Dignity (2)
Two weeks passed. By then, the Shinchun Moonye submissions were all in, and the newspapers had finally begun their judging.
The process had two stages: a preliminary round, where hundreds of entries were narrowed down to a few dozen, and a final round, where those few dozen were cut down again to just a handful.
Then came the last stage, where a single work was chosen from the remaining few. Dongwol Ilbo had already finished both the preliminary and final rounds the previous week.
For the ultimate decision, they had gathered distinguished writers and scholars from all over the country. The judging categories were poetry, fiction, criticism, children’s literature, and art criticism.
Five judges had assembled for the criticism category.
Chief Editor Im Myeong-eul was among them. “Professor Lee. It’s been a while.”
“Don’t remind me. I’ve been dragged from one judging panel to another lately, so I can barely keep my head on straight.”
“Well, critics have to judge criticism and fiction alike. You must be busy too, Chief Editor Im Myeong-eul.”
“More or less. Same as everyone else.”
“I haven’t slept a wink. Yesterday, one of my staff told me to brace myself because there had been a lot of criticism entries this year, and I got tense just hearing it.”
The mood in the judging room was warm and easy.
The final round required unanimous agreement, with not a single judge objecting.
So it was better for everyone if they started off in good spirits. Of course, even if the beginning was pleasant, if opinions diverged later, the session inevitably ended in argument.
That happened more often than not.
In the end, judging was a kind of war.
Soon after, a staff member from Dongwol Ilbo’s culture desk came in and placed six criticism manuscripts, printed in five copies each, along with six books on the table. “These are the six criticism pieces selected by the final-round judges. I’ve also brought the works they discussed.” The titles of the works had already been announced.
There was no way to judge criticism without reading the works it addressed.
“If you get hungry, there are snacks and tea set up over there, so please help yourselves. And if you need anything, I’m right in the next room, so just call for me.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Dongwol Ilbo really is thorough.”
“Six pieces, huh—let’s see how good the criticism this year really is.”
After the staffer left the room, silence settled gradually over the judges.
They pulled the six bundles of manuscripts toward themselves at once. In an instant, the warmth and any trace of playfulness vanished. After all, Shinchun Moonye was an important gateway into the literary world.
Only the sound of breathing and turning pages was allowed.
Chief Editor Im Myeong-eul read quickly. At a glance, this is criticism written by a doctoral candidate in Korean literature. He knows a great deal, but he lacks the prose to unfold that knowledge with any grace. Criticism is literature too. With a stiff style like this, he doesn’t stand a chance. Rejected. This one… is this an undergraduate in creative writing? They’ve fallen headlong into fiction. I can’t find a single objective eye in it. Heart alone won’t do. This person would be better off writing novels instead. Rejected. Hmm, an attempt to write criticism on French literature? That’s a brave idea. And the content isn’t bad. Still, writing like this would absolutely already exist in France. Why should we choose something that already exists, even if it’s from the other side of the world? Rejected.
Flap, flap, flap.
Im Myeong-eul let the rejected manuscripts fall to the floor without hesitation.
Not because he felt any personal dislike toward them, but because he wanted to keep them separate from the other judges’ papers.
This one was written with Dignity in mind. The title is…
On the Powerlessness of Fiction and the Reason for Its Existence — Mok Pilhyun’s Dignity.
Not bad.
The powerlessness of fiction was a literary expression.
And questioning the reason for fiction’s existence was a critical judgment.
In other words, the title was alive with both emotion and reason.
Chief Editor Im Myeong-eul read on and on.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
His eyebrows twitched up and down several times.
At times, he went back and reread passages he had already seen, as though savoring them.
And then the final sentence.
For that reason, I too sincerely respect the writer who wrote Dignity.
Im Myeong-eul’s gaze lingered there for a moment.
Then he gently slid the manuscript forward.
“I believe I should recuse myself from the judging.”
The other judges looked up at him.
“I think I’ve read the work of someone I know. Since that creates a fairness issue, I’ll step aside. Whatever result you reach, I’ll accept it.”
Shinchun Moonye was, by nature, an anonymous competition.
If it really was the work of someone he knew, there were plenty of people who would have quietly leaned in their favor.
For someone like Im Myeong-eul to withdraw according to principle was almost unheard of.
A retired professor of Korean literature said, “If that’s how you feel, then rest for a bit. Or perhaps read the remaining works.”
“No.” Im Myeong-eul closed the last two manuscripts. “I’m no longer very curious.”
And so he withdrew from the judging.
While the others went back to reading, he stared down at the manuscript dealing with Dignity.
This is Mok Hyunsun’s work. It has to be.
No one else could have produced that depth.
Besides, Dignity had been published just days earlier in the winter issue of Gyeongseong Geul.
Who could write criticism of that caliber in so short a time?
As far as he knew, only Mok Hyunsun.
It had the objective eye criticism required as a matter of course.
On top of that, it carried the sensibility of a critic who could feel what fiction actually was.
And in the final line, it was almost as if he were resonating with Mok Pilhyun in spirit.
Setting their family history aside, the two of them were speaking to each other through fiction and criticism.
Chief Editor Im Myeong-eul had never seen criticism so complete, so alive, so thrilling.
That was why he decided not to read the remaining two pieces.
He wanted to savor the aftertaste of Mok Hyunsun’s criticism as long as possible.
There was no need to push the work forward just to say he wanted it selected. If these people aren’t fools…
And then it happened.
“Oh dear, what am I going to do?”
Tears welled in the eyes of a middle-aged female professor.
The others were startled, and she hurriedly pulled tissues from her bag and wiped her face.
“I’m sorry. No, I was just reading this and suddenly started crying. Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“Haha. It seems Professor Park has become more emotional lately.”
