Min’s Wife/Ajima Quotes in A Single Shard
Tree-ear glanced up at her, and their eyes met. Hers were bright and soft, set in a small face netted with fine wrinkles. He dropped his gaze at once, not wishing to be considered impolite. Like Crane-man’s eyes, he thought, and wondered why.
“Eat well, work well,” she said.
I’m not really deceiving anyone, he argued to himself. And I haven’t asked for more food—it should make no difference to her which bowl . . .
“Our son, Hyung-gu, died of fever when he was about your age,” she said. “These clothes I made for him, but they were never worn.”
Tree-ear’s eyes filled with tears. He bent to pick up another piece of laundry. Ajima meant something like “Auntie”; it was a term of great affection, reserved only for older kinswomen. Tree-ear was kin to no one, and yet Min’s wife wished for him to call her Ajima.
The potter’s voice was low, but shook with the effort of control. “The potter’s trade goes from father to son. I had a son once. My son, Hyung-gu. He is gone now. It is him I would have taught. You—”
Tree-ear saw the potter’s eyes, fierce with grief and rage. Min choked out the last words: “You are not my son.”
“Because he is proud, Tree-ear,” she said. “He does not wish to be fed out of pity.”
Tree-ear kicked a small stone at his feet. Why was it that pride and foolishness were so often close companions?
“We would like to give you a new name. Would it be agreeable to you if we were to call you Hyung-pil from now on?”
Tree-ear ducked his head quickly, recalling that the son of Min had been called Hyung-gu. A name that shared a syllable! It was an honor bestowed on siblings. No longer would Tree-ear go by the name of an orphan.
Min’s Wife/Ajima Quotes in A Single Shard
Tree-ear glanced up at her, and their eyes met. Hers were bright and soft, set in a small face netted with fine wrinkles. He dropped his gaze at once, not wishing to be considered impolite. Like Crane-man’s eyes, he thought, and wondered why.
“Eat well, work well,” she said.
I’m not really deceiving anyone, he argued to himself. And I haven’t asked for more food—it should make no difference to her which bowl . . .
“Our son, Hyung-gu, died of fever when he was about your age,” she said. “These clothes I made for him, but they were never worn.”
Tree-ear’s eyes filled with tears. He bent to pick up another piece of laundry. Ajima meant something like “Auntie”; it was a term of great affection, reserved only for older kinswomen. Tree-ear was kin to no one, and yet Min’s wife wished for him to call her Ajima.
The potter’s voice was low, but shook with the effort of control. “The potter’s trade goes from father to son. I had a son once. My son, Hyung-gu. He is gone now. It is him I would have taught. You—”
Tree-ear saw the potter’s eyes, fierce with grief and rage. Min choked out the last words: “You are not my son.”
“Because he is proud, Tree-ear,” she said. “He does not wish to be fed out of pity.”
Tree-ear kicked a small stone at his feet. Why was it that pride and foolishness were so often close companions?
“We would like to give you a new name. Would it be agreeable to you if we were to call you Hyung-pil from now on?”
Tree-ear ducked his head quickly, recalling that the son of Min had been called Hyung-gu. A name that shared a syllable! It was an honor bestowed on siblings. No longer would Tree-ear go by the name of an orphan.