My only real complaint is one that is purely a function of the collection itself - by the end I was a little weary of the nigh-constant presence of Mr. Park (in some version or other) as narrator. I don't know if it would have come up had I encountered the stories with more temporal space between them. I'm not sure why it bugged me here when it doesn't so much with Calvino or Borges.
Reality is very malleable in these stories. Oddly, I'm finding myself enjoying having read them more than I did reading them, if that makes sense? It may only make sense if I reveal that I am trying to dodge a migraine at the moment, so the sense of my senses may be a bit off.
Perversely, since I doubt my ability to achieve my goals in any comparable manner, the collection gives me hope to keep working on a project similar in hue that I'd almost decided to abandon.