What Cannot Be Separated
The room had gone past saving. Peter never even finished the thought. He fumbled, trailed off, and ran out of words.
Well. The way things stood, he had nothing left to do but sit there blaming himself for ever having opened his mouth.
I saw it differently.
Stealing cars is hardly an everyday premise. This was the precise beat that called up a mega-hit destined to define the twenty-first century.
Not certain. Not yet...
Still, it was worth looking into. In any case, the upperclassmen never let up. Objection after objection landed on Peter's argument, and Julian put in his own word as if he were merely seconding them.
"The author is the one who writes the work. How, then, can we possibly look at the author and the work as separate things? Anyone who claims we can will be the same sort of person who, in every other field, starts preaching mechanical neutrality and both-sides nonsense."
At that Peter shut his mouth, thoroughly cowed. I was just beginning to think my own turn might be drifting toward me when a small knock sounded at the lecture-hall door.
A moment later it opened, carefully. And would you look at that—the professors gathered to grade us rose from their seats as one.
Every eye went to the same place, as of course it would. A white-haired old man stood there in a splendid suit. His age was impossible to guess. He walked toward the dais at a steady, unhurried pace.
"Fortunately, I don't seem to be late."
The moderator snatched up the microphone.
"May I present Professor Middleton—until this year the chaired professor of English at Oxford, now appointed headmaster of the Royal School, and a master of comparative literature."
What? Professor Middleton of Oxford?
Anyone who had studied literature would have heard the name at least once. He was counted, alongside Umberto Eco, among the finest minds of the age—a literary theorist who would rank in the top three in the whole of British history. He had sought out writers beyond the establishment and was credited with widening the horizon of English literature itself. Our own publishing house had translated several of his books and brought them out in Korea.
And that man had been appointed headmaster of the Royal School?
He ought to be retired by now, enjoying whatever years he has left. Why?
My thoughts were still tangling when Middleton stepped up onto the platform. He greeted the professors who had been marking us, then quietly took an empty seat.
"It seems I've broken the flow of your debate for no good reason. I am sorry for that. But I was curious about you new students, and I found I couldn't help myself."
The moderator welcomed him and tried to draw a response from the room. The freshmen, who had no way of knowing Middleton's reputation, could only look unimpressed.
The Oxford students were another matter. As if on cue they rose and poured out a standing ovation. Julian, quick to read a room, was on his feet in a flare of green suiting, and one by one the freshmen began to follow him.
Middleton inclined his head in thanks, then looked to the moderator.
"What was the debate?"
"Whether an author and a work can be considered separately..."
"I see."
He nodded as if the subject were an old acquaintance, then turned to the debaters.
"Starting from the student on the far left—might I hear again what opinions have been offered?"
"Ah, Headmaster. Olivia has not yet managed to put forward a proper view."
"Not put one forward?"
"The subject seems to have been unfamiliar to her."
Middleton gave a small nod.
"She's a new student. Of course her thoughts aren't settled yet. That's quite all right. These things happen. Still, by now one idea or another ought to have occurred to her. What do you think?"
The question had been meant for Olivia.
"Headmaster."
The answer came from the wrong direction.
"This is a grossly unfair proceeding."
The voice was on the right. Julian, of course. He opened his mouth again in an exaggerated, theatrical tone.
"Olivia failed to answer in time, and that failure will already have been entered into the score. If the headmaster now grants her a chance and the marking is affected, then a clear victim is created by that very act—"
"Student. What is your name?"
"Julian Burnett. On my father's side, the founder of Standard Bank. On my mother's, a distant connection of the Renfrew barons of Scotland..."
"Yes. Forgive me for interrupting the debate, but I have something to say to Julian. May I?"
Professor Middleton looked to the rest of us. When everyone nodded, he went on, perfectly calm.
"Julian, the business of sorting you into forms seems to weigh on you. Yes. I understand. But I would like you to keep one thing in mind."
Julian only stared.
"To hold a debate, assign marks, and divide people into better and worse is a profoundly minor affair. What matters more is that a debate teaches you to listen to opinions other than your own. Seen that way, Julian, how are you doing?"
No answer.
"I was only pointing out a question of fairness..."
Was that really all? Middleton had already caught the thin thread of worry in the boy's eyes.
