Overflowing Talent (1)
Years ago, Chief Editor Im Myeong-eul was invited to serve as a judge for a major novel contest. That was when he first saw Modern House, and the work won by unanimous decision.
It was the kind of piece anyone could tell was original and excellent at a glance. Not long afterward, the awards ceremony was held at the newspaper headquarters that had organized the contest.
The winner, Park Jeong-shin, was not especially likable. He looked more like someone who ought to have been on stage or on television, and there was something arrogant and immature in the air around him.
Then, just before the ceremony began, Im happened to catch sight of Park in the corridor behind the hall. Park was muttering to himself, telling himself not to panic, not to shake, to stay confident, that no one could replace him, that he was special, unique, irreplaceable. Im’s first thought was that the man would be difficult for editors to handle—and perhaps even difficult for the writer himself to handle.
For an author, mentality mattered just as much as skill. With a psyche like that, there might never be a second book. It would be the worst possible kind of case: a debut work that became the author’s retirement piece.
And in the end, his concern came true. Park Jeong-shin failed to publish another novel for years, and only the innocent editors assigned to him got worn down in the process. The contract was kept alive solely because his talent was too good to waste.
Then Mok Hyunsun broke that chain of bad luck. The two versions of Moving Dream made that plain enough. The draft had an appealing story, but no ending. The writer seemed to be fumbling about, as if afraid of something. The finished version was different. It contained the growth of the protagonist’s inner life, the reason for that growth, and, above all, the author’s conviction.
What happened between the draft and the final version? He had simply met Mok Hyunsun.
Before Team Leader Lee left, Im had asked him, “Do you know how Mok Hyunsun got Park Jeong-shin to hand over the manuscript?”
“Hmm. He wouldn’t give me a detailed answer. But he did say this.”
“?”
“He said he solved it in a Freudian way.”
“!”
The chill that ran down his spine at that moment was no joke. He must have used The Interpretation of Dreams. He read the novel, caught the clue on the spot, and solved it right there. How on earth did he move that quickly…?
The Interpretation of Dreams was a notoriously difficult book. No one could casually throw it around without real confidence. Even Im Myeong-eul had no idea which passage Mok Hyunsun had used. If he had actually persuaded Park Jeong-shin with it, then he must have understood the book completely—memorized it, even.
But was that even possible?
Not unless he was a genius.
Knock, knock.
“Come in.”
Before long, Mok Hyunsun came in carrying a stack of papers.
“Chief Editor. You wanted to see me?”
“Mm. I heard the news. You got the manuscript from Park, did you?”
“Yes. I received it last night. Senior Ji-un is proofreading it now, and once that’s finished, I’ll hand it over to the general editorial team.”
“Good. And as promised, you’ll be the one to write the review.”
When a superior said something like that, an editor would normally be all smiles. But Mok Hyunsun simply answered, “Yes.”
He even looked more tired than usual. But his reaction didn’t matter.
Im Myeong-eul had something to say to him. He had never intended to leave Mok Hyunsun as nothing more than a mere editor. The time had come to give him advice. If he’s already grasped Park Jeong-shin that well, then he’s qualified to write literary criticism. It’s time he moved from review-writing to criticism proper.
Just as he was about to say that, Mok Hyunsun spoke first.
“Chief Editor.”
“Go ahead.”
“I wrote a critique on Park Jeong-shin’s work.”
Im blinked. “You wrote a critique?”
“Yes. Ah—strictly speaking, I wrote critiques. Three of them, to be exact. If it’s not too much trouble, could I ask for your feedback?”
That was shocking enough on its own. He had already written a critique on Park Jeong-shin’s work?
Three of them?
And he was bold enough to bring them to the chief editor?
Keeping his expression neutral, Im simply held out his hand. He meant: let me see them.
“Thank you.”
Mok Hyunsun placed the pages he had been carrying into his hand. “...Are you preparing for Shinchun Moonye?”
