Quite a dark read! A refreshing change from the trend of cozy translated fiction. The story follows Oh-Young, a school teacher who is considerate and kind. She is a people-pleaser, always smiles, meets societal expectations, curates her 'likes' according to what is expected of her, is a good friend and girlfriend. She feels empty, depressed and numb, and undergoes a four week emotion regulation program at Seohyang Medical Research Center. This is an attempt to 'fix' herself and become better. But the program leaves her with all filters down, and she begins to speak her mind.
Now she is speaking uncomfortable truths, speaking her mind, cursing, no longer attuned to serving the expectations that society and relationship roles have placed on her.
I enjoyed how this books makes us think that much of our 'personality' is masked. We are eager to be liked by everyone that we often hide true emotions and become less difficult. But where does this emotional suppression end? There's nothing good that comes out of being a difficult person to the society, but what about the self and self-expression? Or is it too wrong to assume that nothing good comes out of being authentic, because that's your true self? This novel has themes of authenticity, people-pleasing, brain filters that help (or not) us function in a society, the burden of societal expectations. I particularly enjoyed the author's note at the end. It was thought provoking.
Pick this up if you are looking for a slightly dark read with uncomfortable truths.
The third and fourth links were more windows into the misfortunes of strangers. These tragedies were abnormal and unexpected misfortunes, but the grief they generated did not transcend the scope of the individual’s life. I was struck by guilt, a voyeur peeping into the suffering of others. But the excitement! The thrill of witnessing the sudden upheavals of these strangers’ lives! This was the forbidden fruit, and it had claws. I did want to be a good person, yes, but I quickly tied up that desire and hung it far, far below, over the gaping abyss. My brain reveled in the catharsis. I burst out laughing.
세 번째 링크, 네 번째 링크. 모두 이름 없는 불행이 담겨 있었다. 결코 일반적이지 않은, 한 명의 삶을 초월하지 못하는 다채로운 어둠들. 타인의 괴로운 삶을 관음하는 건 죄책감을 불러일으켰다. 동시에, 타인의 삶이 송두리째 바뀌는 순간을 목도하는 쾌감이 일었다. 나쁜 것에는 갈고리가 있다. 평생을 선하게 살고자 애썼던 마음이 삽시간에 묶여 저 아래에 대롱대롱 매달렸다. 카타르시스에 뇌가 절여졌다. 웃음이 터져 나왔다.
Orange and the Bread Knife (2026) is Slin Jung's translation of 오렌지와 빵칼 (2024) by 청예 (Cheong Ye).
The novel is narrated by Oh Yeongah (오영아), a 27 year old woman who works as a kindergarten teacher. She tries to live an ethical life, with strong self-control, overcoming the provocations of the children in her class, one boy in particular, and their parents, and chided by her best friend who berates her for the morality of her life choices (such as watching a TV series by a director who was found to have committed plagirism while at college).
And her long-standing relationship with her boyfriend is almost too perfect, but somewhat loveless:
We went to an artisanal pastry shop in Jongno and picked up a box of orange-flavoured donuts, because Suwon was a thoughtful man who remembered that his girlfriend snacked on sweets at night when she was on her period. When the cashier handed me the box with a red ribbon stuck on top, I assumed that same smile again. “You really love oranges, don’t you?” I asked Suwon. “Yeah, because they’re sour.” “There’s a lot of other sour things in the world.” “Well, oranges have this really deep flavor, you know? The sourness makes the sweetness taste . . . fuller.”
But as a result her life is increasingly joyless.
It had been so long since I'd lost my smile. 웃음을 상실한 지가 너무 오래됐다.
And when she visits Euwnu, the mother of the troublesome boy in her class - a woman who runs an ethical vegan bakery, which is struggling as directly opposite is a discount supermarket selling much cheaper and longer-lasting baked goods - the woman recommends that she seek therapy:
If the Quay went on tossing products day after day, it would soon collapse. The family would reel from the loss, Eunwu would grow even more incorrigible, the woman’s sighs would deepen, and yet another business launched to coexist with the environment and provide healthy dining options would go dark and close its shutters permanently. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to do my part. Preventing at least one loaf of bread from going into the waste bin was an important job, too. Someone had to take responsibility and consume them.
“All right,” the woman replied, heading to the counter and swiping my card before slicing up the loaf. The knife looked as if it needed some sharpening, and was probably an old companion—which made it a perfect fit for the outdated décor.
