo, con el pecho encogido.

Es una maestra a la hora de hablar de emociones, de poner en palabras lo que sienten sus personajes y que el lector no solo entienda el sentimiento del que habla, sino que consiga sentirlo. A lo largo de su obra tengo la sensación de que uno de los grandes temas que la autora trata en ella es la falta o imposibilidad de comunicarse, ya sea por falta de entendimiento con los demás, por no tener permitido expresarse o por sentirse, de alguna manera, limitado para hacerlo. Sin embargo, pese a que sus historias siempre se me antojan tremendamente tristes y dolorosas, sí que consiguen transmitirme esa sensación de lo sanador que es poder comunicarnos, poder compartir con otros nuestros sentimientos, las cosas que nos hace vulnerables, creando esos vínculos que nos hacen sentir más comprendidos, menos solos.

La soledad es un tema igualmente importante en la obra de la autora, esa falta de comunicación, lleva a sus protagonistas a sentirse solos, apartados e incomprendidos. La carga que llevan a sus espaldas nunca es compartida y esto profundiza sus heridas. Creo que en este sentido “La clase de griego” trata de darle un giro a eso, mostrándonos a dos personas que se sienten limitadas y viven con el terror de que esta sensación vaya a más, hasta que sea irrevocable y no tengan a nadie en quien confiar. No obstante, aun con la tristeza y el desasosiego que siempre me provocan sus historias, esta última me ha dejado cierto regusto bonito, tierno incluso. Esa idea de ayudarnos los unos a los otros, ya que, al final, todos buscamos ese afecto, esa compañía y esa compresión que nos haga más fácil la vida.

Creo que para leer a Han Kang es importante que los lectores no se acerquen esperando encontrar un determinado fin. A veces hay obras que están escritas para que tengan un fin concreto, pero en el caso de Han Kang, lo importante es el viaje, lo que te hace sentir durante la lectura. Si consigues enganchar con ella, sumergirte en las emociones que presenta, os aseguro que es una experiencia imperdible. Eso sí, Han Kang, no es una autora sencilla, hay que estar con los cinco sentidos, atento a cada mensaje que te intenta trasmitir, a través de sus constantes metáforas y con una escritura tan increíble que deja huella. Mención aparte merece su increíble traductora, Sunme Yeon.

En definitiva, con cada obra de la autora reafirmo mi amor por ella, y me convenzo más de que, sin lugar a dudas, es mi autora favorita. No creo que sea una autora para todo el mundo, es peculiar y es diferente, pero, amigas y amigos, ojalá tengáis el placer de engancharos a ella como lo hice yo, porque es una absoluta gozada.

[Paul Fulcher · Rating 4 out of 5]

Shortlisted for the 2024 Warwick Prize for Women In Translation

From the deserving winner of the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature for her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life

She leans forwards.
Tightens her grip on the pencil.
Lowers her head further
The words evade her grasp
Words that have lost lips,
words that have lost throat and breath remain out of reach. Like unbodied apparations, their forms evade touch.



A person lies prone in the snow.
Snow in their throat.
Earth in their eyes.
Seeing nothing.

A person stands next to them.
Hearing nothing.

한 사람이 눈 속에 엎드려 있다.
목구멍에 눈雪.
눈두덩에는 흙.
아무것도 보이지 않는다.

한 사람이 그 앞에 멈춰 서 있다.
아무것도 들리지 않는다.

Greek Lessons is Emily Yae Won and Deborah Smith's translation of 한강 (Han Kang)'s novel 희랍어 시간 (2011) and the fourth of her novels to be published in English (each translated by Smith) after:

채식주의자 (2007) translated at The Vegetarian
소년이 온다 (2014) translated as Human Acts (the literal translation is 'A Boy is Coming')
흰 (2016) translated as The White Book



Greek Lessons is a moving story told in finely-crafted, crystalline prose, infused with a blue light inspired by the Chagallian windows in Stephan zu Mainz. I initially found the novel hard to connect with, rather like the Ancient Greek, a language as cold and hard as a pillar of ice, around which the novel is centred, but it opened up on an immediate re-read. At first, with it's German-Korean setting and relative opacity, I almost felt I was reading 배수아, but it is ultimately unmistakably 한강, infused with compassion and beauty, a book the author described as 'the sunniest of which I am capable'.

Overall, impressive and although not my favourite by the author, still a strong contender for the International Booker.

Some favourite passages:

Stephan zu Mainz



A place where the seemingly ice-steeped sunlight streams in through stained-glass windows in various gradations of blue. A place where Christ hangs on the cross without the slightest trace of suffering, his eyes lifted ingenuously towards heaven, and the angels step lightly through the air as though out for a casual stroll. Palm trees with dark and still darker green leaves sweetly unfurled. Bright-faced saints with pale blue-grey hair draped in paler blue-grey vestments. A space without a hint of sin or suffering, and which for that reason I’d felt was almost pagan: the church of St Stephan.

