I once wrote, “Bookstores sprang up everywhere like verdant grass in a desolate land.” The words came spontaneously as they described what I envisioned in my mind. Bookstores that had long held their spots disappeared from neighborhoods one after another like falling leaves, and before I knew it, I was buying books online. Online book shopping was convenient and I was able to quickly find the books I wanted; but rarely,if ever, did I stumble upon the kind of book that you’ve always been waiting for without even realizing it. Bestsellers and highly discounted books appealed to readers in loud voices, which was fun in its own way. But the fun was overshadowed by a sense of growing monotony. Then, as time passed, bookstores made a comeback, springing up everywhere “like verdant grass in a desolate land.” Various factors led to this phenomenon, but what stands out to me after a career as a publishing coordinator and an online book merchandiser is what happened in 2014: the launch of a new book pricing system that limited discounts on books. Small bookstores that had disappeared, unable to compete with online bookstores guaranteeing user convenience with free shipping and high discount rates, began to color the neighborhoods green.

    I was ecstatic. Wherever I was, I walked right in when I saw a bookstore. Bookstores were everywhere: at a market entrance, on a riverside path, in a residential area, by an ancient palace, in a winding alley. When I had a chance to visit someplace new, I looked up bookstores in the area and found at least one, which I would then explore. It was a new way of travel for me, getting to know an area with a bookstore as the starting point. These bookstores displayed independent publications containing stories unique to the region, as well as provided one-of-a-kind curations. Taking them in became an indispensable part of my trips that left me with unforgettable memories.

Time passed, and I learned that a proper little bookstore had opened in my own neighborhood. I was taking a walk when I came upon the newly open place quite by chance, and a new door opened in my own world as well. I entered the bookstore and bought a book to celebrate our encounter—if I may call it that—and the owner, to my surprise, gifted me with charming little flower seeds along with a blue poster advertising the store.Thinking back, I realize that the encounter took place in the same season a snow. The seeds, containing flowers to come, were warm enough to fend off the chill in the air. The tender gift enriched my life as a reader. When there was a book I wanted to buy, I’d order it from that same bookstore. In a day and age when a book ordered online arrives in the mail the next day, I was secretly thrilled to see how willingly I embraced the inconvenience. I welcomed it because the neighborhood bookstore enabled me to have a personal relationship with books.

    What further nurtured the relationship wasn’t just lovely gifts or pleasant inconveniences, though; the small but substantial programs, organized on a regular basis by the bookstore, beckoned to readers and invited them in. Not long ago, for instance, when in-person gatherings were strictly banned due to COVID-19, the bookstore held an online event through which authors shared their notes, which wouldn’t have been possible at a large-scale offline event. Why? Because it wouldn’t have been safe for authors to present their valuable notes, full of private thoughts, to a large audience,and those sitting in the back wouldn’t have been able to see them anyway.Things were different online. Zoom connected authors and readers, all from the comfort of their own homes. From inside the screen of the monitor, the authors shared thoughts and impressions that hadn’t been revealed anywhere else, and readers facing the monitor shared their feelings in quick succession through the chat window as they listened to the fascinating stories and examined the rare materials. For over a decade, I had attended numerous book events, either for work or out of my own curiosity or enthusiasm; but watching this online event unfold in a way heretofore unknown to me, I got excited, recalling that during offline events, only a few people asked questions freely (I wonder if that’s part of Korean culture). The latter half of these events, the Q&A session, would always be based on questions collected beforehand at the entrance, or left as written comments when people signed up in advance to attend. Communication online was much easier and livelier. When a question appeared in the chat window, the host relayed it immediately even as an author was talking, and the author promptly gave an answer. Authors and readers weren’t separated by the stage; they participated together, talking face to face.

In like manner, people who wanted to connect through books got together even during the pandemic. I myself ran an online book club in 2021 through a publisher’s platform. For three months, participants would read one book a month, a novel written by a woman writer from abroad. This is how it went: every week, I, as the host, would suggest a theme designed to encourage the participants to share their thoughts on the book, and everyone would post something on the bulletin by the set date. I would guide the discussion by commenting on all the postings. I liked how I could attach related news articles and other pieces I wanted to share right in the comment window. I felt as though we were writing letters that could be kept, not having conversations that would vanish into thin air. On the last week of the month, we each shared one sentence from the book during a Zoom meeting, wrapping up the novel of the month. I don’t know if it was because of the books, or because of the format of the meetings, which were online in our own rooms, but our conversations were very private and intense. Perhaps the reason lay in the fact that people could hold these meetings at all and share their innermost feelings and thoughts at a time when gatherings were restricted.

