第 1 章
When Emotions Are Almonds in Your Brain
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to feel nothing at all? To watch your loved ones die before your eyes and experience no fear, no sadness, no rage? This is the reality for Yunjae, a boy born with a rare condition that prevents him from experiencing emotions. "Almond" by Sohn Won-pyung explores this extraordinary premise through a story that has captivated readers worldwide, selling over a million copies and being translated into more than twenty languages. A sensation in South Korea where it won the Changbi Prize for Young Adult Fiction, this slim yet profound novel examines what makes us human through the lens of a boy who must learn emotions like vocabulary words. Embraced by celebrities like BTS's RM, who recommended it to fans, "Almond" asks a fundamental question: if emotions define humanity, what happens when someone is born without them?
第 2 章
The Boy with Almonds Inside His Brain
Yunjae has almonds inside his brain-or rather, his amygdalae, the almond-shaped structures responsible for processing emotions, are unusually small. Diagnosed with alexithymia, a rare neurological condition, he cannot identify or express feelings that come naturally to others. On his sixteenth birthday-Christmas Eve-he watches with clinical detachment as a brutal act of violence unfolds before him. Six people die in the bloodbath, including his beloved grandmother who had always protected him. His mother, the one person who understood him completely, survives but remains trapped in a vegetative state, leaving Yunjae truly alone for the first time.
This wasn't the first time Yunjae's condition revealed its profound impact on his life. At age six, after his mother accidentally forgot to pick him up from kindergarten, he wandered the streets without fear or anxiety - emotions that would have paralyzed most children. During this wandering, he encountered a scene that would haunt others: a young boy being savagely beaten by older students. While any other child might have run away screaming or frozen in terror, Yunjae approached a nearby shopkeeper and reported the incident with the same tone he might use to comment on the weather: "There's a boy who could die soon." The victim was the shopkeeper's son, who later succumbed to his injuries. The grieving father, unable to comprehend Yunjae's emotionless delivery of such crucial information, blamed him for his son's death. That evening, when his mother gently asked if he had been scared during the entire ordeal, Yunjae's simple "No" revealed the depth of his condition.
From birth, Yunjae's difference was apparent. Unlike other infants who instinctively mirror their parents' expressions, he remained stone-faced, never responding to his mother's elaborate attempts to elicit a smile through rattles, peek-a-boo games, or silly dances. His peculiar behaviors became increasingly concerning as he grew - he would repeatedly reach for scalding kettles despite being burned, maintain unwavering eye contact with aggressive dogs, and show no distress in situations that would terrify other children. His grandmother, showing remarkable understanding, dubbed him her "adorable little monster," becoming his fierce defender against neighborhood children and parents who whispered about his strange lack of empathy and emotional response.
His mother, desperate to help her son, developed an almost mystical belief in the power of almonds. She fed them to him religiously, clinging to the hope that consuming the nut might somehow enhance the growth of his deficient amygdalae. With patience and creativity, she explained complex emotional concepts to him using simple analogies: everyone has these almond-shaped structures in their brains that work like emotional traffic lights, signaling when to feel fear, anger, joy, or sorrow. But Yunjae's emotional traffic lights were permanently dim, leaving him unable to decode the subtle language of human emotion. To him, feelings remained abstract concepts, like trying to describe colors to someone who had never seen them, or explaining music to someone who had never heard a note.
第 3 章
Learning Emotions Through Post-it Notes
How do you teach someone to feel? Yunjae's mother became determined to help him navigate a world built on emotional connections, transforming their home into a living manual of human behavior. She meticulously covered their walls, doors, and furniture with colored paper instructions, creating a visual roadmap of appropriate responses: "When cars come too close to you -> Dodge or run away. When people smile -> Smile back. When someone is crying -> Pat their shoulder and say 'It's okay.'" These Post-it notes formed a comprehensive system of social cues that Yunjae was expected to memorize, replacing the instinctive understanding that came naturally to other children.
As he progressed through childhood, the complexity of relationships presented challenges far beyond these simple equations. Each new school year brought fresh obstacles, with Yunjae quickly identified as the "weird kid" who responded differently to social situations. His mother's primary directive became "Don't stand out. That's all you need to do," a seemingly simple instruction that required him to develop sophisticated acting skills to mask his condition. He learned to observe and mirror his classmates' reactions, timing his responses to match theirs.
His mother developed increasingly sophisticated teaching methods, including an "emotion game" where she'd present complex scenarios: "If your friend loses their favorite toy," or "When someone gives you a birthday present you already have." Yunjae would need to deduce the appropriate emotional response, facial expression, and verbal reaction. She carefully printed hanja characters representing the full spectrum of human emotions-happiness, anger, sadness, joy, love, hatred, and desire-positioning them strategically throughout their house like protective talismans. His grandmother, though illiterate in hanja, became an active participant in this emotional education, meticulously tracing these characters daily, paying special attention to rewriting the negative emotions that seemed to fade faster on the bathroom walls.