얼음에 담근과 같은 햇빛이 황변의 스테인드글라스들이 나타나서 내려오는 곳. 계략은 극심한 고통에 매달리고 천진하게 하늘을 올려다보고, 천사들이 방해하는 중단나온에서 조금 더 빨리 걸이로 허공을 거니는 곳입니다. 진한푸른색과 더 진한푸른색 잎사귀들이 착하게 밀착을 건너친 종려나무들. 퇴색은 회청색 머리칼에 더 퇴색은 회청색 수도복을 써서 환한 얼굴의 성자들입니다. 전장 눈을 돌려도 고통과 고통의 윤활이 없는, 그 때문에 거의 이교적이라고 했을 때 성 슈테판 성당

On the female character learning 한글 as a child:

When it came to language, that label might have been true. By the age of four, and without being taught, she had a good grasp of Hangul. Knowing nothing of consonants and vowels, she ’d memorized syllable combinations as entire units. The year she turned six, her elder brother gave her an explanation of Hangul’s structure, parroting what his teacher had said. As she listened, everything had seemed vague, yet she ended up spending that entire afternoon in early spring squatting in the yard, preoccupied by thoughts of consonants and vowels. That was when she discovered the subtle difference between theㄴ sound as pronounced in the word 나, na, and when pronounced in 니, nih; after that, she realised ㅅ sounded different in 사, sah, than it did in 시, shi. Making a mental run-through of all the possible diphthong combinations, she found that the only one that didn’t exist in her language wasㅣ, ih, combined withㅡ, eu, and in that order, which was why there was no way of writing it.

언어에 관한 한 그 말은 사실이었는지도 몰랐다. 그녀는 네 살에 스스로 한글을 깨쳤다. 아직 자모음에 대한 인식 없이 모든 글자들을 통문자로 외운 것이었다. 학교에 들어간 오빠가 담임선생을 흉내내어 한글의 구조를 설명해준 것은 그녀가 여섯 살이 되던 해였다. 설명을 들은 순간엔 그저 막연한 느낌뿐이었는데, 그 이른 봄의 오후 내내 그녀는 자음과 모음에 대한 생각을 떨치지 못하고 마당에 쪼그려앉아 있었다. 그러다 ‘나’를 발음할 때의 ㄴ과 ‘니’를 발음할 때의 ㄴ이 미묘하게 다른 소리를 낸다는 것을 발견했고, 뒤이어 ‘사’와 ‘시’의 ㅅ 역시 서로 다른 소리라는 것을 깨달았다. 조합할 수 있는 모든 이중모음을 머릿속에서 만들어보다가, ㅣ와 ㅡ의 순으로 결합된 이중모음만은 모국어에 존재하지 않으며, 따라서 그것을 적을 방법도 없다는 것을 알았다.

After starting primary school, she began jotting down vocabulary in the back of her diary. With neither purpose nor context, merely a list of words that had made a deep impression on her; among them, the one she valued the most was숲. On the page, this single-syllable word resembled an old pagoda:ㅍ, the foundation,ㅜ, the main body,ㅅ, the upper section. She liked the feeling when she pronounced it:ㅅ – ㅜ – ㅍ, s–oo–p, the sensation of first pursing her lips, and then slowly, carefully releasing the air. And then of the lips closing. A word completed through silence. Entranced by this word in which pronunciation, meaning and form were all wrapped around in stillness, she wrote:숲.숲. Woods.

그후 초등학교에 다니면서부터 그녀는 일기장 뒤쪽에 단어들을 적기 시작했다. 목적도, 맥락도 없이 그저 인상 깊다고 느낀 낱말들이었는데, 그중 그녀가 가장 아꼈던 것은 ‘숲’이었다. 옛날의 탑을 닮은 조형적인 글자였다. ㅍ은 기단, ㅜ는 탑신, ㅅ은 탑의 상단. ㅅ-ㅜ-ㅍ이라고 발음할 때 먼저 입술이 오므라들고, 그 다음으로 바람이 천천히, 조심스럽게 새어나오는 느낌을 그녀는 좋아했다. 그리고는 닫히는 입술. 침묵으로 완성되는 말. 발음과 뜻, 형상이 모두 정적에 둘러싸인 그 단어에 이끌려 그녀는 썼다. 숲. 숲.

On the middle voice in Greek which was the inspiration for the novel:

διεφθάρθαι
Musing over the letters on the blackboard, she picks up her pencil and writes the word in her notebook. She hasn’t come across a language with such intricate rules before. The verbs change their form according to, variously: the subject’s case, gender and number; the tense, of which there are various grades; and the voice, of which there are three distinct types. But it is thanks to these unusually elaborate and meticulous rules that the individual sentences are, in fact, simple and clear. There is no need to specify the subject, or even to keep to a strict word order. This one word – modified to denote that the subject is a singular, third-person male; the tense perfect, meaning it describes something that occurred at some point in the past; and the voice middle – has compressed within it the meaning ‘He had at one time tried to kill himself.’
...
She bites down on that sensation, the mere memory of which is chilling, and writes: διεφθάρθαι.
A language as cold and hard as a pillar of ice. A language that does not wait to be combined with any other prior to use, a supremely self-sufficient language. A language that can part the lips only after irrevocably determining causality and attitude.

