Clutter is the disease of American writing. We are a society strangling in unnecessary words, circular constructions, pompous frills and meaningless jargon. - P6

My purpose is to make myself and my experience available. If readers connect with my book it’s because they don’t think they’re hearing from an English professor. They’re hearing from a working writer.

That will still require plain old hard thinking—what E. B. White was doing in his boathouse—and the plain old tools of the English language.

I said that writing is a craft, not an art, and that the man who runs away from his craft because he lacks inspiration is fooling himself. He is also going broke. - P3

Ultimately the product that any writer has to sell is not the subject being written about, but who he or she is. - P5

This is the personal transaction that’s at the heart of good nonfiction writing. Out of it come two of the most important qualities that this book will go in search of: humanity and warmth. - P5


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She wasn’t a real ghost, of course. We weren’t sure she was a virgin either. Yet we called her so because of her clothes: the light taupe hanbok made of thick, coarse hemp cloth, a dress worn only by funeral-mourners, or by virgin ghosts in folktales, the bewitching, ethereal beauties who met an untimely demise, and were thus forever tortured by the angst of having never possessed a husband. - P17

I ate earth when I was young. It was neither poverty nor curiosity: it was just a pure urge that made me eat earth, the same one that makes you crave water when you’re thirsty. - P33


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She wasn’t a real ghost, of course. We weren’t sure she was a virgin either. Yet we called her so because of her clothes: the light taupe hanbok made of thick, coarse hemp cloth, a dress worn only by funeral-mourners, or by virgin ghosts in folktales, the bewitching, ethereal beauties who met an untimely demise, and were thus forever tortured by the angst of having never possessed a husband. - P17


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I saw an elephant: an outré elephant of a truth, just thrown out there naked, its colossal rear end now blocking my entire vision. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Yong took out a cigarette and lit it. - P30


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우리는 지붕 있는 집에서 잠을 잔 적이 거의 없었고, 우리가 선택할 수 있는 유일한 잠자리는 불에 타서 무너진 폐가일 때가 많았다. 인상을 찌푸린 채 잠에 빠져 있는 우리의 얼굴 위로 별빛이 오래 머물렀다. 심하게 훼손된 천장을 통해 쏟아져 들어오는 밤의 한기에도 불구하고 우리는 잘 잤다. 우리는 먹을 수 있는 것을 먹었다. 우리는 생존했다.

-알라딘 eBook <이름 없는 여자의 여덟 가지 인생> (이미리내 지음, 정해영 옮김) 중에서 - P67


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