By fourth grade, Yunjae had mastered the art of social camouflage, achieving his mother's goal of seamless integration. Silence became his most reliable strategy-he learned when to appear patient instead of angry, serious rather than laughing, strong instead of vulnerable. He discovered that the strategic use of phrases like "Thank you" and "I'm sorry" could navigate him through most social encounters. The real challenge emerged when he needed to express personal preferences or genuine feelings-like the moment he had to convincingly say "That looks good" about a Choco-Pie he had no interest in eating, or fabricate enthusiasm for activities his classmates enjoyed.
Throughout this journey, Yunjae maintained an internal dialogue with himself, carefully following his mother's wisdom: Too much honesty can wound others unnecessarily. While he couldn't experience emotions in the conventional way, the unwavering support of his family-their physical presence, their patient guidance, their warm hands holding his-kept him anchored and whole. In a world that often misunderstood him, he was never truly alone, supported by their unconditional love and determination to help him succeed.
第 4 章
A Bookstore of Memories and Loss
After the Christmas Eve tragedy that took his grandmother's life and left his mother comatose, Yunjae finds himself managing their used-book store alone. The store becomes both his sanctuary and a reminder of what he's lost. The smell of old books connects with him in a way he can't explain-as if encountering something he already knows. Unlike movies or TV shows that leave no blanks, books offer spaces between words and lines where he can insert himself.
Dr. Shim, a former physician who now runs a bakery above the bookstore, reveals he was close with Yunjae's mother and offers to employ Yunjae, paying monthly wages since he owns the building. With few customers at the bookstore, Yunjae's life settles into a routine of school, hospital visits to his unresponsive mother, and managing the increasingly empty store.
The doctors plainly tell him his mother has no chance of waking up. He helps nurses turn her body to prevent bedsores, describing it like "turning over a big load of luggage." A social worker suggests he move to a youth shelter or group home, but he asks for time to consider, though he has no intention of leaving.
Alone in the silent house, Yunjae contemplates what "normal" means, trying to find guidance in his mother's past words. He experiments with a chat app but gets no useful answers. The bookstore becomes increasingly like a grave of books and forgotten letters, a physical manifestation of his isolation and loss.
In this liminal space between childhood and adulthood, Yunjae must navigate not only his condition but also the practical realities of surviving alone. The bookstore represents both his past-filled with memories of his mother and grandmother-and his uncertain future as he tries to determine what kind of life is possible for someone who cannot feel.
第 5 章
The Boy Who Feels Too Much
Gon enters Yunjae's life like a hurricane-violent, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore. A troubled transfer student with a history in juvenile detention, Gon initially bullies Yunjae, fascinated and enraged by his emotionless responses. His first encounter with Yunjae is marked by explosive anger: "You're the son of a bitch that took my place as their son?" Gon confronts Yunjae, referring to how Yunjae had pretended to be the long-lost son of Professor Yun and his dying wife. This confrontation sets the tone for their complex relationship, with Gon's raw emotions clashing against Yunjae's measured calm.
The contrast between them couldn't be starker. While Yunjae cannot feel emotions due to his alexithymia, Gon feels everything with devastating intensity. His rage, pain, and vulnerability are constantly on display, barely contained beneath his tough exterior. Every slight becomes a wound, every kindness suspicious. Abandoned as a child and bounced between foster homes, Gon struggles with profound issues of rejection and belonging. His history of delinquency and violence stems from this emotional overflow. When reunited with his biological father, Professor Yun, their relationship remains strained by years of absence and mutual misunderstanding. Their awkward attempts at connection only highlight the depth of their estrangement.
In a pivotal scene that reveals both characters' nature, Gon brings a butterfly in a plastic container for what he calls "empathy training." The scene unfolds with increasing tension as Gon, desperate to provoke an emotional response, systematically tortures the butterfly. Despite Yunjae's quiet protests, Gon tears its wings and pierces it with a needle while demanding Yunjae feel something - anything. When Yunjae can only clinically observe that the butterfly "looks uncomfortable" rather than showing empathy or horror, Gon's frustration reaches a breaking point. He stomps the butterfly to death, unable to continue his own cruel experiment, his actions revealing more about his own emotional turmoil than Yunjae's condition.