흑판에 적힌 문자들을 곰곰이 올려다보다가 그녀는 연필을 쥔다. 공책에 그 단어를 옮겨적는다.
이렇게 규칙이 까다로운 언어를 그녀는 접해보지 못했다. 동사들은 주어의 격과 성과 수에 따라, 여러 단계를 가진 시제에 따라, 세 가지 태에 따라 일일이 형태를 바꾼다. 놀랍도록 정교하고 면밀한 규칙 덕분에 오히려 문장들은 간명하다. 주어를 굳이 쓸 필요도 없다. 어순을 지킬 필요조차 없다. 삼인칭의 한 남자가 주체이며, 언젠가 한번 일어난 일임을 나타내는 완료시제를 쓴, 중간태에 따라 변화된 이 한 단어에 ‘그는 언젠가 자신을 죽이려 한 적이 있다’는 의미가 압축돼 있다.

기억만으로 선득한 그 감각을 잇사이로 누르며 그녀는 쓴다.
διεφθάρθαι
얼음 기둥처럼 차갑고 단단한 언어.
다른 어떤 단어와도 결합되어 구사되기를 기다리지 않는, 극도로 자족적인 언어.
돌이킬 수 없이 인과와 태도를 결정한 뒤에야 마침내 입술을 뗄 수 있는 언어.

A street scene in Seoul, embellished with the visually impaired male main character's imagination:

People from all walks of life pass through this alley, in a shopping district on the outskirts of Seoul. A teenage girl wearing earphones, her school skirt clumsily hitched up. A middle-aged man with a shabby tracksuit and a paunch. A woman talking on her mobile whose stunning dress makes her look as though she ’d just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. An elderly woman, with her white hair cropped short and a sparklingly embellished sweater, lighting her cigarette with a leisurely gesture. Someone somewhere is swearing viciously, and the smell of gukbap wafts from a restaurant. A kid on a bike whooshes past me, ringing the bell as loudly as he can.

Even wearing glasses with the highest power I could get, I still can’t make out the details of any of these things. Individual shapes and gestures blur together, and any clarity is brought about only through the strength of my imagination. The schoolgirl will be mouthing the words to the song she ’s listening to, and her lower lip will have a small, bluish mark on the left, just as yours did. The middle-aged man’s tracksuit sleeves will be grubby and worn to a shine, and the laces on his trainers, which would originally have been white, would have turned a dark grey from months of not being washed. Beads of sweat will be trickling down the temples of the boy on the bike. The old woman looks like quite a tough proposition; her cigarette will be some slender, dainty brand, and the twinkling shards of mother-of-pearl encrusted on her sweater will form the shape of a rose or hydrangea.

서울 변두리의 이 상가 골목에는 다양한 부류의 사람들이 오갑니다. 교복 치마를 어설프게 줄여 입고 이어폰을 낀 여학생. 후줄근한 트레이닝복 차림에 아랫배가 나온 중년 남자. 패션잡지에서 방금 걸어나온 듯 근사한 원피스를 입고 누군가와 통화를 하며 걷는 여자. 새하얗게 센 쇼트커트 머리에 반짝이 장식이 가득 달린 스웨터를 빛내며 느린 동작으로 담뱃불을 붙이는 노파. 어디선가 욕지거리가 들리고 식당에서는 국밥 냄새가 번져옵니다. 자전거를 탄 소년이 일부러 크게 벨을 울리며 내 앞을 미끄러져 지나갑니다.

최대한 도수를 높인 안경을 끼었지만, 이 모든 것들의 세부를 이제 나는 보지 못합니다. 형상과 동작들은 덩어리로 뭉개어져 있고, 디테일은 오직 상상의 힘으로만 선명합니다. 여학생의 입술은 음악에 맞추어 달싹거리고, 아랫입술 왼쪽에 당신이 가진 것처럼 파르스름하고 작은 점이 있을 것입니다. 중년 남자의 트레이닝복 소매는 때에 절어 반들반들하고, 원래 희었던 운동화 끈은 몇 달을 빨지 않아 진한 회색이 되었을 것입니다. 자전거를 탄 소년의 관자놀이에는 땀방울이 흘러내리고 있을 것입니다. 녹록지 않은 관록이 느껴지는 노파의 담배는 가느다랗고 섬세한 종류의 것이고, 스웨터 가득 박힌 자개 반짝이들은 장미나 수국 문양일 것입니다.

[Darren · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is my third Han Kang novel and the first I haven't rated 5 stars.

I find her writing so beautiful. It's almost dreamlike and lyrical and flows perfectly. Unfortunately, I didn't find the story that interesting to the point where I really struggled for the first half of the novel. By the time I became fully invested in the story it was pretty much finished.

It also has some of the most beautiful prose I think I've ever read. Looking forward to book number 4

[Angie Kim · Rating 5 out of 5]

Reading a Han Kang book is a singular pleasure like no other. It's been a week since I finished GREEK LESSONS, and I can't stop thinking about it (and I don't want to). It's about two people who have lost their loved ones and are slowly being cut off from the world--a woman who has lost her voice and a man who can't see. Han Kang is a poet and a philosopher, and that shows in the beautiful precision of her prose and her thought-provoking exploration of the paradoxes of language, the senses, and human connection and intimacy. I really loved it.

