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Rachel Marie Kang Books

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Let There Be Art

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“We can be nomads in our own narrative, can feel like a stranger in our own story, just stopping by and traveling through, forever looking for something we feel we will not and cannot ever find. This sense of placelessness has everything to do with personhood, has everything to do with the ways our lives will project forward—who we will become and why. We are, all of us, trying to go back to the backyards where we learned to throw baseballs, the kitchens where we learned how to cook. We are trying to get back to the fields our families farmed, the ancient recipes and remedies, hoping to know what we need to make the soups and sauces. We search for bloodlines lost in map lines, the immigrant story of coming to a new land only to find ourselves missing the old one. Generations stretch out, longer and farther from our place of origin, straining and stretching to hold on to who we are. But the currents of change are strong, washing it all away in the waters of time.”

“Grief undulates, slips thin like air in and through heart, body, and soul. It moves unnamed, unknown. A fleeting thing that is, for better or worse, forever here to stay. What this book does not do—and what I could never do—is attempt to put a definitive grasp on grief. Grief cannot be quantified; it swells and looms large, only to shrivel and hide when sought out and sized. Grief is one thing to one person and presents a whole new face to another. It is emotion and embodied; it is expressed and it emits. It is body, spirit, mind, and soul. Hidden and seen. Felt and perceived. It is no one thing, for it is everything and everywhere all at once. It is in and around me. And—whether you feel it, fight it, or fear it—grief is in and around you too.”

“Grief comes to us in all shapes, knocking down doors of all sizes, the unanticipated guest that it is. We lose life, lose livelihood. Dreams die and bodies deteriorate with disease. Wedding bands go missing and houses fold in foreclosure. We hold our breath waiting for the bad news, waiting to hear that the world will be ripped from under our feet. We, all of us, cradle unnamed grief, crying into corners when the world isn’t looking as we wait for someone—anyone—to say it’s not too much to want to make sense of it all.”