Despite their difficult beginning, a tentative friendship forms through shared isolation. Gon begins visiting the bookstore regularly, often sitting silently among the shelves or engaging in halting conversations. Yunjae observes that while others find Gon difficult to understand, to him Gon is transparent-his tough exterior merely a facade hiding deep vulnerability. During a significant visit to Gon's luxurious but empty apartment, Gon reveals two truths: he kept visiting Yunjae partly because Yunjae's lack of judgment provided a unique kind of acceptance, and partly because he desperately wanted to know about his mother's final moments with the Yun family.
Their unlikely relationship represents two extremes of emotional experience-one boy who feels nothing, trapped in emotional silence, and another who feels everything with overwhelming intensity, unable to find peace. Together, they begin to teach each other what it means to be human, with Yunjae learning to recognize and name emotions through Gon's explosive examples, while Gon finds in Yunjae's calm presence a space where his feelings don't have to overwhelm him. Their friendship becomes a study in emotional balance, each filling the other's empty spaces in unexpected ways.
第 6 章
Running Toward Something Undefined
Lee Dora enters the story as Gon's complete opposite. While Gon teaches Yunjae pain, guilt, and agony, Dora introduces him to flowers, scents, breezes, and dreams-like songs he's hearing for the first time. A runner on the track team (though she's its only member), Dora moves through the world with a quiet self-assurance that fascinates Yunjae.
When Yunjae asks what she's running for, her previously radiant eyes darken as she tells him he's asked the question she hates most. She explains her frustration with people questioning her purpose for running-to her, it's like being asked why she lives. She runs simply because she wants to, like we live because we're alive. Her parents discourage her running, saying it's useless for adulthood.
Dora visits the bookstore unexpectedly and asks if it's true Yunjae doesn't feel anything. When she asks what he wants to be when he grows up, he admits no one has ever asked him that before. She shares that her dream has "evaporated" due to her parents' opposition to her running.
Walking home from school, Yunjae experiences a strange moment when a sudden wind blows, scattering colorful leaves everywhere. Dora appears, and as they pass closely, her hair whips across his face, carrying an unfamiliar scent. This brief encounter leaves him sleepless, feverish, with scenes replaying in his mind. His body burns, his pulse pounds loudly, and he feels bugs crawling over his skin.
When he describes these symptoms to Dr. Shim, the doctor congratulates him-Yunjae is growing, both physically and emotionally. He suggests Yunjae has a crush on Dora, though Yunjae insists these feelings come from his brain, not his heart. His symptoms worsen daily; his temples throb at the sight of her, his ears prick up at her voice. His body seems to have outpaced his mind, becoming as uncomfortable as a long overcoat in summer.
Through Dora, Yunjae begins to experience emotions he cannot name or understand, suggesting that perhaps his condition is not as fixed as the doctors believed.
第 7 章
The Price of Feeling
As Yunjae's relationship with Dora blossoms, Gon grows distant, hanging out with troublemakers and reverting to his old ways. When Gon is falsely accused of stealing money during a class trip, the situation deteriorates rapidly. Despite having an alibi, everyone blames him, and Professor Yun reimburses the money without even asking if Gon was guilty.
During Korean class, Gon's disruptive behavior escalates into a full confrontation. He trashes the classroom while students cower against the walls. When Dora confronts him, saying "You piece of trash... Get lost," Gon slips out the back door, and no one-not even Yunjae-calls him back.
Later, Gon visits the bookstore one last time, expressing his frustration about being falsely accused. He declares, "If I can't protect myself from being hurt, I'd rather hurt other people," and warns they might not see each other again. Soon after, the real thief confesses-it was a classmate who had set up Gon just "for fun."
Professor Yun visits Yunjae looking devastated. He confesses to hitting Gon twice and admits his terrible thoughts-wondering if things would be better if Gon had never been born. When Yunjae tells him Gon is a good kid, Professor Yun breaks down, asking Yunjae to tell Gon to come back if he sees him.
Determined to find his friend, Yunjae tracks down "Steamed Bun," one of Gon's acquaintances, who directs him to "Steel Wire"-a notorious former juvenile detention inmate whom Gon admires. When Dora questions why Yunjae must search for Gon, he simply replies, "Because I've realized he is my friend."
At the port town hideout, Yunjae finds Gon with Steel Wire, who offers Gon a knife and encourages him to attack Yunjae. As Steel Wire threatens Gon, Yunjae takes the blow instead, pushing Gon aside. The knife digs deep into Yunjae's chest as blood oozes from his body.
When Gon shakes him awake, holding him in his arms and begging him not to die, Yunjae whispers for him to apologize to everyone he's hurt. As Gon's tears fall on his face, something inside Yunjae's heart explodes. "I feel it," he whispers, as emotions flood through him for the first time. At last, he becomes fully human, just as the world drifts away.