“No, I’m not. I don’t usually cry over things like this. It’s strange. This isn’t even fiction, it’s criticism, and it’s written so calmly and objectively, so why…?”
Why was she crying?
She couldn’t even finish the sentence before dabbing at her tears again.
The piece she was reading was the criticism about Dignity.
“Ahem. Sorry. Don’t worry too much about my reaction and judge it objectively.”
“Well, the novel Dignity does have a rather poignant quality to it.”
“Then I suppose it’s my turn to read it.”
“Mm, mine too.”
And so the judges began reading On the Powerlessness of Fiction and the Reason for Its Existence — Mok Pilhyun’s Dignity.
Im Myeong-eul could feel it.
With every page they turned, the trembling in their fingertips.
Their eyes growing red, their lips tightening with tension.
They were all being drawn into this criticism.
Swish, swish, swish…
For a long while, only the sound of pages turning filled the room.
Then the retired professor, who had been silent for some time, finally spoke.
“It’s beautiful.”
The others nodded without saying a word.
Beautiful.
What other praise could possibly be added?
Especially for something like the “beauty of powerlessness.”
For those who claimed to “work in literature,” those words struck straight to the heart.
It was as if the criticism were recognizing the sincerity of people who had devoted their lives to something the world had never treated as forceful or powerful.
They had no choice but to empathize.
They had no choice but to be swept away by the afterglow.
“I’ve never seen a criticism this perfectly beautiful.”
“Yes… it doesn’t crudely pin the work down; it gently organizes it, then speaks to the essence of the novel through the critic’s own eyes.”
“Which doctoral student wrote this? I’m honestly dying to know who their professor is.”
Im Myeong-eul thought, There isn’t one.
If there had been a teacher, that free and honest sensibility would never have survived.
There was only genius talent.
There were only two days left in the year.
Lately, I had been hoping time would hurry up and pass.
The Shinchun Moonye winners were announced through the January 1 newspaper.
Until then, all I could do was wait.
Surely at least one of them made it.
I’d submitted seven entries, after all.
To my eyes… well, they were all good, weren’t they?
Still, I wasn’t sure. That was the heart of an aspiring writer for you.
No matter how much I tried to comfort myself, I couldn’t help worrying.
And then, today, there was the general meeting of the periodical department for the spring issue planning of Gyeongseong Geul.
To be honest, calling it a planning meeting was generous. It was closer to dividing up the work.
The important decisions were made by the chief editor and the editorial board in the editorial meeting; this was the place where the practical tasks got assigned.
After the meeting finally wrapped up, Team Leader Lee, who had been running things, said, “You all know we’re doing a year-end party on December 31 and checking the Shinchun Moonye results at the same time, right?”
? What was that supposed to mean?
Shinchun Moonye wasn’t the World Cup, so why check the results together?
I quietly leaned toward Senior Yang beside me and asked, “Could you explain, senior?”
“Ah, you haven’t done it before, have you? On the last day of the year, our publishing house just has pizza in the big conference room like a party. Then, right at midnight, the newspapers from each paper are delivered by courier with the January 1 edition carrying the Shinchun Moonye results.”
...Good grief.
I imagined it for a moment: myself, on the morning of January 1, opening the results under the bright light of the new year.
But we were supposed to do that in front of everyone?
It would be awkward if I passed.
And if I failed, it would be even worse.
“...Do I really have to be there? Can’t I skip it?”
“Nope. Once the Shinchun Moonye results come out, there’s a tradition of posting a congratulatory piece on our webzine. It’s basically our way of saying, ‘You’re a writer now, so let’s get along with Gyeongseong Publishing~’ That’s why the newspapers bring the paper to us first. We check the results in the paper, whip up a short congratulatory post, upload it, and that’s the party. Pretty neat, right?”
The intent was good.
It saved everyone the trouble of scheduling a separate year-end gathering, and it gave the day before the January 1 holiday a little meaning.
That is, for everyone except me.
Senior Yang slapped me on the back. “Don’t even think about skipping. And don’t forget that little mess we covered for you at the wrap party for Novel N Film last time.”
How shameless.
To bring up that debt now, of all times.
I imagined myself after being rejected, shoulders slumped, writing congratulatory posts for other people instead.
...Wow. That was pathetic.
Team Leader Lee asked, “Does anyone here happen to have submitted to Shinchun Moonye? There’s always at least one or two people every year.”
I wasn’t raising my hand. Not in a million years.
Unless I’d lost my mind.
“Come on, don’t be like that. We need to know so we can prepare condolences or congratulations. Honestly, if you tell us now, I’ll exempt those people from writing congratulatory posts.”
And just like that, I shot my hand up.
What I hated more than being embarrassed was writing someone else’s congratulations post.
That was just the kind of person I was.
“Ooooh!”
Everyone gasped.
The three seniors were startled,
and Team Leader Lee, who had probably expected something along these lines, gave a small laugh and asked, “Criticism, right? How many places?”
...If I said seven, they’d probably call me crazy.
They’d probably think I wasn’t doing any work at all, just writing my own stuff.
Fine. Since one place was hard enough anyway, I lied for the sake of peaceful company life.
“One place. In criticism.”
“Okay, got it. Anyone else?”
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a fellow sufferer in that room.
Time that seemed as if it would never pass eventually did.
It was the night of December 31.
In the big conference room at Gyeongseong Publishing, the younger employees were all gathered for the year-end party.
And then—
“5- 4- 3- 2- 1!!!! Happy New Year!”
They counted down together, sighed over the misery of being a year older, and made New Year’s resolutions they probably wouldn’t keep.
Meanwhile, at that very same moment, courier motorcycles carrying the first newspapers of the new year arrived in a rush in front of Gyeongseong Publishing.