[Marion · Rating 5 out of 5]

Eine Frau, die ihre Stimme verlor und ein Mann der sein Augenlicht verliert.
Zwei in sich gekehrte Außenseiter, die jeweils einen schmerzhaften Verlust erlitten und sich, durch diese traumatische Ereignisse, zueinander hingezogen fühlen.
Für beide entsteht ein tiefes Gefühl der Einheit, welches sich schon fast meditativ ausdrückt.
Die Sprache im Vordergrund fühlt man jedoch auch sehr stark Stille und Atmosphäre sowie die emotionale Spannung dieser Beziehung. Durch die Reduktion auf das Wesentliche wird hier eine besondere Tiefe geschaffen.

Es geht um Liebe, Verlust, Tod und um die heilende Kraft der Sprache.

Eine Mischung von Realen und Surrealen, was ich schon bei der "Vegetarierin" so sehr mochte und generell vielen asiatischen Autoren und Autorinnen eigen ist.

Leise, zart und kraftvoll, eine Liebeserklärung an die Sprache !

Ein besonderes Buch von einer ganz außergewöhnlichen Autorin, die einem Literatur-Nobelpreis auf jedem Fall gerecht wird.
Dieses Buch werde ich nochmal lesen müssen um es in seiner Gänze aufzunehmen.
Eine 100%ige Leseempfehlung!

[luce (cry bebè's back from hiatus) · Rating 3 out of 5]

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3 ½ stars

“The lit fuse of the chilly explosive primed in her heart is no more. The interior of her mouth is as empty as the veins through which the blood no longer flows, it is as empty as a lift shaft where the lift has ceased to operate.”

In a clinically detached prose Han Kang examines in exacting detail the experiences of two individuals whose ability to perceive the world and be able to express themselves, to interact with others, are impaired. Preoccupied with the notion and the reality of communication, perception, language, and sight these characters feel increasingly alienated from their everyday reality, unsure of themselves, their senses, and their bodies, and attempting to find a new way to occupy space, of navigating their world, by, in the case of the woman, distancing herself from that which was familiar, and, in the case of the man, retreating inward to recollect the past and to understand the origins and effects of his linguistic and cultural disconnect.
Unsparing and analytical, Greek Lessons is permeated by ambivalence. This atmosphere of unease and the characters’ aloofness succeed in making us feel a sense of estrangement from the text, which is compounded by the prose’s impersonal way of addressing the characters and how events that should carry some emotional impact are delivered and/or recounted in a distinctly dispassionate way. Kang places her characters under a microscope, zeroing in on momentary discomforts and sensations, be it a character’s dry lips or quivering eyelids. These close-ups are often uncomfortable, but they do succeed in conveying with precision the characters’ experiences. These coldly anatomical descriptions interrupt the characters’ introspections, which often amount to a lot of navel-gazing. Their preoccupation with the function and reality of a language, of linguistic barriers, of bilingualism, of ‘dead’ languages, of the way language and communication are necessary to navigate many spaces, and without it, one can find themselves on the margins, a passive spectator. The woman’s difficulties in conveying and articulating her thoughts and feelings definitely resonated with me. She is unwilling or avoids explaining her ‘loss’ of language, and there was something like resilience in her silence, in her choice to remain opaque. I was reminded of a Georgian film I watched a while back, My Happy Family, which revolves around a middle-aged woman who decides to leave her husband and family to live by herself and throughout the film refuses to explain her choice or back down from it. Here of course the circumstances of the woman are quite different, soon after the death of her mother the woman loses a drawn-out custody battle over her eight-year-old son. Severed from her son, grieving the loss of her mother, the woman, a professor, falls once again victim to a ‘malady’ that results in a loss of speech.

“Before she lost words—when she was still able to use them to write—she sometimes wished that her own expressions would more closely resemble inarticulacy: a moan or low cry. The sound of suffering through bated breath. Snarling. Humming in one’s half-sleep to pacify a child. Stifled laughter. The sound of two people’s lips pressing together, pulling apart.”

Yet, her loss of language cannot be easily ascribed to these losses. Feeling disconnected from Korean, the woman attempts to approach the language anew. To do so, she distances herself from her mother tongue and chooses to study a dead language, ancient Greek. These classes are taught by a man who grew up between Korea and Germany, and because of this has long felt not only a linguistic divide but a self-divide, perpetually longing to belong, to feel at ease. For years he has been gradually losing his sight, and so he finds himself questioning how he can retain independence, observing the world around him with regret and yearning. He writes letters to his sister, recounting his childhood experiences, from the shock of moving from Korea to Germany to the pressure to ‘assimilate’, and he also reflects on past friendships and loves.

“Even the occasional memorable event is soon erased without a trace under time’s huge, opaque mass.”

