At the risk of admitting to bookstagram blasphemy, I will confess that it was the cover that pulled me towards this book. The violet-blue of the blueberries and the red of the Marlboro, orchestrating a scene of bitter vulnerability and angst that I could taste in my mouth...and then the title solidified that feeling.
Before long, I was taking this book with me along the English Channel to the South of Italy for a mini-break. We were two potential lovers on a blind-date holiday, and as I familiarised myself with the pages of my "date", there was disappointment, confusion, pain stored away in lumps at the back of my throat and some great moments under the Italian sun.
Like the park in Naples where I made first contact with the pages of this book, there was no name for the rush of feelings that stirred within me as I read through it. I could only identify the searing angst that pricked me, but upon reflection, I excavated the chord that should have struck me at first.
"Love in the Big City" is a loosely auto-biographical story about loneliness and heartbreak playing out in a big city that either make or break you in your twenties. The protagonist, who is sometimes called Young, and sometimes Park, is a cynical gay man in Seoul who narrates four chapters of his life marked by what he identifies as "love"- with unflinching candour that is bound to make readers uneasy and restless. Adding on to this unease is the protagonist's constant breaking of the fourth wall; he engages with his potential audience by making fun of his own shortcomings and insecurities. As he narrates his experiences with his best friend, mother, and two impactful romantic relationships, we see Mr Young grow up. What sets this book apart from the others that embark on a similar journey is that our protagonist is not on the path of linear progression, and is still searching for the same clarity he was looking for at the start of the book. However, there is a depth to his words and a whiff of acceptance of where he stands when he parts with his audience. It feels more realistic and personal, and the whole endeavour is so raw that it might as well have happened to you instead to a fictional character.
While I would donate my organs for queer fiction in an instance, I have been quite wary for sometime with some of the books that use this tag. It's almost always gay fiction that ends in tragedy, or something that happens half a century ago, so I wasn't really looking forward to reading another story where there is an abundance of unhappiness. It is rare to find queer romance that ends in a sappy happy way.
"Love in the Big City" does not have a sappy ending but it doesn't end in tears either and I was so happy to read it. It ends with Mr Young possibly losing the love of his life because of his cynicism but finally realising his fault; so I am holding out hope that beyond "the end" they reconcile and sort things out.
Page 84, Mr Young in his twenties;
"I wanted to listen to him all night, for many nights on end. I wanted to fit together his fragmented pieces and complete the puzzle of him in my mind. The life that was unknown to me, the habits I wasn't aware of, even his breath- I wanted to reconfigure them all and make them my own."
Page 118, Mr Young in his early thirties;
"Is love truly beautiful? To me, love is a thing you can't stop when you're caught up in it, a brief moment you can escape from only after it turns into the most hideous thing imaginable when you distance yourself from it."
"Love in the Big City" is an achingly honest portrayal of existing as a human being in a fast-paced big city that is incapable of holding you gently. For Park, the city is a collation of everything and everyone he ever loved. He realises he's standing on a rough pavement in a city because he's in love and he's in pain and nothing makes you touch the floor like that feeling.
Everything about the city- the benches, the lamp posts, secret gardens, rooftop bars, warm orange windows and the dirty public transport- act as portals to the people he loved. Platonic. Romantic. Everything. The story unfolds like this. Park jumps from one portal to the other in his narration. The city carries him, sometimes in its arms, and sometimes by his feet, from one lover to the other.
The book made me think about love and the way it is perceived by us. Is there really a void called love? How does it even feel? All I seem to feel when I think of love is either grief or pain or anger, which should make the four-letter word nothing but a synonym right? RIGHT?!
What Love in the Big City, wasn't was answers to any of these questions that it raises. It taunts you by making you think, and it will have you wishing that you didn't start thinking.
The book is also not greatly translated, and there were times when it felt like much of its poetry was lost in translation. It truly deserved a better translator.
If I had a wish, I would want to gain the ability to read every book in its original language with zero effort.
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