…The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness includes many flashbacks, even as the main narrative is set in the present. Shin's treatment of time could have been disconcertingthe flashbacks could become wearisome, but they don't, illustrating instead the narrator's trauma. Shin is adept with differentiating time shifts, writing, as she puts it, "the past in present tense; the present in past tense." That pragmatic decision also plays out on a figurative level: The narrator has spent her whole life trying not to remember, and in doing so, the past is present in everything…In The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness, Shin writes about a time and setting that might seem remote to many Americans, but in many ways her specificity is universal; we all have a monster that has no face, and which we try to avoid. Shin paints her own monster for us.
The New York Times Book Review - Christine Hyung-Oak Lee
Haunting. The novel's language, so formal in its simplicity, bestows a grace and solemnity. The most moving and accomplished, and often startling, novel in translation I've read in many seasons. Every sentence is saturated in detail. The tone is as dreary as its topic, but it is a fictional account of what absolutely must be told and known. Intense but revealing historical fiction that the author calls something between 'not quite fact, not quite fiction.' A moving portrayal of the surprising nature, sudden sacrifices, and secret reveries of motherhood. Affecting. How does an author write about a troubled land when her sorrow is so great? Shin's novel provides a powerful record of the time. Intimate and hauntingly spare. A raw tribute. Shin writes about a time and setting that may seem remote to many Americans, but in many ways her specificity is universal; we all have a monster that has no face, and which we try to avoid. Shin paints her own monster for us. Shin's unemotional delivery and understated yet devastating perspective on her country's expectations and norms are familiar from her earlier novels, but this book's grim glimpse into the lives of factory girls is notably haunting. There's a hypnotic quality to this melancholy coming-of-age story described as 'not quite fact and not quite fiction.' Allusive and structurally sophisticated, it melds Shin's characteristic themes of politics, literature, and painful experience into a mysteriously compelling whole.
A moving portrayal of the surprising nature, sudden sacrifices, and secret reveries of motherhood.
The most moving and accomplished, and often startling, novel in translation I’ve read in many seasons. Every sentence is saturated in detail.
Shin writes about a time and setting that may seem remote to many Americans, but in many ways her specificity is universal; we all have a monster that has no face, and which we try to avoid. Shin paints her own monster for us.
New York Times Book Review
In The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness , Shin opens her nation's transition and her people's struggle to the world that looked away for all those years. Please Look After Mom , Ms. Shin's poignant examination of how Korea's evolution has impacted the different generations, gave birth to these other translations. But her later works are still more profound. While South Korea is but a whisper of its former self, Ms. Shin's writing grabs hold of those memories and brings them loudly to the surface.
The tone is as dreary as its topic, but it is a fictional account of what absolutely must be told and known. Intense but revealing historical fiction that the author calls something between ‘not quite fact, not quite fiction.’
Historical Novels Society
Haunting. The novel’s language, so formal in its simplicity, bestows a grace and solemnity.
Intimate and hauntingly spare. A raw tribute.
The New York Times Book Review
Kyung-sook Shin's work often inhabits the space between story and reality. Though the autobiographical novel is a well-worn genre, Shin handles it with the sort of effortless ruthlessness a story like this requires, without letting either the narrator or the reader rest easy about the line between truth and fiction. It's no wonder that despite being grounded in signposts of the everyday, The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness has the tenor of a ghost story. Shin anchors her narrator in vivid details rather than narrative absolutes. A haunting, remarkable novel.
Affecting. How does an author write about a troubled land when her sorrow is so great? Shin's novel provides a powerful record of the time.
The Minneapolis Star Tribune
★ 10/15/2015 Credited with revitalizing Korea's publishing industry, Shin's 2011 Please Look After Mom (the author's debut in English) made this international powerhouse the first woman to win the Man Asian Literary Prize. Her latest, arriving stateside 20 years after its Korean publication, is part memoir, part portrait-of-an-artist-as-a-teenager, and part writing treatise. Shin is the eponymous girl at 16, sent from her village to live in a "lone room" in Seoul with her oldest brother and cousin to work tedious hours in an electronics factory for the opportunity to attend high school at night. Korea in 1978 is an economically and politically unstable country whose youth will pay the highest price for the phenomenal success to come. Sixteen years later, Shin's an established writer, contacted by a former classmate: "You don't write about us…. Could it be you're ashamed?" The years of elision yield to fraught memories: her reclamation of her own name and age, her tenuous relationships, the teacher who gifted her with a book and the belief she could be the novelist she would become. VERDICT This work stands the test of time. Isolation and suicide among young adults worldwide have only tragically multiplied, making Girl urgently auspicious. Described at beginning and end as "not quite fact and not quite fiction," this book is essential reading.—Terry Hong, Smithsonian BookDragon, Washington, DC
This audiobook, called one of the most important Korean novels of the last decade, is now available to an English audience. Narrator Emily Woo Zeller establishes a mournful tone for an unusual coming-of-age story about a Korean girl who goes from being an assembly line worker to a novelist. Most of her story is told in soft, almost meditative, tones as listeners follow her journey from her village, and a family that can no longer afford to raise her, into the city. Zeller embodies the somber mood of this period in Korean history through her precise pace and low pitch. She captures a generation of young people who worked in factories, pulling the Korean economy back to life after the war. M.R. © AudioFile 2016, Portland, Maine
2015-07-01 A successful yet troubled South Korean writer looks back on her teenage years and her struggle to work, learn, and survive during "solitary days lived inside an industrial labor genre painting." Drawn in part from its author's own experiences, this novel by prizewinner Shin (I'll Be Right There, 2014, etc.) takes an unsparing look at the near-Victorian working and living conditions suffered in her country during the late 1970s. The unnamed narrator leaves her rural home at age 16 to take a job in an electronics factory in Seoul, where efforts to unionize are resisted by the company at every turn. Her living accommodation is "a lone room" (one of several incantatory phrases in the book), badly heated and ventilated, and shared with several other family members. Money is tight, food is scarce, and the only way to get ahead is to study at night after a full day on the production line. Shin's unemotional delivery and understated yet devastating perspective on her country's expectations and norms are familiar from her earlier novels, but this book's grim glimpse into the lives of factory girls is notably haunting. The narrator is fortunate: she is encouraged by some kind figures, including a teacher who gives her a novel and urges her to write, and she clings to her dream of creativity. Now, however, looking back 16 years later, famous and materially comfortable in a transformed society, the narrator still feels that the wounds of her youth are unhealed, notably those caused by the tragic death of a friend, which "turned me into an infinite blank." Yet the act of writing this book and the poetic final fugue suggest release and restoration are possible. There's a hypnotic quality to this melancholy coming-of-age story described as "not quite fact and not quite fiction." Allusive and structurally sophisticated, it melds Shin's characteristic themes of politics, literature, and painful experience into a mysteriously compelling whole.