Right next to the register was a statue the size of a forearm. With its twisting, bony limbs, soulflayed face, and copper hue, it looked completely out of place among the fluffy buns and crunchy pastries. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. “It’s a replica of ‘Diego.’ By Alberto Giacometti,” the woman said.
The therapy clinic that both Eunwu and Suwon (not so?) coincidentally recommend proves to be one that offers an as yet unapproved treatment that alters the balance of chemicals in the brain, and removes Yeongah's social inhibitions, causing her to take more pleasure in other's misfortune (see the opening quote) - and she comes to admire Eunwu (particularly after certain revelations) who seems to have achieved an antinomic* balance to which she aspires [* the novel actually reads antimonic, which is a typo]:
The woman had achieved perfect equilibrium. She embodied both good and evil, but allowed herself to be swallowed by neither. Few people could walk that line between morality and immorality, and yet she had attained the antinomic state of exercising control while indulging in freedom. A secret kingdom of liberty, where one cylindrical path led between the main and rear gates and made entrance and exit indistinguishable—but was there ever a need to distinguish between them at all?
A fascinating character study - the perfect antidote to the wave of 'healing' fiction.
The novel comes with short but illuminating afterwords from both the author (for whom the novel seems to have been as cathartic as the story was for Yeongah) and the translator (who explains a gloss she made, with the author's permission, to account for the difference between a western bread knife and a Korean 빵칼).
I found this an interesting if difficult book. I think it is well written but I do think something is lost in translation. I loved the translators notes at the end and can see they worked hard to make sure the book made sense in English. Definitely do not read the translators notes before you read the book because there are spoilers. I wonder if I struggled with it because other Korean books I have read have been more whimsical, or about Zen Buddhism so abstract concepts didn’t need as much explanation. I also wonder if I actually found the topic triggering, young woman subjugating herself so much I became irate with her. Goes to extraordinary lengths to change. The final ending is shocking and i just deleted what I wrote as I realised it was a spoiler. I think if you are in a precarious mental health state or struggling with taking care of yourself this is an excellent book and also possibly an overwhelming book. If you still want to read it then get some support before you do. If you are robust I think you might also find it difficult to understand and to relate to it. It is a beautiful book and I’d love to read another book by this author, I’d just like it to be more relaxing but then I think that’s totally missing the whole point! Thank you to NetGalley for providing this book for my consideration, this is all my own rambling, honest and personal opinion.
Admittedly, I enjoyed this book more at the start, but overall, I liked the story as it was unique.
I loved the scenes that explored the main character’s complex friendship and relationship dynamics. I could deeply relate to the pressure of masking and playing into the roles that society designates for us. I appreciated this and sympathised with Youngah’s journey of dissolving those masks, even if it was utterly destructive.
“I made the choices I made because I wanted to be a good person, but where did those choices lead? A life where I have everything I never wanted.”
Ultimately, this story highlighted the relentless modern pressure we all face to create and expect perfection in an imperfect world. It was a very relatable story that covered themes such as the weight of societal expectations and conformity with great nuance.
This is one of the most electrifying and subversive novels I’ve read in a long time. Cheong Ye delivers a razor-sharp critique of the “mask” we all wear to survive polite society, zeroing in on the suffocating weight of East Asian social expectations with surgical precision. The premise feels like a brilliant hybrid of Black Mirror and Convenience Store Woman: darkly funny, deeply unsettling, and strangely cathartic.
The story follows Oh Young-a, a schoolteacher who has spent her entire life being relentlessly “good.” She’s the ultimate people-pleaser—smiling through every expectation, swallowing every desire, and molding herself to fit the rigid demands of family, colleagues, and society. Years of self-suppression have left her hollow, depressed, and emotionally numb.
In a desperate attempt to “fix” herself, she signs up for a cutting-edge four-week emotion regulation program at the Seohyang Medical Research Centre. What’s supposed to sculpt her into a more efficient, happier version of herself instead shatters her completely. The treatment strips away every social filter she’s ever had. Suddenly, Young-a stops smiling on command, starts saying every blunt, uncomfortable truth that crosses her mind, and begins to revel in the “bad behavior” she once feared.
