The Empire of the Senses
She said her name was Jang Hee-soo. A little later, we were sitting across from each other at a café near the book fair mall. “How did you know I’m the editor-in-chief of ZZ?”
Actually, it had been thanks to Kim Sunbae. Hey, hey. Forget it. That female editor over there is seriously scary. I couldn’t even meet her eyes. If that remark had taken human form, it would have been the woman sitting in front of me. Setting aside her cynical face and the way she dressed, the aura she gave off was strong in itself.
To put it crudely, she was the kind of person who had real “presence.” Of course, saying it that way sounded like I was looking for a fight, so I said, “I just had a feeling.” A rough dodge, nothing more. In any case, Jang Hee-soo had come looking for me.
Just as I had been planning to visit the independent magazine myself. I could already guess why.
So I decided not to beat around the bush either. “Did you come to apologize, at least?”
Jang Hee-soo’s eyebrows twitched. She must not have expected me to say something like that first. She forced her emotions down naturally.
That kind of composure—businesspeople really were businesspeople. “Yes. That’s right. I came to say I’m sorry. When Yomo declined your criticism, our relationship with ZZ likely played a large part in that.”
“You’re refreshingly honest.”
“It’s silly to keep circling around the point when everyone already knows what everyone else is thinking.”
“But you’re not saying everything, are you? It sounds like you’ve got more to say.”
“……”
“You came because you’re worried, didn’t you? Worried that I might still publish my criticism of Cooking, S*x, Murder.”
That was right.
Seeking the author’s permission had been a matter of courtesy, nothing more.
If a critic wanted to publish a review, then publish it. That was the critic’s right.
Instead of answering, Jang Hee-soo took a swig of her iced coffee. Gulp, gulp. “Haa… yes. I came because I was worried. I wanted a promise—at least, a promise that you wouldn’t touch our ZZ.”
“Do the writers want that too?”
“Of course they do.”
I doubted it.
Just from Yomo’s reply, full of wounded disappointment, that much was obvious. “Critic.” She deliberately softened her tone, making it sound almost plaintive. “There are writers all over the literary scene who want your criticism. You don’t need to make things uncomfortable like this.”
“That’s amusing.”
“What is?”
“I thought the motto of an independent magazine was freedom—freedom from the literary establishment.”
“Yes. That’s right, but—”
“Yet you behave more powerfully than anyone in the industry.”
The word powerfully made her face flush.
Even against her dark skin, the redness showed clearly. “…That’s an insult, Critic.”
“No. It’s a fact. You admitted that ZZ had influence over Yomo, didn’t you? You pressured the writer, and now you’re pressuring a critic.”
“It’s not pressure. It’s a request.”
“Telling someone it’ll get unpleasant if they don’t comply is exactly what makes it pressure.” And there was a very fitting way to put it. “If an editor at some random publishing house in Paju did this, what would we call it?”
“……”
“We’d say they were acting like a bossy little tyrant just because they happen to be an editor.”
“That’s—!”
Jang Hee-soo suddenly raised her voice.
People nearby glanced over at us. She couldn’t continue.
Not just because of their eyes, but because my words weren’t especially wrong.
Jang Hee-soo pulled herself together with practiced ease. “We’re different, Critic.”
“……”
“I was once a published poet too. It was under a pen name, and now it’s been completely forgotten, but… my solicitations stopped the moment people decided my poems were too unusual and obscene. That was when I realized it. Instead of trying to change myself, I needed to gather writers who were ‘like me’ and build our own world. I’m trying to make that world stronger and give writers a chance.”
So she had been a writer herself.
Well, it was true enough that an obscene poetic style would have a hard time surviving in the literary establishment.
Even so. “I understand your circumstances, but that still isn’t a reason to take opportunities away from other writers.”
Maybe it was the phrase take away.
I could almost hear the click of her trigger being pulled.
Click.
“Take away? The one with power here isn’t me. It’s you.”
“……”
“Seven simultaneous debuts at major newspapers, the editorial department at Gyeongseong Geul… No matter how you slice it, do you really think my influence can compare to yours?”
“Well, Yomo ended up on your side, didn’t they? They probably wanted more places to publish their work. I guess your power really is stronger than some lowly editorial staff member like me.”
“Then isn’t it true that, in the end, you wouldn’t have published your criticism in Gyeongseong Geul anyway? You would’ve placed it in some small quarterly, right?”
…She landed a clean blow.
Damn. That stung.
I couldn’t honestly deny it.
That criticism had never been meant for a major quarterly.
But her reaction was more unexpected than the hit itself.
Instead of looking pleased that her attack had landed, her voice trembled, as if she were the one on the verge of tears. “See? You were never going to lift us into the mainstream properly anyway. I know your power only comes from the mainstream literary world, and that it’s only ever used for the mainstream literary world.”
Hm. At least I knew one thing.
She was utterly sincere about her work.
And about her affection for, or resentment over, independent magazines. The problem was that she had aimed in the wrong direction. Writers struggled too.
Editors struggled as well.
They loved independent magazines,
and the more they loved them, the narrower their vision became. Their choice of isolation proved that much.
Isolation slowly kills art.
Like stagnant water. ZZ was exactly like that.
Despite its popularity, it didn’t make money, so they were planning to restructure it.
If Jang Hee-soo let go of ZZ?
ZZ would die on the spot.
That was why she was acting so desperate.
How could I tell? Because I was a critic.
Judging the state of the literary world was part of a critic’s job too. And from the looks of it—“You don’t cultivate critics, do you? Independent magazines don’t.”
“Of course not. We don’t want to be evaluated.”