第 8 章
The Awakening of Almonds
In what seems like a miracle, Yunjae survives his near-fatal injury. He wakes up in the hospital, experiencing something entirely foreign - tears streaming down his face as he both cries and laughs simultaneously. The sensation overwhelms him, unfamiliar yet deeply natural, like a dam finally breaking after years of pressure. Even more miraculously, his mother has awakened from her coma while he was unconscious, as if their fates were mysteriously intertwined.
Dr. Shim arrives with the full explanation: Professor Yun had reached the scene with police after Dora's quick thinking led her to call their teacher. Steel Wire, though stabbed by Gon in the confrontation, sustained non-life-threatening injuries and now awaits trial for his actions. The moment transforms into something even more precious when Dr. Shim returns pushing a wheelchair carrying Yunjae's mother, who beams at him with that smile he'd memorized but never truly felt the warmth of until now. When Yunjae says "Mom," the simple word carrying years of stored emotion, she bursts into tears, her trembling hands stroking his cheeks and hair in that familiar gesture that now resonates differently.
The traumatic experience with Steel Wire appears to have served as an emotional defibrillator for Yunjae's amygdalae. The near-death experience, combined with his desperate desire to protect his friend, created a perfect storm that activated emotional pathways that had lain dormant his entire life. Medical scans confirm increased activity in his amygdalae, suggesting that while Yunjae's condition was real, it wasn't necessarily permanent - his brain had possessed the capacity for emotional processing all along but needed extreme circumstances to break through the neurological barriers. Dr. Shim explains that such cases, while rare, demonstrate the brain's remarkable plasticity and ability to forge new neural pathways under intense pressure.
As mother and son reunite, both crying and laughing together, we witness the beautiful culmination of Yunjae's journey. The boy who once couldn't feel has learned not only to recognize emotions intellectually but to experience them viscerally. Each tear represents a milestone in his transformation. His condition, once seen as a limitation, becomes the unique lens through which he views and values human connection. The experience has taught him that emotions, like the almonds his grandmother once spoke of, can indeed bloom in the most unexpected ways. His mother notices subtle changes in his expressions, the way his eyes now crinkle when he smiles, how his voice carries inflections of feeling that were absent before. Together, they begin the process of rediscovering each other in this new emotional landscape.
第 9 章
The Journey Beyond Almonds
In his eighteenth spring, now an adult after graduating high school, Yunjae rides a bus past blooming cherry blossoms to visit Gon. Not for any particular reason-just to see his good friend whom everyone called a monster. The gentle sway of the bus and the scattered petals outside the window mirror the delicate balance he's achieved in his life. This marks the beginning of an entirely different, unpredictable story, one that would challenge everything he's learned about emotions and connections.
Yunjae has decided to confront whatever life throws at him, as he always has, feeling however much he can-nothing more, nothing less. He's learned to recognize small victories: the slight warmth in his chest when his mother's favorite song plays, the subtle shift in his breathing when Dora smiles, the measured calm he maintains when others might panic. His journey represents the universal human struggle to connect with others despite our limitations and differences, much like how a person learning a new language must gradually build their vocabulary of emotions and expressions.
The novel ultimately suggests that what makes us human isn't simply our capacity for emotion but our desire to understand and connect with others despite our differences. Yunjae's friendship with Gon-the boy who feels too much, whose emotions crash like waves against shore-and his romance with Dora-the girl who runs without explanation, leaving trails of questions in her wake-show how human connections transcend neurological conditions. Their trio forms a spectrum of emotional experience: one who feels too little, one who feels too much, and one who feels in bursts of motion.
The almonds in our brains may vary in size and function, but our shared humanity lies in our attempts to reach across the divide between ourselves and others. Whether we feel everything intensely like Gon, whose heart seems to break at every injustice he witnesses, run toward undefined goals like Dora, whose feet carry her away from pain before her mind can process it, or struggle to identify emotions like Yunjae, who must consciously catalog and analyze each feeling, we are all engaged in the same fundamental human project: trying to understand ourselves and connect with others in a world that often makes little sense.
Through Yunjae's story, we come to understand that emotions aren't simply biological responses but learned experiences shaped by our relationships and choices. He demonstrates this through small, deliberate acts: keeping a journal of facial expressions, practicing appropriate responses to different situations, and learning to recognize the physical symptoms of emotions he can't fully feel. His journey reminds us that empathy and connection are skills we can develop, regardless of our starting point. In the end, what matters isn't how naturally emotions come to us, but how we choose to act toward others in a world filled with both monsters and miracles, where understanding often comes through patience, persistence, and the willingness to see beyond our own limitations.
