Greek Lessons

By Tanya Shah

3rd Year, BA Geography Hons

Edited by Ayushi Rani

“Do you ever wonder at the strangeness of it?

That our bodies have eyelids and lips,

that they can at times be made to close from the outside,

and at other times to lock fast from within.”

Some books stay with you because of the story they tell. Others stay because of the silences they hold. Greek Lessons by Han Kang is a quiet, gentle novel that doesn’t try to impress, it just sits beside you and listens. And in that stillness, it breaks you in the softest way possible.

The story follows two unnamed characters, a woman who has lost her voice and a man who is slowly going blind. They meet in a Greek language class, both carrying their own kind of silence, both trying to hold on to something in a world that keeps taking things away. She speaks through her silence. He sees through the dark.

What makes this book so beautiful is how deeply it explores grief and connection without being loud. There is no drama, no heavy twists, just small, intimate moments that feel painfully real. One of the most striking things about the novel is its refusal to name its protagonists. In a world that insists on identities, names, labels, definitions; Han Kang does the opposite. She erases that layer entirely, leaving behind only feeling. This anonymity does something profound: it universalizes their pain. It becomes our pain, our longing, our search for connection in a world that so often makes us invisible.

The Greek language, too, becomes more than a symbol, it becomes a third protagonist. The choice of Greek is not incidental. The author could’ve chosen any language. But she chose one that has survived extinction through memory and revival. It’s as if the act of learning a dead language shows their internal struggle: to bring back what they’ve lost, to remember how to feel, how to live.

Another part I loved was how the woman, as she learned Greek, slowly started curating small poems in the language. It wasn’t about becoming fluent. It was about creating meaning, building something beautiful out of something broken, both the language and herself. Her notebook, filled with scattered Greek words and verses, felt like a diary of healing. It was like she was writing to remember, to resist fading away.

The world is a post office, and we all are curating letters constantly, in remembrance, in forgetfulness, in happiness, in sorrow.

This book feels like one such letter. Or many. Some addressed. Some anonymous. All filled with unsent emotion. And somehow, even when you think it’s meant for no one in particular, you realize it knows you intimately. So read it for the simple, honest writing that touches the heart without trying too hard. Read it not for the plot, but for the pauses.

---