By switching between these two individuals Kang draws a parallel between their experiences and realities, as they both find themselves having to reevaluate new ways of perceiving and communicating with the world around them. There is, towards the end, a moment of kinship between the two, that felt startlingly poignant.

“Sunspots explode, without a sound, in the distance. Hearts and lips touch across a fault line, at once joined and eternally sundered.”

The narrative expounds on these two individuals' theoretical and personal ruminations, mirroring and juxtaposing their experiences and perspectives. Their reflections on languages, spoken and unspoken ways of communication, expression and perception, memory, grief, and the body (the way they fail and change us), are rendered all the more lucid by the author’s unsparing style. Yet, despite how clinical and ascetic her style was, there are moments where Kang’s prose is elevated by an elegiac, lyrical even, use of language.

“If only she’d made a map of the route her tears used to take.”

Greek Lessons makes for a fascinating read. The two central characters remain slightly outside of our reach, despite the time we spend alongside them. The subject matter and language itself are the core of this novel, making it sure, intellectually and stylistically arresting but, except for a few moments, I felt not only at a remove but as if I was reading a textbook. I couldn't help but compare this unfavourably to two favorites of mine, Whereabouts and All the Lovers in the Night (both novels also explore loneliness in women who assume the role of observer). Nevertheless, I do admire what Kang achieves in Greek Lessons and I found the ending to be quite rewarding.

Some quotes:

My love for you wasn’t foolish, but I was; had my own innate foolishness made love itself foolish? Or is that I myself wasn’t at all that foolish, but love’s inherent foolishness awakened any foolishness latent in me and eventually smashed everything to pieces?

[T]here had once been a word that encapsulated both beauty and the sacred, without their having yet fallen away from each other, just as colour and clarity had formed one body within another word—the truth of this had never before been brought home to me with such vibrant intensity.

Whatever their motivation, those who study Greek share certain tendencies. They walk and talk slowly, for the most part, and don’t show much emotion (I guess this applies to me too). Perhaps because this language is a long-dead one and doesn’t allow for oral communication. Silence, shy hesitation and reactions of muted laughter slowly heat the air inside the classroom, and slowly cool it.

What a strange thing one's flesh and blood is.
How strange are the ways that it brings us sorrow.

Ink overlays ink, memory overlays memory, bloodstain overlays bloodstain. Serenity over serenity, smile over smile, bears down.


Do you ever wonder at the strangeness of it?
That our bodies have eyelids and lips,
That they can at times be made to close from the outside,
and at other times to lock fast from within.


She knows that no single specific experience led to her loss of language.
Language worn ragged over thousands of years, from wear and tear by countless tongues and pens. Language worn ragged over the course of her life, by her own tongue and pen. Each time she tried to begin a sentence, she could feel her aged heart. Her patched and repatched, dried-up, expressionless heart. The more keenly she felt it, the more fiercely she clasped the words.

[Ernst · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fluid, luzid, unfassbar zart. Nach Air (Kracht) und Schule der Nacht (Knausgard) mein drittes Romanhighlight 2025.
In wunderschöner Sprache bewegt Han Kang ihre beiden versehrten Helden durch Szenen ihres Lebens und ihrer gegenseitigen Annäherung. Eingebettet in das Medium Kultur-Sprache-Philosophie ist dieser Roman einer der schönsten, die ich je über die Kontaktaufnahme zweier Menschen gelesen habe.

Für mich persönlich war das wie eine Rückkehr zum heimatlichen Hafen, nach meiner jüngsten Lesereise, die mit dem unsäglichen „Grandpappy“ begann, wo ich gefühlt mitten über eine stinkende Müllkippe gehen, in Dunkelheit durch einen bedrohlichen Sumpf mit lauter Giftschlangen robben musste, bis ich endlich mit George Saunders eine faszinierend exzentrische Achterbahnfahrt mitmachen durfte. Die wohltuende Stille und Unaufgeregtheit, die Han Kang in diesem Roman entwickelt, ist für mich eine einzige Wohltat.

Han Kang schafft es außerdem, echtes Murakami-Feeling bei mir zu entfachen. Ihre Protagonistin wirkt wie ein weibliches Pendant zu Murakamis Antihelden, allerdings ohne die explosiv sexuelle Aufladung. In Griechischstunden ist mir das zum ersten mal so richtig bewusst geworden, vielleicht trifft es auf die anderen Romane nicht so stark zu. Aber hier finde ich einige Ähnlichkeiten. Auch die Art wie das vermeintlich Unerklärliche erforscht und vorsichtig umkreist wird. Gedanken, die so schnell zerplatzen könnten wie Seifenblasen, versucht sie in der Schwebe zu halten. Und atmosphärisch liegt immer etwas in der Luft, etwas das noch nicht ausgesprochen ist, nicht benannt werden kann.

Sie beobachtet ihre Figuren und deren Interaktionen sehr präzise und es ist eine wahre Lesefreude sie dabei zu begleiten, wie sie den offenen Fragen und Mysterien des Lebens nachspüren. Han Kang versucht sich gar nicht erst den Anschein zu geben, dass sie irgendwelche Antworten parat hat, auch die Gedanken und Dialoge über philosophische, linguistische oder kulturelle Themen bleiben Suchbewegungen und haben nie etwas naseweises oder vermeintlich Allwissendes, an Stellen wo weniger dezente Autoren gerne mal mit angelesenem Wissen hausieren gehen (Beispiel: Köhlmeier in Matou oder Kehlmann in allen mir bekannten Romanen).