The pacing becomes absolutely relentless once the treatment kicks in, and Slin Jung’s translation beautifully preserves the sharp, biting edge of Young-a’s newly unfiltered voice. What makes the book so compelling is how it manages to be hilariously wicked in its darkness while delivering a sobering, gut-punch critique of what we sacrifice when we choose “pleasantness” over truth.
Highly recommended for anyone who’s ever felt trapped by the need to be nice.
The book follows a young woman who lives in the shadow of her own life, trying to please everyone and defining herself by how well she does so. One day, she encounters an opportunity to change her circumstances, and the story traces the consequences of that shift, both practically and philosophically.
At its core, the novel explores the divide between those who live suppressed lives and those who are freer, as well as those caught in between—individuals who feel constrained yet seek relief by exerting control over others. Each path carries a cost, and the book usefully questions whether freedom from social norms necessarily leads to happiness or moral clarity.
The pacing is engaging, and the writing has an energetic, almost jittery quality that brings the narrator—herself restless and unsettled—to life. Some reviewers have noted the book’s supposed graphic nature, echoing the author’s own surprise in the afterword at the level of violence in her work. This feels overstated: compared to others in the genre, the book is relatively restrained, with little that is truly explicit or graphic, though more sensitive readers may still find parts uncomfortable.
There is clear promise here. The author tackles bold themes in an engaging way, but the prose would benefit from greater polish and precision. At times, it feels as though the author pulls her punches, which limits the impact of the material.
Overall, recommended for readers interested in feminist themes and the tension between conformity and self-determination.
My thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for providing an early copy in exchange for an honest review.
Oh Yeongah is a 27 year-old kindergarten teacher. She's contempt with her current self, almost depressive, apologises to everything and everyone. So when a parent of a child she teaches, and her boyfriend Suwon both offer her advice to go for counselling, she is reluctant but eventually gives it a go.
The counselling is a new technology, and Oh Yeongah's frontal lobe is altered for a period of time. During this time, she unleashes her inner self and says things to people and her best friend Eunju that she's witheld in herself for a very long time...
The book explains about self control and losing self control of your inner self. Are you a good or bad person? Do you always accept and agree with what other people say about you and the World? The good person is our self controlled persona, whereas the bad side is locked inside and doesn't come out.
I really enjoyed this book and I enjoyed reading both the author's and translator's acknowledgements (make sure to read from beginning to end - I had to re-read the prologue when I read the acknowledegments)!
If you enjoyed the Netflix series "We Are All Trying Here", then I think this book is for you. Also for those who like "Convenience Store Woman" by Suyaka Murata and "The Vegetarian" by Han Kang.
Thanks to Netgalley and Headline | Wildfire for this wonderfully translated book.
Youngah is a teacher, and therefore could be considered an authority figure of sorts. But she is also a Korean woman, in a society that is deeply misogynistic. So, she frequently finds herself in situations where her boundaries are effortlessly transgressed, and she has to make herself small to fit in with whatever role is required of her as a female.
Unsurprisingly, she is exhausted from the stress of maintaining this facade. So, Youngah decides to attend a course on emotional regulation based on some questionable methods. And, equally unsurprisingly, what is released in the process is previously suppressed and now almost uncontrollable emotion - and a very different way of seeing the world.
For anyone who has read Cho Nam-Joo's international bestseller Kim Ji-Young, Born 1982 (for which she received death threats in South Korea), the stresses of being a woman in that society will be no surprise. But Youngah's trajectory is very different from Kim Ji-Young's, so strap in and enjoy the ride. An interesting take on (justifiable) female rage, this earns 3.5 stars.
I received a free copy of this book from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review
I stormed through Orange and the Bread Knife in one sitting, and 24 hours later, I’m still struggling to categorise it.
Orange and the Bread Knife starts off solidly over well-trodden but not yet tiresome ground. Oh Young-a, a kind and thoughtful schoolteacher, is considerate of others above all else. Yet, despite having accomplished all she was “supposed” to, she slowly descends into depression.
At the urging of others, she begins an experimental treatment for her condition—and for better or worse, finds a new lease on life.
This novella is a rollercoaster. It would have been easy for Cheong Ye to lean into a Jekyll-and-Hyde style pivot, instead guardrails were firmly in place, and the results are at once mortifying, cathartic, freeing and painful to behold.
It truly is a delightful car crash to witness.
I couldn’t help but be impressed at the unique approach the novella takes tackling conformity over self-preservation and living against society’s expectations.
