A Special Offer (2)

Rustle, rustle... The manuscript pages slipped rapidly through my fingers. Hexagram was a story set in Tibet.

Three young Korean men happened to meet there by chance. They naturally fell in together and began traveling as a group, heading toward the foot of a mountain where they planned to go trekking.

On a whim, they had a street fortune-teller read their luck. Each divination ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠came out differently: A drew great fortune, B drew good fortune, and C drew terrible misfortune. To be honest, none of them truly believed in fortune-telling, but it was hard to shake the unpleasant feeling it left behind. C, especially, felt it keenly. That afternoon, while they were trekking, they got lost. Darkness began to settle in. Then C tripped over A’s foot and injured his leg.

In that crisis, they gradually came to understand one another. A was a doctor from a wealthy family, B was an office worker from an ordinary household, and C was a laborer from poverty. Their fortunes, backgrounds, and circumstances had all aligned in a strangely perfect pattern. From that moment on, they started thinking. Could they really take C, who had drawn the terrible fate, along with them? How could they steal A’s good fortune? From there, the story accelerated with ruthless speed.

The mountain paths of a foreign land felt vividly real. The conversations, tense with thorns and traps, crackled with danger. Even their destinies themselves remained impossible to predict. It was a splendid novel. There was a solemn grandeur to it, the kind only a veteran writer could create, and a deep, searching gaze at humanity. But that was also its weakness.

Its seriousness was somewhat dull and heavy. From a researcher’s perspective, it was fascinating enough, but for ordinary readers, it was clearly a barrier. In a word, it was not “trendy” by today’s standards. Honestly... even the title was a little questionable. What was I supposed to do with this? Write criticism? Or not? Rustle, rustle... Still thinking it over, I kept turning the pages without stopping.

Then, all at once, a single word began to rise slowly in my mind. I paused. I stopped my hand and focused on it. Ah, yes. If I used that keyword, I had a real chance. No—this might even become a fairly enjoyable assignment.

After reading the manuscript carefully to the very last page, I told Editor Im at once, “I’ll do it.”

“...You mean you’ve finished reading it? In that short amount of time? A whole novel?”

“I only skimmed it. I’ll need to go through it properly again.”

That was a lie. Hexagram had already settled whole inside my head.

“Well, in any case, I’m glad you’ll take it on. Mr. Son will be pleased, too.”

“Editor, I do have one condition, though.”

“A condition? You mean the deadline? Or the fee?”

Neither. “I’d like to publish the commentary on Hexagram before the book comes out.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” He furrowed his brow. “You want the commentary that would normally appear after the book to run first in the quarterly issue?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“And why?”

“May I be blunt? Critic ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to critic.” Critic to critic. He was my superior, yes, but at the same time he was also my colleague. We had to speak frankly about the work. That was only proper. That was what it meant to be colleagues.

“All right. Go on, Mok critic.”

“This novel, Hexagram, won’t sell very well unless a proper commentary is released at the right time.”

“What?” he shot back. “This novel is extraordinary. There aren’t many writers who can handle themes like fortune, the future, and chance—such large, abstract subjects.”

“I agree completely. But younger readers will have a hard time connecting with it.” I laid my hand on the manuscript with a soft tap. “Everything about the novel is simply too heavy.”

“!”

An outstanding work and a commercially successful one were not always the same thing.

Of course, Gyeongseong Publishing had long upheld the value of the former when publishing books. That spirit was what had built the Gyeongseong Publishing of today. But if a work was truly excellent, shouldn’t people be given the chance to recognize that excellence? “First, the style. The sentences are exact and sharp, but that precision also makes them tiring. Readers will wear out even faster. And then there are the profound, difficult psychological descriptions, the fortune-telling motif... things like that won’t be appealing to people in their twenties and thirties. They just don’t have enough immediate punch.”

“You know that’s exactly what gives Hexagram its value.”

“Of course. That style and depth are precisely Mr. Son Young-han’s strengths, and they’re qualities that must be preserved. But I think... the value needs to be explained to the public first.”

That, to me, was the essence of criticism: laying a bridge between the work and the reader.

Hexagram was excellent in itself. It was only because that excellence emerged through difficulty that it needed a bridge. A bridge built so that people could cross it with ease.

“You want to lower the barrier to entry by having people read the commentary first?”

“Yes. And I thought that bridge should be built by Gyeongseong Geul.”

“Hmm...” Editor Im stroked his chin in silence. “I understand what you’re saying. And I can see why it’s tempting, especially given that writers of Mr. Son’s generation are finding it harder and harder to connect with younger readers. But—”

“...”

“It’s too radical. Publishing the commentary before the work itself... Do you really think Mr. Son will accept that?”