Klitzekleine Kritik: vereinzelt kommen überflüssige Bilder / Metaphern vor, aber da lese ich meist schnell drüber hinweg und sehe sie eher mit Verwunderung als mit Verärgerung. Zum Beispiel beschreibt sie, was eine Frau anhat: schwarze Hose, schwarzen Rollkragenpullover, schwarze Jacke, schwarzer Schal, sogar ihre Umhängetasche ist schwarz. Ich hab die Passage jetzt gekürzt, insgesamt verwendet sie dafür 3 Sätze mit 32 Worten, um dann noch hinzuzufügen, die Kleidung wirke „als käme die Frau gerade von einer Beerdigung.“ Sowas sollte eigentlich einem aufmerksamen Lektorat auffallen. Aber das sind zum Glück nur ganz wenige Stellen.

An vielen anderen Stellen verwendet sie sehr starke Bilder, die ich am liebsten nie vergessen möchte.
Beispiel: über ihren Heimweg entlang einer vielbefahrenen Autobahn schreibt sie: „… der schreckliche Lärm der Motoren, der ihr jedes Mal vorkommt, als kratzten Tausende von Schlittschuhkufen auf Eis…“
Und solche, die in all der Brutalität des Szenarios noch eine Art unendlicher, im wahrsten Sinn des Wortes „verbissener“ Liebe ausstrahlen (wer das Buch gelesen hat, wird die Szene mit dem Hund auf der Straße wahrscheinlich gut in Erinnerung haben).

Im Verlauf des Romans gibt es immer wieder lyrische Einschübe, und ich hatte ab der zweiten Hälfte zunehmend das Gefühl, dass bei ihr manchmal ganz simple Sätze eine ungewöhnliche poetische Kraft entfalten.

Fazit: für mich ist es das vollkommenste Buch der Autorin, das mir emotional noch näher gegangen ist als die Vegetarierin. Wahrscheinlich werde ich es irgendwann wiederlesen, weil ich überzeugt bin, dass ich vieles noch gar nicht gesehen, entdeckt oder entschlüsselt habe, oder auch weil es einfach ein wunderschönes Leseerlebnis ist.

Mein aktuelles Han Kang Ranking:

1. Griechischstunden (10/10)
2. Die Vegetarierin (9/10)
3. Unmöglicher Abschied (7/10)
4. Deine kalten Hände (5/10)
5. Menschenwerk (3/10)

(Weiß? noch nicht gelesen, aber vermutlich bald)

[leti lo yeti · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sarebbe così difficile descrivere questo libro. È onirico, delicato, ermetico, violento. Non penso di potergli fare giustizia con una recensione.

[Tina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Todo lo que hace Han Kang lo hace bien. La leo y todo se siente correcto, como volver a casa. Una carta de amor al lenguaje y la conexión humana genuina. Este libro me hizo querer aprender griego y leer a Platón y Sócrates, sólo ella puede lograr eso.

[Jimena · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un hombre a punto de perder la vista y una mujer que ha perdido la voz o la capacidad de comunicarse a través de ella.

Con una prosa poética, cargada de imágenes sensoriales e introspección, Han Kang se aventura en los insólitos y no suficientemente explorados caminos del lenguaje, la vinculación entre pensamiento y palabra y los más colectivos terrenos de la pérdida, el ansia por conexión humana y la fragilidad de la identidad.

Una novela breve pero contundente, intimista pero abrasadora. No leíste nada que se le asemeje.

[Marc Lamot · Rating 3 out of 5]

I guess I'm far from the only reader who kept asking the question along the way: what the hell am I reading here? Who's talking? What does all this mean? Kang certainly succeeds in intriguing us, and in making us think about language and existence, through a woman who has lost her ability to speak and a nearly blind teacher of ancient Greek.

A little past the halfway point, after a wonderful episode in which the "woman-who-no-longer-speaks" wanders through the Korean capital Seoul, late at night, the image of a kaleidoscope comes up—you know, one of those toys we all had as children that endlessly intrigued us with its constantly changing color planes. Well, this entire book, barely 140 pages, resembles such a kaleidoscope, with constantly shifting perspectives between the two main characters, in different time periods. There's also quite a bit of ancient Greek involved, and Plato's Theory of Forms/Ideas in particular, regularly features. Formally, there's also a lot of variation: letters, third-person and first-person passages, poetic evocations, and so on—it all adds up, requiring the reader to apply some perseverance, empathy, and a bit of puzzling.

Ultimately, you realize that language is Kang's central focus, and the ability or inability of people to capture their own existence in language, to empathize with others, and to communicate with each other. Kang reveals both the limitations and the strengths of "language-in-people," and ultimately suggests that this instrument does indeed allow us to transcend our own limitations. But let me warn you right away: the subtlety and sometimes opacity of this book is such that I absolutely dare not claim that this is the key to reading it. I suspect that at least a second reading is necessary, and that in itself speaks volumes about Kang's capabilities.