"You're still afraid, aren't you, that what you've just said might land you in a lower form."
Julian flinched. I nearly laughed. Well, of course. A man of Middleton's caliber could see straight through a seventeen-year-old.
"Don't worry. Nothing unpleasant is going to come of this for you. Those of you who are grading—you all heard that, I trust?"
Only after the professors had given him a firm assurance did Julian nod, with the air of a man yielding because he had no choice.
A moment later Middleton spoke again.
"Miss Olivia looks rather put on the spot."
If you thought about it, the whole mess had started from an attempt to give her an opening. Of course she would be at a loss. Perhaps that was why he turned toward me.
"And you, student. What is your name?"
"Park Jihoon."
"Yes. Jihoon. While Miss Olivia gathers herself, why don't you offer your view first?"
That much I could manage. I was glad to speak.
"I believe the author and the work are separate."
A senior cut in at once, as if he had been waiting for it.
"Can you answer the objection Student Peter raised a moment ago?"
I blinked.
"If a murderer's work is beautiful, are we obliged—despite the author's depravity—to judge that creation beautiful?"
He laid the British accent on far thicker than before, and he spoke several times faster, fast enough that anyone who was not a native would struggle to catch the whole of it. A debate tactic, if you wanted to call it that. He meant to wave the gap in our English in my face until I lost the will to answer.
Oh? So my English isn't up to standard?
Fine. Then I would simply go slower.
"Senior, before I answer, may I ask one thing?"
He waited.
"Do you know Isaac Newton?"
His face asked whether I called that a question. Newton—Britain's pride, the man who had set classical physics on its feet. Born in this country, you could not fail to know him. I kept my eyes on the senior and went on even more slowly, setting each word down by itself.
"That example is the wrong one."
"And how, exactly, is it wrong?"
"Gravity is science, plain and simple. What we are discussing belongs to the realm of art—"
"Then what you are saying, Senior, is that scientific achievement and aesthetic achievement must be judged as strictly separate things?"
A question he had not seen coming? For the first time that day, the senior had nothing ready. And no wonder. Professor Middleton was a literary critic, and the foremost aesthetician of the age. To stand in front of a man like that and claim that a scientific achievement outranked an aesthetic one?
You would need an argument firm enough, and clear enough, to persuade Middleton himself.
Not one of the seniors looked willing to walk that particular path.
Sure enough.
"Shall we hear a rebuttal?"
One question from Professor Middleton, and the lecture hall filled with an awkward silence. Then, with a touch of mischief, he offered the floor to Julian.
"Julian. What was your opinion?"
"Th-the author and the work cannot be separated..."
"The precise opposite of Jihoon's."
Julian said nothing.
"No wish to offer a rebuttal, then?"
Still nothing.
"It needn't be the correct answer. Calmly saying what you yourself think is quite enough."
Even with the headmaster encouraging him, Julian managed only a strained smile, as if he were praying the hour would pass.
"Hmm. Very well. I shall take it that you changed your mind partway through, and that you now agree with Jihoon."
The moment Professor Middleton had settled it that way, he turned back to me.
"Scientific achievement and aesthetic achievement cannot be separated. That is your claim, Jihoon?"
"Yes."
At that clear answer the corners of his mouth climbed, wide as my grandfather's.
"Good. Shall we leave it there, rest a little, and go on?"
The moderator hurried to the microphone.
"Please return to the lecture hall after a twenty-minute break."
I let out a long breath. I had thought I'd already survived every kind of battle there was.
An English debate is not as easy as it looks.
Ordinary conversation was no trouble. People knew I was East Asian, and they made a reasonable allowance for it. Today had been different. My opponent had poured the words out on purpose, and I had been forced to concentrate with everything I had. Now that the tension had finally let go, the fatigue I had been postponing came at me all at once.
I clicked my tongue. From here on I might have to study English in earnest.
I was turning that over when a pair of old shoes came toward me, step by step. I looked up, startled. Professor Middleton was already inches from my face. I moved to stand and greet him. He didn't let me. He dropped into the seat at my side.
"That's a very fine suit you're wearing."
"Sir?"
"Whoever made it, the workmanship is astonishing."
The words landed like a cipher. A large question mark rose over my head, and that was all.