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The story of their love was like a gushing spring that never ran dry, no matter how much they drew from it.
he couldn’t remember his wife’s cell phone number. She was always there for him when he needed her, when he wanted her. It was only now his wife had disappeared that he realized he knew nothing about her.
Had her own life faded away because she was bearing his life on her back like a scraggy mule?
river that flowed through the city. The loud sound of gravel at the bottom of the river stirred by shallow dry-season currents. Water dripping from a wet hem. Plants on the corpse’s cheeks, water droplets on its forehead
He imagined his own body as a container for memories and scenery.
No matter how happy the moment, it always passes, but if you can store it in your memory, it remains yours forever.
In Summer, she had opened the dark shutters on a stormy night and was confronting the wind. In Autumn, she was almost invisible in the shade of a large zelkova tree, and in Winter, she was depicted as a yellow silhouette in the second-floor window on a snowy night.
In each of the paintings, she seemed a warrior looking out at the future from a high watchtower, not succumbing to time or fate.
The emotions and gossip created by his paintings gave Hanjo an invisible authority. Whether the origin was Howard House, Jisoo, or the skill of the painter itself, his paintings had irresistible power and beauty.
Their brotherhood was based on falsehood, but that falsehood would unite them more strongly than anything else.
She didn’t know why, but the men of her family had looked very strange that night. They had looked immature, with startled eyes. She couldn’t help but imagine it had to do with Jisoo’s disappearance.
Her husband’s pants, half inside out, were thin and transparent. They looked like the husk of a dead cicada.
Murder is not a matter of unusual people in unusual situations, but an act by ordinary people in everyday life.
He was scared and excited that even after the things that had sustained his life were shattered, he had the ability to imagine beauty inside himself and the desire to create it.
“Wait and see; you’ll swim hard and survive like a loach in a pond where the catfish are loose.”
“I don’t care if you don’t become a Picasso,” she said. “You just have to become yourself.”
She seemed determined to make his life his most successful work. Her honest desire to dirty her hands for his worldly success was the source of her fierce energy.
There was no rule that yesterday and today must be the same, and tomorrow no different.
Hanjo, stay right there, he thought. I’m on my way.