There were no critics in that ecosystem to steady the course.
If you never trained a helmsman, the ship would end up sailing toward the mountains. “Critic,” Jang Hee-soo said. “I can give a lot of page space to Yomo and others who’ve been ignored by the literary establishment. If you think of those writers, promise me this—promise you won’t reach out to our side again.”
At that moment, I found the situation oddly interesting.
Wasn’t it like empires negotiating over untapped territory?
Or a married couple fighting bitterly over custody of a child.
And beneath it all lay a tacit agreement:
that the works in independent magazines were a pretty decent frontier.
Of course, I had no intention of fighting her in a messy, drawn-out way.
“All right. I’ll accept. In deference to Yomo’s wishes.”
“…! Really?”
“Yes. And I’ll use my influence where it actually works—just as you said.”
“You made the wise choice. Where you belong is the mainstream literary world.”
“I’ll be leaving first. My seniors are probably waiting for me.”
I stood, leaving her with her relief, and as I walked out of the café I couldn’t help a small laugh.
My power came from the mainstream literary world?
She was mistaken.
My power was not the position of an editor or the honor of a critic.
My power existed only in the writing.
My writing—writing that would remain mine even if the name Mok Hyunsun were stripped away.
─┼
The book fair ended.
After having a drink with my seniors at the afterparty, making myself as inconspicuous as possible, I turned down the second round and went home.
“Hoo… I’m exhausted.”
I flopped onto the bed. But it still wasn’t time to rest. I opened the Enstagram app on my phone.
I logged out of my account and tapped “Create Account.”
Yes.
I was planning to make a criticism account of my own.
One where I could post reviews freely, without worrying about quarterly issues or commissions.
And the most important thing of all:
I had to hide the name Mok Hyunsun.
Wasn’t that the freedom of the social media world?
Maybe even more freedom than an independent magazine.
To begin with, naturally, with Cooking, S*x, Murder. But wait.
“…I’m not actually that good at this kind of thing.”
This was the world of Enstagram.
I wasn’t naive enough to think people would flock to me on writing alone.
First I needed to draw some kind of attention. “I’d better at least try something. Hm… no choice, I suppose.” In the end, I sent a message I didn’t particularly want to send.
As if he’d been waiting for it, the reply came right away.
…Why don’t you want it?
After all, I was the only one who could accept his work.
I was his exclusive editor.
Anyway.
It wasn’t even worth answering.
Maybe it would be better just to let it sit, but after a while, buzz—
Want me to help? Looks like you’re doing something fun.
If Park Jeong-shin got involved, everything would become far too noisy.
“Hmm. An image set of eight or fewer.”
That part wasn’t hard.
The most interesting part of criticism.
In the end, wasn’t it all about extracting keywords?
I closed my eyes. Whoosh.
The criticism of Cooking, S*x, Murder spread out in my mind.
As I skimmed through it, the important keywords floated up one by one, as if begging not to be left behind. I gathered them and shaped them into sentences.
First came the phrase for the opening image.
In other words, the one-line verdict.
Tonight’s dinner is murder and bed.
Good. That would do for now. Straight on to the next image.
Let’s add a paragraph explaining the one-line review.
If the hook landed, people would read the longer piece too.
Cooking, S*x, Murder sings, raps, sleeps, and kills.
These varied stimuli become the senses that seize the reader.
On the next image, I inserted a few lines from the novel.
Something easy for readers to follow.
And then the next image—
the symbols and logic I had discussed in the criticism.
Blood is a symbol of death as well as life.
At times, it is also a symbol of bed.
The first thing the angry woman did to the man’s corpse.
She drew out his blood.
What do you think? This gorgeous, delicious revenge story.
I restrained myself.
I didn’t add any more.
I had to stop before people got bored.
Just like that, click.
I finished composing a post in my head.
Then I opened my eyes again and turned those lines into eight images on my phone.
Once I actually did it, it wasn’t that difficult.
All that remained was to upload it to Enstagram.
“…But what should I do for the thumbnail?”
Couldn’t I introduce it in a way that really popped?
Something that showed a kind of theme.
And if it hinted at future posts, even better.
…Was I being too greedy?
I didn’t know.
I closed my eyes again. The keywords tied to Cooking, S*x, Murder returned to view.
Words with a different texture from the ones before.
More public, more familiar—like something I’d seen somewhere before.
Good.
Familiarity meant it would catch the eye.
“Right.”
One phrase suddenly surfaced.
“The Empire of the Senses.”
I made the thumbnail right away.
The Empire of the Senses (1) “Taste”
_ The First Novel
My first theme.
That was the Empire of the Senses.
I drew attention by focusing on “taste,” that is, gustation.
While I was at it, I decided on the account name too.
Why not something simple, like soop?
No grand meaning attached—just because my surname meant wood.
That was how I posted my first forest.
The longer criticism I’d written would stay “kept” for now.
Not yet.
It wasn’t time to reveal that one.
And then—
Click.
I opened the zipper of my bag.
Inside were all the independent magazines I’d bought today.
Rustle, rustle, rustle…
The magazines flipped over quickly.
Layer by layer, works piled up in my mind.
One, two, three, four…
“…!”
Every so often, I found decent ones.
Works that would enrich the Empire of the Senses.
Yes.
I wouldn’t go to full-scale war with Jang Hee-soo.
There was no reason to.
I also wouldn’t try to drag independent magazines into the literary establishment under the name of Mok Hyunsun.
What I could do, however, was create a current.
A current in which independent magazine works gradually rose into the literary world.
If that current existed, I would have a chance too.
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