I remember being mesmerised by the story of a photo studio that printed pictures of people’s dreams. What I read in my early childhood were children’s books by Korean writers such as Kang So-cheon or Ma Hae-song. Before I made friends in a strange neighbourhood, I had my books with me every afternoon. Despite the frequent moves, I could feel at ease thanks to all those books protecting me. To me, books were half-living beings that constantly multiplied and expanded their boundaries. A deluge spilled out from the shelves, covering the floor in disorderly towers like a secondhand bookstore where the organising had been put off for ever.
When I was a child, my father, a young and poor novelist, kept our unfurnished house packed with books.
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