Such moments reminded me of Pablo Neruda’s line, “and through the streets the blood of the children / ran simply, like children’s blood.” ^[1] The idea that violent acts are incomparable — that certain events should be expressed directly, without embellishment — opposes Dickinson’s “Tell all the truth but tell it slant.” Whether drowning figures should appear balletic or not is up to the reader. The bodies suspended in water could be read as a convincing, arresting and cinematic visual, or as a questionable attempt to veil an otherwise grisly scene.

When is an image vital, inventive, rousing, elevating human dignity, and when it is disingenuous, too removed from the subject it seeks to illumine? Although the line between artistry and faithful representation is sometimes blurred, Yoon’s writing is perfectly suited to these stories of introspection, with their measured pacing and ability to unsettle us.

One of his many strengths is building tension without creating familiar scenes. In “The Woodcarver’s Daughter” (pp. 113-157), when soldiers surround Haemi, the title character, we fear for her, projecting our desire for self-preservation. News reports detailing war crimes have lead us to expect captivity or death. After the men pass quietly, leaving her unharmed, we realize that a hint of danger can ignite the imagination far more than any event a writer might impose. The restraint is appealing for its implicit trust in the reader, and for the wisdom in relying on well-grounded characters rather than on complicated plot-twists.

“Once the Shore” (pp. 3-31) begins with a widow describing her husband’s hairstyle to a waiter:

From this opening alone we sense the mixture of pride and loss, we know she must have revered her husband and valued all that is sensory, we know she is thoroughly at ease speaking about her private life, and we know at once that Yoon is a literary writer for whom words are sculptural. His characterization of the widow is spare, but echoes in the imagination.

… going somewhere else was an act of rememberance, of where you were from.

The waiter is soon revealed to be the same man whose brother “was killed when a United States submarine divided the Pacific Ocean.” The two develop a friendship punctuated by the routine of daily meals and a growing, silent understanding.

At one point, the waiter contemplates: “going somewhere else was an act of rememberance, of where you were from.” The line accrues even greater significance after the entire book has been read. It encapsulates one of the main messages: Whether the characters are tourists or natives, first-generation survivors or heirs to the burden of collective memory, almost no one can leave their origins far behind.

“The Hanging Lanterns of Ido” (pp. 235-266) contrasts with the more intense stories, and resembles “Look For Me in the Camphor Tree.” Both take place within clearly defined, fairly domestic spaces. They examine the fragile territory between the characters’ private realities and their responses to those who love them, differing mostly in tone. Mihna and her father’s relationship end on a hopeful note, while the couple in “The Hanging Lanterns of Ido” are heading for heartbreak. The ending is similarly suffused with snow: “Everywhere there was snow. In the far distance the flash of a lighthouse swung across the sea and then stilled.”

As the final words in the book, they’re a fitting conclusion for a collection permeated with silence and darkness. The best of these stories are located somewhere between elegy for the lives claimed by the sea and praise for the strength that moves us forward. Like Louise Glück’s wild iris, they remind us that “… whatever / returns from oblivion returns / to find a voice.” Once the Shore turns the tragic into a spellbinding narrative that is deserving of greater recognition.