I picked up this book because I was drawn in by its haunting title, evocative cover, and the provocative premise of a lover, Dam, consuming the body of her deceased partner, Gu. As a self-proclaimed sucker for love stories, no matter how unsettling it was—I got curious to see how such a taboo act could be used to explore grief and devotion. Unfortunately, what promised to be a profound meditation on love and loss left me deeply disappointed.
On the surface, I understand the novel's ambitious goals. It is not truly about cannibalism, but rather a metaphor for consuming memory and the ways we process grief. The book aims to delve into the psychology of its characters, showing how Gu's absence evokes pain, guilt, and cold indifference in those he left behind. The core message seems to be about the continuity and distortion of memory after death, and the necessity of accepting loss as a part of life. In theory, the disturbing premise is just a tool to challenge the reader to explore difficult, important themes.
However, the execution failed miserably for me. One of the primary issues being the confusing and disjointed narrative structure. The perspective shifts between Dam and Gu without clear distinction, making it easy to get lost in whose memory was being recounted. I only realized after reading another review that the white and black bullets were supposed to distinguish between the two. Consequently, I spent an unexpected amount of time feeling muddled and distanced from the characters. Not to say, the central romance itself was bland and unremarkable, filled with corny, unimaginative dialogue that undermined the intended profundity.
Hunger attempts to walk the line between metaphor and shock, and I acknowledge that literature often uses disturbing content to provoke thought. But Hunger felt like it leaned more on provocation than purpose. Where novels like Lolita and Tampa frame their discomfort through commentary and psychological insight, Hunger seems to present its grotesque premise without enough justification. If this is meant to be symbolic of love, loss, or identity; it gets lost in the topsy-turvy narrative. I found myself unable to emotionally connect with Dam’s act of eating Gu, even if the intention was to portray it as an act of love rather than horror. For me, it was mostly just disturbing... or maybe the theme of cannibalism is not just for me.
That said, I understand how this book could touch certain readers. There are moments that evoke sadness and longing, even catharsis, particularly in the closing reflections on memory and death as a transition rather than an end. In that sense, it attempts to do what literature does best: force us to confront the uncomfortable. And yet, despite recognizing its themes and ambition, I could not enjoy it. The story failed to grip me, the prose felt flat, and the metaphor (if it existed), never came through clearly enough to justify the discomfort it asked me to endure.
In my attempt to understand the book better, I also found out the original Korean title was 'Proof of Gu', which might have made more sense thematically. Hunger, as a title, seems like an attempt to rebrand it as a cult classic or a piece of transgressive literature, but the substance does not quite support the hype. It left me in a reading slump, and between that and my hyperfixation on Zhou Anxin, it took me over a month to get through what should have been a brief read.
In the end, Hunger had potential. It could have been a haunting, philosophical reflection on loss and memory. Instead, it felt like literary confusion instead of literary depth. Maybe I missed something, or again, simply the theme of cannibalism is not for me, but if this is what counts as a 'cult classic,' I would argue we need to reexamine what kind of stories we elevate in that category. This book is a stark example of a powerful metaphor being lost in poor execution.