“I am still thrilled that literature exists even in these dark and lonely times.”
Eight years after 『Bell Sound』, this is the sixth collection of short stories.

For the past eight years, I have focused on writing the full-length novels 『Lee Jin』 『Please Take Care of Mom』 and 『Somewhere, the Phone Rings, Looking for Me』.
In the meantime, I wrote the short stories included in this book.


While rereading the works to check for corrections, I would sometimes feel dizzy.
Was it because of the eight years?
It's like leaving home with clean shoes on, wandering around as a vagabond, and coming back with worn-out shoes.


Personally, the times in which the short stories in this book were written are special to me.
This is because these are works that I wrote spontaneously whenever I wanted to write, rather than being asked to write them.
This means that the seven pieces included here were written when I was at my most depressed or internally confused over the past eight years.
Memories of silently going to my desk and writing these pieces whenever my heart felt damaged or stained with bitterness, either from my contemporaries or from the relationships I was in.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I felt like I was holding on to a ladder from heaven with both hands, but I did have that kind of feeling.
Not because I wanted anyone to read it, but because I felt like if I didn't write these pieces each time, I wouldn't be able to move on to another time.
I still don't know what lies beyond the sadness and anger that this imperfect world ignites, but somehow, upon completing it, I felt my blood purified.


Among the seven short stories included in this book, there will be sacred paintings drawn by anonymous 'unknown people'.
Whether they appear as main characters or pass by like the wind, I feel that the unknown people who appear in these works are my contemporaries.
People who are neither good nor unique, who wander around the periphery of this world rather than at the center.
People who are hard to see when mixed in with the crowd.
But they are people who possess the human warmth and compassion that we have lost as we have become modern people.
Perhaps it was my inner desire to secretly bring these people into the world one by one, hoping that the lives of these unusual people would bring balance to one side of this lopsided world.


As I read through the works I've written over the past eight years, I've come to realize that we are interconnected, and that we influence each other's lives without even realizing it.
Sometimes I realize that the sentences that made me happy were not actually written by me alone, but were gifts from my contemporaries who were connected to me.
So, I am still thrilled that there is literature even in these gloomy and lonely times.


I hope that my works, which speak to the countless errors humans make, as well as to the unexpected strength and hidden beauty, will remain with those who grieve for as long as possible.
_'Author's Note', full text

A masterpiece of Shin Kyung-sook's literature, published after eight years.
A desperate call to all who were once there but were not called

Again, counting hands.
It has been exactly eight years and eight months since the publication of 『Bell Sound』 in 2003.
As stated in the author's note, the author has published three full-length novels so far.
Since the publication of 『Lee Jin』 in 2007 after a long period of preparation, he has published a full-length novel almost every year, so it has been a diligent and tireless pace.
The seven short stories published while he was joking around at that brisk pace must have been a kind of breather for the author.
His short stories, read anew over a long period of time, are read slowly, letter by letter, with the eyes, fingertips, and heart, as if reading Braille.
Because the author's low breathing, his inhalations and exhalations, are alive in each and every letter, word, and sentence, between the lines.

Perhaps because of this, while reading a book, I find myself taking deep breaths, following the rhythm of the sentences.
As I take a slow, deep breath and then let it out again, his breath and mine become entangled.
The hot breath of the author, the characters in the novel, and the readers all become intertwined.
What kind of reading makes this experience possible?

Novelist Kim Hoon once said this about his novels:

“When a human being is placed in the unfamiliar time, space, and relationships of the world, Shin Kyung-sook’s writing sends out an earnest call to what that being is inevitably lacking.
“The faint, resonant sounds that respond to it are captured with great precision and neatness in Shin Kyung-sook’s writing, forming the layers and knots of her writing, and the human sympathy for that fateful lack beautifully adds tension to her writing.”
As I stand before Shin Kyung-sook's short stories, which are being presented after eight years, I recall her words from long ago. Perhaps it is because these seven short stories are like a spring that rises from the deepest part of Shin Kyung-sook's literature.
Those things that were always there but went unnoticed, those voices that constantly revealed their presence, however small and faint, but were ultimately not received, the author's sensitive and delicate hands, gaze, and breath that capture, call out, and embrace the faint calls they send that no one noticed or heard...
The faint breath of all the hidden beings, objects, and landscapes in the world, the warm breath of the writer that caresses them, and the deep breaths of the readers who, each of them perhaps being nameless, breathe together in that moment, all become intertwined.
This is clearly possible because it is Shin Kyung-sook's literature.

It's been twenty-six years since I published my first novel, and while there have been many changes and developments during that time, there are some things that have remained the same.
I would like to borrow his words and return them to the readers as they are.

“I hope that his works, which speak to the countless deficiencies and errors of humanity, to all sorts of pain and squalor, and to the hidden beauty that sometimes evokes sighs, will remain with those who grieve for as long as possible.”