Lemon by Kwon Yeo-sun

Other Press, 160 pages, $20 (2019, U.S. Ed. 2021)

Translated from the Korean by Janet Hong

Korean culture seems to be washing up on our shores at a rapid rate. Have you seen “Squid Games,” listened to BTS, watched “Parasite”? How about “Kingdom,” the Medieval Korea zombie series on Netflix? Or “Minari,” the movie about immigrant Korean farmers in Arkansas? Did you read “Pachinko,” by Min Jim Lee? Korean artists are having another American moment, eleven years after Psy first intruded on our consciousness with “Gangnam Style.”

And now here’s “Lemon,” a strangely hypnotic tale by Korean author Kwon Yeo-sun. The cover, I am happy to say, is lemon yellow.

It’s not just a matter of understanding if there are any cultural differences; it’s trying to understand if those differences have an impact on a reader’s apprehension of the story. I'm weighing in on the side of no difference, because the book's world has its own reality.

“Lemon” is a small book, especially in light of today’s conviction that more is better*. The book is deceptively small. A reader is tempted to read quickly. There, done! is a worthy goal if one is keeping score. That would be a disservice to the author. There is a lot packed into the pages, but the art of the author is that that is not obvious.

Kim Hae-on was a beautiful girl. It was a burden carried lightly. Some of the book is narrated by her younger sister, Kim Da-on, and she is at a loss to understand what thoughts might have been swirling around in Hae-on’s head. Although Hae-on was the older child, it was up to Da-on, even at the age of five, to cover for and take care of her older sister. Hae-on was petted and fretted over by almost everyone. She didn’t have to work hard to get things, and so she didn’t. She was barely passing at school, had no true friends, had no interests or goals in life.

Then it didn’t matter what her thoughts or goals were when she died at eighteen. She had suffered cranial injury severe enough to cause death. The police searched diligently for her murderer. The choices seemed to center on two young men separated by several layers of social structure. Shin Jeongjun was a rich kid with a beautiful girlfriend — the second most beautiful girl at school. Han Manu was an inarticulate, poor delivery boy. They were among the last people to see Hae-on. No proof could be found to indict either one.

Most of the book is narrated by younger sister Da-on. Some of the story is narrated by Yun Taerim, the second most beautiful girl in school. We hear her as she talks to her therapist in later years. We also hear from Sanghui, Hae-on’s classmate and Da-on’s friend from poetry club. We hear stories of the same events recounted by different people at different times, up to sixteen years after Hae-on’s death.

Do we learn whodunnit? Probably. Does it matter? Probably not to the reader who should be more enraptured by the strange dance the main female characters weave into their stories. The mystery of who Hae-on is is not truly solved. I can live with that.

* As an aside, the latest book by one of MBTB’s favorite authors, Tana French, is “The Searcher,” which clocks in at 464 pages. So, obviously, book length is not in and of itself a bad thing, if done well. While I’m on the subject, John Le Carré’s last book, “Silverview,” leaves us with an elegant 224 pages. J. K. Rowling’s first Harry Potter book was a lean, mean 309 pages, while her last weighed in at 784 pages and 1.15 pounds for the paperback.