“He’ll hate it, of course.” Son Young-han was an author of the old school. He would hardly be pleased to break a publishing custom he had maintained all his life. But I could feel it: this was the exact kind of piece that belonged in the editorial criticism column.

It wasn’t criticism in the strictest sense, but wasn’t it also part of the editorial department’s job to present a work well before publication? Of course, I couldn’t ask them to take the leap empty-handed. “Editor, then how about this?”

“?”

“I’ll write the commentary first. If there’s actual text to show him, it should be easier to persuade Mr. Son, shouldn’t it?”

“...Hm. If you’re going that far, I suppose there’s no harm in trying. Still, I don’t know whether the timing will allow it. I’ve promised to give Mr. Son an answer by tomorrow.” By tomorrow? I checked the clock.

It was 10:30 now. In that case, “I’ll have it to you by one o’clock.”

“...What?”

“Even I can tell that’s a bit of an unreasonable request, so I’ll use my lunch break to get it done.”

“...”

“The sooner, the better, wouldn’t you say?”

Editor Im’s eyes widened. It was clear he had a dozen questions, but he didn’t ask a single one. He must have known there was no point asking how that was possible.

“All right. Then go on.”

“Yes, sir.” I went back to the office.

Senior Yoon handed me a stack of materials. “Mok. Can you check this? Right now?”

“Yes. I’ll do it immediately.” First, I took care of the work in front of me. I had time, after all.

A little later, I made an excuse and skipped lunch. I stayed alone in the office and opened a blank Word file. Blink, blink. The cursor flashed on and off.

The blinking grew faint, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a single word surfaced in my mind. Spoon theory. Something predetermined. A destiny already decided. Something impossible to refuse. And yet also something humans are forever resisting, forever fighting against. I had to unfold that in a very casual color—turn the deep purple of fate into a fresh light lavender. In a tone anyone could discuss over tea, yet with a flavor no young person could ignore.

Yes. No matter how I thought about it, there was only one word for it. Spoon theory. Wasn’t that modern determinism itself? The first sentence came at once: “What we are born with, what is already decided, what is hard to defy—we call that fate. And when we speak of fate, we say this too: our lives are determined by the spoon we’re born with.”

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap...

Son Young-han had been watching Mok Hyunsun’s progress for a long time. Ever since the first review appeared in Gyeongseong Geul, he had thought it was a truly enviable talent. When Mok Hyunsun debuted across seven newspapers, he had felt like a genius. And the criticism he wrote? There was nothing to say except admiration.

So he had even pushed the manuscript directly to Representative Moon himself. And now they wanted to publish the commentary first? That crossed a line. He couldn’t quite rationally explain why it crossed a line, but as a writer, the affront to his pride was very real. “Mok Pilhyun had the worst temper in the world, and now his son is putting on a show too. Even Editor Im is being dragged around by some green subordinate!”

The insults just kept flying in every direction. But he was curious, too. A critic had written commentary on his new book; what writer would be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠able to resist looking at it?

He opened the email Editor Im had sent, downloaded the attachment, and even printed it out in large type.

Spoon theory?What, the thing young people say about gold spoons and silver spoons? He read the commentary from start to finish.

It was undeniably well written. It flowed without a single snag, yet the meaning settled in his head with perfect clarity. And then there was that feeling of, How on earth did he know my mind so well? It’s as if he came in through my subconscious and left again. The sharpness of that insight raised goose bumps on his arms.

And yet he still couldn’t understand why the phrase “spoon theory” had been used in the first place. Just then—

“Dad. Is something wrong? I heard you shouting.” His late-born daughter slipped into the room.

At only twenty-four, she was one of Son Young-han’s most cherished treasures.

“Your father’s got a novel coming out this time, and there’s a bit of trouble with getting the book published.”

“Ah— that boring one?”

“You little brat. If it’s your father’s novel, you should treat it with reverence. ‘Boring’ indeed.”

“If something’s boring, what else am I supposed to call it? Hmm— it’s definitely not the kind of writing our generation likes. It’s too profound, I guess. Hard to get into. Couldn’t you write something lighter next time?”

What a sharp-tongued girl. Still, it bothered him, because she wasn’t entirely wrong. His book sales were far higher than most writers’—but over the past few years, they had slowly begun to slope downward. Above all, younger readers in their twenties and thirties were starting to turn away. That wasn’t only his burden; it was the burden of every “veteran.” Once you reached that stage, you inevitably drifted away from the sensibilities of the younger generation.

Bitter, but true.

Then his daughter glanced at Mok Hyunsun’s commentary.

“Oh? Spoon theory?”

Interest sparked in her eyes. She even sat down on the bed and started reading the commentary. Her foot, which had been swinging carelessly in the air, stilled at last.

Her eyes widened. “Dad, this piece is really strange.” Strange? “Reading this makes your writing seem incredibly entertaining.”