To be honest, this book aligns perfectly with my life lately. As someone born on the cusp between the Millennial and Gen Z generations, I often find myself asking: "Am I doing okay?" Moral obligations, external expectations, and my own inner thoughts are constantly at war in my head. In the end, I chose to evade facing my true self—albeit in a "cool" or composed manner.
The author’s use of metaphors and symbols is masterful. The struggles depicted are not easy to articulate, but they capture a sense of "normal yet eerie" tension, much like the themes explored in 《Ulykkelige lykke》 by Tove Ditlevsen.
Asian society has long been held in a rigid mold. Throughout history, from our parents’ generation to those before them, our ancestors tried to pave a stable path for their descendants through their own learnings. Ironically, this has left the younger generation crushed—not by reality itself, but by the weight of those expectations.
This is a very strange book and I'm still not 100% how I feel about it. I do understand the notion behind it - a woman having to conform to society's standards, especially in Korea. But I just couldn't quite connect with it.
Oh Young-a is a likeable woman. She's a kindergarten teacher, a friend, and a girlfriend. All of which she does with a smile and with one goal in mind - to make people believe she's happy and 'normal'. But what is normal and why does she have to behave this way?
After a run-in with one of her student's mother, she ends up visiting the Seohyang Medical Research Centre, looking for some help with depression. After a strange treatment, which promises to make her 'better', Young-a ends up in a spin of disastrous events. From lashing out to shouting, becoming brutally honest and giving people a few 'home-truths', Young-a becomes an even more honest version of the person she's been hiding below the surface. I kind of liked her. She really was sick of putting up with everyone else's nonsense!
This book really is about the weight of conforming to society's beliefs and expectations, and the damage it can have on ourselves. It was weird, interesting and somewhat shocking, but unfortunately I just couldn't connect with it fully.
Thank you to Headline and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
3.75 stars.
Youngah, a schoolteacher, lives in a constant state of restraint, always suppressing any urges other than what are amiable and conforming. Feeling disillusioned, she signs up for a pioneering procedure designed to make her happier. The result is a completely unrestrained Youngah, who acts on every impulse. I thought this was an interesting look at what our true selves could be if we weren't restricted by societal expectations. This change happens quite far through the book, which I felt was slightly at its detriment. In the end we don't see that much of the 'new and improved' Youngah which was a shame, as when she does appear, the book becomes deliciously unhinged.
Short and easy read - couldn’t put the book down and finished in a few hours.
This book touches on some themes that I think a lot of us go through. The political correctness of everything around us. Remembering not to offend someone by using the wrong pronouns, trying to be environmentally friendly by carrying eco bags but can’t I just use a plastic bag? Or feeling guilty about hating these new paper straws.
It was slightly cathartic when the protagonist receives treatment where she no longer has any self control and basically loses it on everyone around her and tells them exactly what she’s thinking. Of course, our modern day society could not survive if we all acted upon all of our egoistic desires but it was fun to watch her do it.
Orange and the Bread Knife is a Korean novel about a woman whose life changes after a neurological procedure. It touches on themes including authenticity, fitting in, relationships and the pressures of living in modern society.
I loved this book and I am very grateful that I was chosen to review it. The pacing was just right, the characters were well rounded and the scenarios highly realistic.
I’m struggling to find any criticisms with the book, I hope the author continues to write in this style.
I recommend this book to anyone who has ever questioned their standing in society, or who has ever wanted to rage against unjust social norms.
This was very odd and very different, but I wanted to know what happened. It's not too long & I'm still trying to figure it out. Interesting! Thanks to netgalley and the publisher for an arc in exchange for an honest review .
어쩌면 당연하면서도 혐오스럽고 강압적인 인간의 본질을 적나라하게 드러내는 책이다. 읽으면서 내가 과연 어떤 사람이고 무엇을 원하는지 나에게 자유란 무엇인지 고민할 수 있다.
한번 읽은 사람으로서는 좋은데 두번 읽었을 때도 같은 느낌일지는 잘 모르겠다. 책을 덮었을 때는 다시 읽고 싶지만 되돌아보면 소장을 고민하게 되는 책. 한번 읽어보고 시간을 두고 앞서 말한 책에서 다루는 주제가 고민이고 계속 이 책이 생각난다면 그후 소장을 결정 하는 것을 추천.