“Yes.”
“Did you want to become a critic?”
“Not exactly. I just… enjoy writing criticism. That’s all.”
“...”
“If I’m going to do this seriously, I thought it would be better to go for the critic track, so I’m planning to give it a try.”
Im swallowed a smile. He really isn’t normal, is he?
There was something many aspiring writers got wrong. Debuting was never the finish line. Writing only for the sake of debut was as foolish as dating with nothing in mind but the wedding.
The real thing always began after you earned the credential. That was exactly why so many critics disappeared after debuting: the joy of finally becoming one was brief, and then they were unable to properly unfold the critical world they had wanted to build.
But Mok Hyunsun seemed to understand. Debut was merely an event one had to pass through in order to reach the real thing. He understood it with almost unnerving simplicity and efficiency.
The papers turned one by one in his hands. Through the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the seasoned critic’s gaze sharpened.
Modern House... Moving Dream... and even a full authorial theory connecting the two? How can he write this fast? This is extraordinary talent.
He glanced at Mok Hyunsun again. The familiar expression of someone struggling to swallow a yawn. So he wrote this last night. He’s diligent, too.
But what astonished him most of all was, naturally, the level of the criticism itself. It was so good, so fresh, that Im would have wanted to run it in Gyeongseong Geul immediately. Excellent and original—how many pieces like that ever appeared in a single year?
At the very least, one thing was certain. The three critiques in his hands were exactly that.
“...Hm.”
What on earth am I supposed to say to him?
No matter what praise he reached for, it would sound inadequate.
And because he had spent so much of his life being stingy with praise, the words would not come easily.
In the end, he made a decision.
He would give the best praise he had.
“I don’t think I need to add anything.”
It meant the work was perfect.
“...I see.”
Mok Hyunsun seemed to understand, and quietly took back his criticism.
“Is there anything else you want from me?”
If he was asking for a more detailed evaluation, Im had been prepared to go through it line by line and praise each part. But after a brief moment of thought, Mok Hyunsun said something unexpected.
“Could you recommend me a new novel to write criticism on? I think I should try a few more.”
Try a few more.
That sounded to Im Myeong-eul like: give me a harder challenge.
What an insolent brat. ...This is maddeningly interesting.
Im rose from his seat and walked over to the bookshelf. There happened to be a perfect book for him. “Take this one.”
Mother’s Club: Oh Sang-mi’s Story Collection
“Why this one...?”
Oh Sang-mi, a middle-aged woman writer, was a giant who had left a deep mark on Korean letters, just as much as Mok Pilhyun had. “Park Jeong-shin is a newcomer, after all. Leaving aside the quality of the novel, he still hasn’t fully proven himself. Criticism on an unproven writer can lack weight.”
Mok Hyunsun looked as if he had learned something. Right. Debut was competition. The stronger the base text, the better his chances. “But don’t underestimate an established writer. It won’t be as easy as Park Jeong-shin, either. Still, if you’re fine with that, take it.”
Mok Hyunsun didn’t think long. As though he had expected this much already, he took the book.
After he left the chief editor’s office, Im admired him once more. He really does overflow with talent. But his warning had been sincere.
Oh Sang-mi’s work already had excellent criticism attached to it. Writing something that could overlap with those pieces while still feeling sharp and fresh was a task that would take real effort—even for Im.
Still, it was Mok Hyunsun. Because it was Mok Hyunsun, he had been willing to offer the opportunity. He would understand that outrageous compliment, and because he understood it, he had taken the book as well.
“Mok Pilhyun is the pitiable one. Cutting ties with a son that gifted...”
He sank back into his chair. “Hm.”
For some reason, that father-and-son pair kept occupying his thoughts. It wasn’t the sort of nosiness that suited him, and yet...
In the end, he called someone.
“You mean Master Mok? Don’t even get me started. He’s been like a different person for years now. He’s got no energy left, and he’s only managing to keep his work going because he’s always been that good.”
