Nuance (3)
“The single most important point running through this critique is, in the end, the way it connects the murder structured in two stages with the rising of the curtain. Is that right?”
“Exactly. To put it more literarily, the curtain’s rising can be read as a metaphor for the killings in the work.”
“But did the author really intend that?”
“...”
“Did Nasida truly write that first paragraph by consciously calculating that point?” It was one of the great difficulties of literary study.
“Authorial intent” was, after all, always a matter of inference.
Even the Korean College Scholastic Ability Test, assembled over months by eminent scholars, had long been plagued by disputes over questions that asked test-takers to infer the author’s intent.
There was even an anecdote about the original author of a work getting every one of those questions wrong. But anyone with even a little grounding in literature would know this much.
Authorial intent and the finished work did not always align perfectly.
And when they did not, the critic’s role became all the more important.
Because value had to be found in that misalignment. That was why I was curious.
How did this young, brilliant critic see that crucial problem? “As you’ve demonstrated, the curtain in The Play Class is an important metaphor. But after the first paragraph, the curtain is not handled as anything particularly significant. If it had been intended, it would have been emphasized more than this. Wouldn’t it?”
It was a meaningful point, I thought.
“That would be the logical conclusion. If the author Nasida had used the metaphor more consciously, a professional translator would not have missed it.”
“Then is this metaphor a lucky accident, born independently of the author’s intent?”
A lucky accident.
It was a somewhat blunt phrase, one that would make any writer grind their teeth if they heard it.
And yet both critics were serious.
If a lucky accident made a superb work, then that too had to be judged and valued. “Your critique is excellent. But separate from this critique, I’m curious about what you think.”
“Then how do you see that point, Editor Im?”
“I...” Editor Im said with a smile. “I’m the sort of person who thinks this kind of lucky accident is exactly what makes literature so wonderful.”
“...”
“Metaphor, meaning, value, all of it arising completely apart from the author’s intent... I think that’s the moment when an inanimate work of art gains life. No matter how inferior the writer may be, the work can become more splendid than they are. Isn’t that remarkable?” As he said it, Editor Im was as fervent as a debut novelist fresh off a first publication.
So was the criticism I had seen from Editor Im.
Critiques that focused less on what the author intended and more on the meanings born inside the work.
Arguments that treated the work like a living organism, explaining its movement the way one would observe the circulation of organic matter. A critic ought to have a position like that.
One needed conviction and direction in order to handle countless texts without losing one’s center. And I...
For the first time, I thought about it.
As a critic, how was I approaching the proposition of “authorial intent”?
It did not take long to find my answer.
“I see it a little differently.”
“...”
“I agree that some novels surpass their authors. But I can’t agree that this means they have nothing to do with the author’s intent.”
“Hmm. Why not?”
“What I realized this time is that one of the most important elements in making a novel is nuance.”
“...Nuance?”
“Yes. The overall atmosphere or feeling the author gives the work. But I don’t think that atmosphere is always something they consciously recognize. Even when an author is writing, they’ll become immersed, and in that immersion all kinds of sentences emerge.”
“So?”
“I think the curtain metaphor in The Play Class was born out of that nuance. In other words, it’s a product of the unconscious that can only emerge when the author is fully immersed.”
“!”
Something independent of the author’s intent.
And the author’s unconscious.
At first glance, the two seemed similar, but in truth they were entirely different. Because the unconscious is still consciousness in the broad sense.
“In other words, I think the author simply didn’t recognize it, but in the process of creating that nuance, his unconscious gave birth to this metaphor. And that, too, is part of the author’s ability.”
“...Interesting. The process of creating nuance, huh.”
“I also think your theory of the work as a living organism is interesting, Editor Im.”
The two men looked at each other.
Both wearing smiles as neat as if they had been drawn in ink.
It was also a declaration that, on that issue, neither of them intended to yield. From Editor Im’s point of view, he could not understand my position at all. And the same was true for me.
It was a little disappointing that we differed on something so important.
Still, it was far better than me having no thoughts on the matter at all, or simply following an older critic without question. It meant that I was no longer merely a star newcomer, but a fully fledged established critic.
Among young critics, there were not many with that sort of firm center.
With a strange mixture of disappointment and pride, Editor Im handed the critique back to me.
“All right. Let’s leave that there. Ah, by the way, when did you study Japanese so much?”
“Ah... well,” I said with an awkward laugh. “I just worked hard.”
“A language genius, then. Well, nothing about you surprises me anymore.”
Editor Im had no way of knowing that the word genius made me feel a twinge of conscience.
“You said you’d include it in Japanese as well.”
“Yes. I thought Japanese stakeholders would probably see it too. I happened to have written it in Japanese as well.”
“You want to go after the Japanese market?” Editor Im asked directly.
I shrugged.
“I should try. It feels like the opportunity has come.”
It was less that it had come and more that I had made it.
Ever since I had laid Pyeong out at the Incheon Airport display stand.
“So for this second issue of Pyeong, I’m thinking of making the theme detective fiction.”
“Detective fiction?”