[Alexander Carmele · Rating 4 out of 5]

Durch einen Spiegel in einem dunklen Wort – die Stimme zurückfinden. (Literaturnobelpreis 2024)

Ausführlicher, vielleicht begründeter auf kommunikativeslesen.com

Inhalt: 4/5 Sterne (zarte Liebesgeschichte)
Form: 5/5 Sterne (melodiöses, lyrisches Herantasten)
Komposition: 3/5 Sterne (vorhersehbar, aber mit Liebe zum Detail)
Leseerlebnis: 4/5 Sterne (glänzendes Kleinformat)

Viele Romane streben heutzutage eine Literatur der kleinen Form an. Sie besteht in äußerst verdichteten Minimalszenerien, die sofort, ohne längeren Aufschub, auf die Erzählidee eingehen, den inneren Konflikt thematisieren und auf nur wenigen Seiten dann, oftmals sogar berechenbar, diesen auflösen. Im Zentrum dieser Art Literatur steht oftmals ein bereits auf viele Weise tradierter Stoff wie bei Alan Lightman in „Und immer wieder die Zeit“ Einsteins Relativitätstheorie, oder bei Cees Nootebooms "Rituale", die japanische Teezeremonie. Bei Han Kangs „Griechischstunden“ steht Platons Idee auf dem Programm, das Übersinnliche, Überzeitliche, das Nicht-Sichtbare:

Aber stimmt das überhaupt? Hat mich Platons Universum aus den Gründen fasziniert, die du angeführt hast [die drohende Blindheit] – und so, wie ich schon zuvor vom Buddhismus angezogen wurde, weil er sich mit einem einzigen Schnitt vom spürbaren Dasein loslöst? Weil es mir bestimmt war, den sichtbaren Teil der Welt zu verlieren?

In dem Roman „Griechischstunden“ finden eine Lehrerin, die ihre Stimme verloren hat, und ein Lehrer, der fast vollständig erblindet ist, zueinander. Mit verschiedenen Stilmittel inszeniert Kang dieses Kennenlernen zweier sehr zurückgezogener, sich versteckender, verängstigender Menschen. Die behutsame Art, wie sie zueinander finden, gibt dem Buch die innere, klare Linie, die es benötigt, um um diese eine Wolke assoziativen Dichtens und Schwebens, eine Atmosphäre des Sich-Verlierens in der Sprache zu inszenieren:

Herz an Herz gepresst, kennt er die Frau immer noch nicht. Er weiß nicht, dass sie als Kind in den dämmrigen Hof ihres Wohnhauses starrte und sich fragte, ob sie überhaupt das Recht hatte, auf dieser Welt zu sein. Er kennt den Panzer nicht, dessen Kettenglieder aus Wörtern ihren nackten Körper wie tausend Nadeln stechen. Er weiß nicht, dass sich ihre Augen in seinen spiegeln und umgekehrt … bis ins Unendliche. Er weiß nicht, dass sie ihre bläulich-violetten Lippen fest geschlossen hält, weil all dies ihr Angst macht.

„Griechischstunden“ spielt auf der Klaviatur des bewusst-eingegangenen Verzichts, um durch diesen, durch den Abstand, durch diese Klinge, die Träume von Realität, Worte von Bedeutung, Gefühle von Anschauungen trennt, das, was noch nicht ist, was nur sein könnte, eine besondere Bewandtnis zu verleihen. Wer jahrelang nicht spricht, dessen erstes Wort bedeutet etwas. Wer jahrelang flieht und fortrennt, bei dem bedeutet es etwas, wenn er stehenbleibt und sich zeigt.

Aber kannst du mir glauben, wenn ich dir sage, dass ich jeden Abend das Licht lösche, ohne zu verzweifeln? Weil ich die Lider vor Sonnenaufgang wieder öffnen werde. Weil ich die Vorhänge aufziehen und das Fenster aufreißen werde, um den verhangenen Himmel durch das Mückennetz hindurch zu sehen. Weil ich in meiner Phantasie, nur in einer dünnen Jacke, das Haus verlassen und Schritt um Schritt auf düsteren Gehsteigen entlangwandeln werde. Weil ich beobachte, wie das Gewebe der Dunkelheit allmählich ausfranst, die bläulichen Fäden sich auf meinen Körper und die Stadt legen.

In dichter Atmosphärik zieht Han Kang auf engsten Raum alle Register, die die Emotionen zweier Menschen bewegen, denen die Welt abhanden gekommen ist. Sie träumen von Platons Ideen als zeitenthobene Entitäten, weil sie noch nicht im Kreislauf des Lebens Eingang gefunden haben. Sie träumen und wandern durch die Stadt ihrer Kindheit auf der Suche nach sich selbst, und Han Kang stärkt ihnen mit ihren „Griechischstunden“ den Rücken. Ein hoffnungsvolles, weites, sich öffnendes Buch, das mich über weite Strecken an Cees Nooteboom erinnert hat, der eine ähnliche freundliche und poetische Sicht auf die Welt zu haben pflegt.

