Welcome to the Hyunam-dong Bookshop

by Hwang Bo-Reum

‘It’s going to smell a little – of the night air and books. If you don’t mind, you’re welcome inside.’

Do I love and treasure myself here? For Yeongju, the bookshop checked all the boxes.

If this were her first visit, would she have faith in the staff’s recommendations? How does a bookshop earn trust? What makes a good bookshop?

The kind of eyes that were hard to read at first sight, but something in there compelled her to slowly get to know him.

Immersing herself into the feelings of the characters provided a reprieve from her own. She grieved, suffered, and emerged stronger with them. As if sharing their experiences and emotions would, at the end of the book, allow her to understand anyone in the world.

She disengages completely from the world, living out the remainder of her life in solitude, for decades, until the ripe old age of ninety, or one hundred.

Could it count as a good recommendation? Despite falling short of expectations, could a book, if enjoyed, be considered a good read?

Is a good book always a good read?

Small talk could be a considerate gesture, but most of the time, at your own expense. With nothing to say, squeezing the words dry leaves only an empty heart and a desire to escape.

Books are not meant to remain in your mind, but in your heart. Maybe they exist in your mind too, but as something more than memories.

‘Right now, what I’m yearning for . . .’ The two of them stood face to face, four steps apart. ‘. . . is someone’s heart.’

‘By forcing an answer, you risk closing your ears to what your heart is telling you, misinterpreting your feelings or worse, deceiving yourself.

She’d expended too much energy bottling things up; they lodged deep inside her. From now on, she could let go. Even if the tears returned, it was something she had to see through. To learn to let go. When the time came for her to be able to recollect the past without tears, she would finally be able to put her hand up and happily hold on to the present. And to cherish it dearly.

A life that wasn’t an imprisonment. A life not held captive by her own thoughts. A life not shackled to the past. She replied a little tartly.

When I was reading, I thought: let me live like this, too. Dance, even in disappointment. Dance, even in failure. Let go. Laugh, and keep laughing.’

Most importantly, she mustn’t forget her roots – that she was a book-lover at heart.