“Yes. Since I’ve decided to take on the The Play Class critique, I want to do it properly. I’m also curious how people will receive Pyeong with such a distinct theme.”
“Not bad. In any case, you’re the editor, so do as you please. But if you’re setting detective fiction as the theme, then you’ll end up covering genre fiction and not much else, won’t you?”
“Haha. You don’t need to worry about that. Pyeong isn’t a ‘literature-only quarterly.’”
“!”
Editor Im had forgotten.
Pyeong was a quarterly devoted to criticism.
And a criticism quarterly could carry criticism of every art form.
“So... this time, I’m going to start commissioning pieces.”
“Commissioning? Already?” That was unexpected.
I had thought I’d be leading Pyeong on my own for a while yet.
Just by looking at my personality and abilities, that should have been obvious.
Most critics’ writing would not satisfy me, after all.
I smiled faintly.
“Yes. There’s someone I’m very fond of. He’s reliable.”
─┼
The film critic Yang Yeon-gyu was busy watching a movie once again today.
Drip coffee filling the coffee pot.
And a film.
Those were the two conditions that made him happiest. What he was watching now was a new romance film sent directly from the studio as a file.
He usually preferred to watch movies in the theater, but after a sincere request asking for his review to be delivered as soon as the film premiered, he ended up watching it on a monitor like this.
But still. It’s no good again. It was a film that simply repeated the emotional excess and melodrama of Korean romance.
Yang Yeon-gyu, who had seen roughly a hundred films built on this kind of structure, found it grueling just to make it to the end.
“Hoo...”
He had started this work because he loved movies, but moments like this made him feel a real sense of futility.
Films that clung only to the audience’s emotions and showed no artistry or experimentation whatsoever.
When he had to watch something made only to make money.
He glanced at his blue notebook.
It contained notes on films he had watched outside of work.
Indie films, foreign films, films that had nothing to do with so-called mass appeal, and so on.
Among them were quite a few excellent films.
At least better than the romance film he was watching now.
But regrettably, the only place such reviews could really live was on social media.
Even if they were printed in a film criticism magazine, they could not appear on their own.
The films the magazine wanted to push as its main feature were always different.
The magazine and the critic were partners who had to move together.
Some degree of mutual wariness was only natural.
Yang Yeon-gyu watched the film with a bitter feeling for all sorts of reasons.
Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz.
Damn. I forgot to turn off my phone.
To make matters worse, his appreciation was being interrupted too.
Just as he was about to switch it off, he paused when he saw the caller name: Critic Mok Hyunsun.
Mok Hyunsun, who had once appeared on YouTube with Yoo An-mo, the webtoon artist who drew Paper Mask.
That memory remained with him as a very happy one.
The candid yet high-level discussion they had had about the film Colored Cloth.
It had been the kind of high-order debate that was difficult even to have with fellow film critics, and it had sent his intellectual dopamine surging like mad. He had liked Mok Hyunsun.
So it was only natural that he had saved the number to his phone the very moment he received the card.
With hopes that one day they might do something together.
He paused the film.
Stopping his immersion like this was something he absolutely never did,
but he couldn’t help it.
“Yes. Critic Mok. This is Yang Yeon-gyu.”
-It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well.
Mok Hyunsun’s voice was bright over the line.
Yang Yeon-gyu was reminded anew of how young the man still was.
Which made his recent movements even more astonishing.
“I enjoyed the first issue of Pyeong, by the way.”
-Haha, you saw it? I should have sent it to your home separately. Since there wasn’t any film criticism in it, I didn’t think you’d be reading it.
Yang Yeon-gyu smiled without saying anything.
Was he being modest? Did this young critic truly not understand his own influence?
Pyeong was an astonishingly innovative magazine.
There were many film criticism magazines in the market, but literature was a different matter.
People tended to think it was better to print works than criticism.
In that sense, it was already impressive that he had broken that convention and made a criticism quarterly succeed.
Moreover, his writing had been generating responses from unexpected places.
Film directors had begun taking an interest in Photo Memory.
After reading Mok Hyunsun’s critique, they would casually ask Yang Yeon-gyu.
They wanted to know whether Photo Memory seemed like a rather good work, and if adapting it to film could be commercially successful. Before he knew it, Mok Hyunsun had become a critic writing something the film world considered “worth consulting.”
But he decided not to say any of that out loud.
He imagined Mok Hyunsun must already be sick of hearing praise.
And there would still be time to say such things after the adaptation actually came to pass.
-I’ll send it to you starting with the next issue, if you’d like.
“Of course I’d like that. Whether it covers film or not, your writing is always welcome, Critic Mok.”
-Actually, I have good news. The second volume coming out this time will include film criticism.
“Oh. Is that so? Then I’m looking forward to it even more.”
-Which brings me to this. If possible... may I commission a piece from you, Critic?
“...?” What on earth was this turn of events?
Yang Yeon-gyu gathered his thoughts.
They were going to cover film in the next issue.
And then, out of nowhere, he brought up a commission.
Yang Yeon-gyu eventually arrived at one conclusion.
“Are you thinking of putting my writing in the second issue of Pyeong?”