[Henk · Rating 3 out of 5]

A meditative novel on inability to speak and see, and the confines of language and belonging to a land and mother tongue
If that original silence had been similar to that which exists before birth, this new silence is more like that which follows death.

Maybe the least accessible by the 2024 Nobel laureate Han Kang, and given one of her books is about ghosts and massacre and the other has high levels of misogyny and unsettling scenes, that is saying something. Probably closest to The White Book, at times almost poetry like in how spare it is. Decidedly not an easy read for such a slim book but very cinematographic at the same time.
Sense of displacement and alienation from one’s own society and language, in Germany, pervades the book, while a woman loses her speech again during a class of ancient Greek.
If that original silence had been similar to that which exists before birth, this new silence is more like that which follows death.

The female main character lost the custody battle for her eight year old after a divorce, and her story is told in alternating chapters with the man losing sight. Her teacher is interested in Jorge Luis Borges while he is slowly losing his sight. He spend over 17 years in Germany, leading to meditations on the nature of mother language in a sense of being a stranger:
Now and then, words would thrust their way into her sleep like skewers, startling her awake several times a night.
Not being able to speak seems a constant in the works of Han Kang, and is in this work conveyed through a lot of metaphors. Inability to speak and to perceive the world in language, while Ran, sister to the teacher and opera singer, uses her voice for work.
Chapter 14, thinking of a dead friend and all the lost potentiality, is almost poetry like, as are the last two chapters.
Or chapter 16:
A person lies prone in the snow.
Snow in their throat.
Earth in their eyes.
Seeing nothing.

A person stands next to them.
Hearing nothing.
Somehow this book reminds me of the excellent movie Past Lives by Celine Song, in terms of melancholy vibes, and I think an arthouse movie would capture the visual descriptions of Han Kang well.

Quotes:
She knows that no single experience led to her loss of language.

He strains to distinguish between the lighter and darker darkness.

A silence like a snowdrift blanketing a blood-stained body. I was genuinely afraid that your silence would turn to actual death. Turn rigid, then glacial.

The first thing I perceive is time. I sense it as a slow, cruel current of enormous mass passing constantly through my body to gradually overcome me.

Sometimes she thinks of herself as more like some form of substance, a moving solid or liquid, than like a person.

What a strange thing one’s own flesh and blood is. How strange are the ways that it brings us sorrow.

Simply because that wondering was sensually beautiful and touched the electrode inside me that responds to beauty.

You said, Dreaming of another world than this is a sin.

Something broke inside us

[Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer · Rating 4 out of 5]

A subtle and delicate novel, as suggestive as elusive, about existential loneliness. Unspeakable emotions painted in watercolours.

[Iris ☾ (iriis.dreamer) · Rating 4 out of 5]

Conocí a Han Kang con la publicación de «La vegetariana» que por todo lo que conllevó su publicación y las diversas y tan enfrentadas opiniones que suscitó, estuvo sobre la palestra varios meses. Aunque todavía no he leído ese título ya que mi primer y hasta ahora único encuentro con su obra se presentó con «Actos humanos», que fue una lectura que me arrolló y se llevó parte de mí por la inusitada y reveladora capacidad de la autora de hablarnos sobre un acto atroz y sus inevitables consecuencias. Así he llegado a «La clase de griego», sin demasiadas expectativas (porque no ha dado tiempo a que exploten las redes con infinidad de reseñas), con la mente abierta y en absoluto preparada para lo que me iba a encontrar.

Dejadme que os ponga en contexto: tenemos a dos personajes, dos seres marcados por un dolor arrollador, que les bloquea, no les permite avanzar y les aísla de la rígida y marcada sociedad que no tiene espacio para personas diferentes. Una clase de griego los sitúa en un mismo escenario, aunque la conexión, más espiritual que física entre ellos, se cuece a fuego lento entre reflexiones, pensamientos y recuerdos rescatados de las tinieblas del alma de nuestros protagonistas. Sus situaciones, tan distintas entre sí, tienen un nexo común que conoceremos gracias a sus testimonios: la desesperación, la depresión y la triste soledad que los acompaña en su existencia.

Han Kang escribe con una facilidad pasmosa, te envuelve y te acompaña de la mano en una odisea de sentimientos sin querer detenerse en ofrecer una trama enrevesada o con el único fin de satisfacer al lector. Encarna el dolor, la pérdida con una sensibilidad que traspasa las páginas, homenajea el lenguaje y crea una unión intimista que no necesita de un excesivo y recargado estilo narrativo. Plantea numerosas preguntas, varias de ellas sin una respuesta concreta pero sumamente interesantes y profundas. He disfrutado y devorado esta novela, me ha cautivado lo poética que resulta la estrecha conexion de los personajes y las posibilidades que hay para comunicarse. Porque hay veces en las que sobran las palabras. Se incrementan mis ganas de seguir descubriendo la obra de esta escritora que sin duda se postula como una imprescindible de la literatura contemporánea.