“Really? Is there some problem at home?”
“He never talks about that kind of thing. No, I should say he doesn’t talk at all. Anyway, Master Mok is getting old, that’s all. Still, it doesn’t seem like he’s living alone after his wife passed.”
“Not alone?”
“You remember the two disciples he used to keep around? Kim Dan-woo and Hong Seon-woong. Kim Dan-woo seems to have disappeared somewhere along the way, but Hong Seon-woong looks like he’s the one taking care of Master Mok now.”
“Taking care of him? What do you mean?”
“You know. Like he’s acting almost like an adopted son.”
“An adopted son? Hong Seon-woong?”
Hong Seon-woong was a successful novelist whose story had appeared in the autumn issue of Gyeongseong Geul. He wrote about adolescent self-discovery, growth, and tender first love with surprising skill. Which was why his nickname was Korea’s Demian—after Hermann Hesse’s Demian.
Outside the chief editor’s office, Mok Hyunsun looked down at the book in his hands. So rather than comment on my criticism, he gave me this book instead...
I must not have impressed him much.
That was a completely natural conclusion, in his mind. Well, if that’s what he thinks, then he’s basically telling me to handle this one properly first.
Mok Hyunsun was not the sort of person who lived and died by other people’s evaluations. What mattered most was simple: I wrote it with all my effort. And it doesn’t look strange to me, so that’s enough.
There was a benefit to this, too.
He would need to write four more critiques now.
With no time to waste choosing books, receiving Im Myeong-eul’s recommendation was a fortunate thing. Right. I’ll keep going. That’s the only answer.
With that thought, Mok Hyunsun left the corridor outside the chief editor’s office.
─┼
In a mansion in Hannam-dong, Hong Seon-woong walked through the front gate carrying the autumn issue of Gyeongseong Geul. “Heh.” He was in a good mood.
His novel, P’s Ignorance, had been published.
Having a piece appear in Gyeongseong Geul was proof that a writer had truly made it. He couldn’t wait to boast about it to his teacher. As he crossed the lawn, he flipped through the issue.
There was his own story, sitting right where it should be.
He kept turning through the poetry and criticism sections, and then his hand stopped at the contest-winning submissions. “Choi Bak... where have I heard that name before?”
With the memory still hazy, he turned to the review. Then he froze.
Mok Hyunsun? Why is Mok Hyunsun suddenly showing up in Gyeongseong Geul?
He didn’t think there could be another Mok Hyunsun. The surname itself was uncommon enough, and if the Mok Hyunsun he knew had studied Korean literature, the possibility was even higher.
He read the review quickly.
...It was excellent.
Maybe even better than the story itself.
“...Huh.”
After Mok Hyunsun left this house, Hong Seon-woong had only barely managed to become one of Mok Pilhyun’s closest people. It had not been difficult to worm his way into the life of a man left alone, after all. Then people began to call Hong Seon-woong Mok Pilhyun’s successor.
That was how he got the nickname Korea’s Demian. It was also because he had traveled here and there with Mok Pilhyun, making his face known everywhere.
But what if Mok Pilhyun suddenly had a son—worse, a son who could write like this?
And what if there were an emotional reunion, complete with tears?
He would have no choice but to be pushed aside.
...No. That’s not happening. Do they have any idea how far I’ve come?
Hong Seon-woong slipped Gyeongseong Geul into his bag.
And when he entered the mansion, he found Mok Pilhyun seated in a rocking chair, staring blankly out at the yard as the chair creaked slowly back and forth.
His gaze was deep, but lonely.
“You’re back.”
“Yes, sir. I’m back. Have you eaten?”
“More or less.”
He probably hadn’t. According to the housekeeper, he only ate enough to keep from dropping dead. “I think a delivery package came to the front earlier. Did you check it?”
“Ah...” Hong Seon-woong said with a smile. “No. Nothing came.”