After some time, offline meetings cautiously resumed. People gathered in bookstores and auditoriums, sanitized their hands, took their temperature, and wore masks. Being able to talk to others while looking them in the eye and reading their body language is certainly a distinct pleasure. The light in the eyes of the people gathered together was as enchanting as flowers in a field. To my gratitude, a rare event of its kind was held at a bookstore in my own neighborhood: Onul Books,_[1] a much-loved bookstore today. I’d like to put in writing the “Echo Reading”event held on the evening of August 5, 2022: a reading from She Is Angry, published in 2022. The book was written by Maja Lee Langvad, a Danish poet and a transnational Korean adoptee. It was initially published in Denmark in 2014, then in Korea, the author’s native country, in July 2022. The book, written over a period of seven long years,starts with the sentence, “She is angry about being an import.”_[2]All the sentences in the book begin with the words “She is angry.” This staggering, powerful book had me in its grip from page one—I felt afire. This experience reached its climax during the reading.

    Let me describe that day in detail. It’s a summer evening. People gather at the bookstore. The host announces the start of the event, and the poet and the interpreter, each with a microphone in hand,stand next to the piano in the middle of the bookstore. First, the poet reads a passage from the book in Danish. Then the interpreter reads the same passage in Korean. The poet reads another passage, and again, the interpreter reads the same.As they do, the pianist accompanies them with improvisation. The music touches the hearts of the audience as it rises in accord with the recitation, or falls into deep darkness or lyrically permeates the air. Breathless, people listen.Hearing the voice of the woman expressing her anger, everyone here at this moment is transferred to another dimension.

    Listening to the words, barely breathing, I was compelled to consider the narrator of the book who says she is angry at the late President Kim Dae-jung for officially thanking the adoptive parents around the world who took Korean children into their care, and angry at Denmark, with the highest number of Korean adoptees per capita in the world. I couldn’t help but think about how the author, who had looked forward to the publication of her book in Korea, must have felt reading the book in Danish to Korean readers.In an Echo Reading, each participant takes a turn reading from a book of their choice, so I kept wanting to glance at the author’s face to see what the Korean words meant to her and how she felt, and at the same time, wanting to look away; I also felt that this outpouring of mixed emotions in itself was the book, and felt infinitely lucky that I was given a chance to experience the book in this way.

    Being lucky. So that’s what I wanted to talk about. I was lucky enough to come across “the kind of book I’d always waited for without even realizing it,”lucky enough to have unconventional and stimulating online encounters in a day of unprecedented isolation and disconnection, and lucky enough to meet the author of a book I was crazy about at a bookstore I frequented. And I wanted to say that all of it was thanks to the willing efforts of countless people who tried to have fun however they could by doing what they love, or in other words, reading and sharing books.

    It is at this point that I am filled with more courage and an inexplicable sense of pride. I tell myself that I want to witness what happens here in detail and continue to make an effort to enjoy the things I love, amid all the things that could easily go wrong.

Chaeg-ilg-aut,_[3]a book podcast I’ve been participating in with great affection, celebrated its fifth anniversary in October 2022. When I look back on the past five years, I see that the podcast is not simply its content; it is a community. We call our regular listeners “miners,” a name they themselves go by. They diligently dig up gems of information and share various news related to the podcast. On October 19, 2022, the fifth anniversary of the first episode’s airing, a drawing of the nine members of the podcast’s production staff sitting in a circle—illustrated by a miner—popped up on one social media platform after another. And how beautiful was the hashtag #lovefromminers! The event wasn’t the first of its kind, and I have in my cherished collection a T-shirt, a stainless-steel straw, postcards, and stickers—all dear to me, all gifts from miners. I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of it all whenever I look at them.

    I have the following reason as well for calling Chaeg-ilg-aut a community. The miners at times have run their own little book clubs, in one of which the members directly hand one another a single copy of an actual book. A different way of reading altogether. They each write down their thoughts and feelings in the book as they read, then hand it to the next person, who does the same. The book becomes well-thumbed in the process. It travels through the Chaeg-ilg-aut community, taking on the history of the readers. The journey of a book.Picturing this book, like no other in the world, I like to imagine that it connects, with a diaphanous thread, those who have gathered in the name of Chaeg-ilg-aut; and hope that the book travels far and wide, having encounters with people for a long, long time to come.

I started out sharing literary experiences and ended up talking about the wonder of meeting people. Here in this country, we’re no longer surprised by the news that less and less people are reading books, and in this same country, a surprisingly small number of people—a handful who like to sit still and read—are doing what they can to come together, thinking of ways to share what’s on their minds; and their wish turns into a big circle, protecting one another even in such troubling times. That is the most remarkable literary experience I’ve ever had. A movement that occurs when people face themselves through a book and realize that they’re not the only ones facing them, and when small voices express themselves with courage at last—that is the force that keeps us from falling into utter despair in the face of tragic news.

Translated by Yewon Jung

Shin Yeon-sun has worked as a publishing PR manager and online bookstore merchandiser. She currently freelances as a book columnist, interviewer, and scriptwriter. She writes scripts for the podcast Chaeg-ilg-aut: Oh Eun-ui onggi-jonggi.

책방, 팟캐스트, 그리고 공동체