Spring Dream (3)
74.
Yang Yeon-gyu’s eyes widened a fraction. “Interesting. ‘Humanitarianism’ is the most common key to interpreting Spring Dream.”
“Hmm.” I stirred through the slippery egg in my donburi with my spoon. “I’d have to read it again to be certain, but for now, that final ‘It is warm’ bothers me.”
“Ah—now that is a very important sentence to identify.” Yang Yeon-gyu grew serious as well. “Isn’t that exactly why Spring Dream is considered a work that reveals the Japanese sense of humanitarianism?”
“Well, interpretations can always change.” I shrugged.
I meant it sincerely.
Even if it was the same novel, the way people evaluated it would naturally shift with the times.
It made no difference whether it was the work of a writer who had just debuted or one who had won the Nobel Prize in Literature. I dug into my donburi with gusto.
It was still sweet, but once I started eating, it was surprisingly tolerable. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as a work that’s finished being evaluated. Reassessing what we call the classics or the masterpieces is part of a critic’s job, too.”
“A reevaluation of the classics and the masterpieces….” He murmured the words to himself. “If done well, that could be something wonderful. Though, to be frank, there’d be risk if the assessment failed to win people over.”
Risk, he said. Why make it sound so frightening? “I haven’t even written it yet. I may not even publish it in Pyeong.”
“Then why don’t you tell me, just the two of us, how you interpreted Spring Dream?” Yang Yeon-gyu seemed more interested in my thoughts on Spring Dream than in the donburi in front of him.
“All right, I’ll give you the short version. It’s not fully sorted out yet, but I think you’ll take that into account, Mr. Critic.” I began explaining my interpretation of Spring Dream. Clack-clack. The sound of a train passing outside the window.
Covered by that noise, our conversation never quite made it beyond the table. Clack-clack-clack.... By the time the train sounds had faded into the distance, I finished. “That’s the gist of it.”
Yang Yeon-gyu looked utterly stunned. “...Oh.”
Then—“That makes sense. No, actually... now I finally understand why I felt such a sense of defeatism in Spring Dream.”
“Does it convince you?”
“Very much. But...”
“But?”
“People are going to be shocked.” I could see that might well be true.
Spring Dream had been loved around the world for far too long.
And yet... the longer a work lived, the more kinds of interpretation it had to endure.
That was the burden of being called “world literature” or a “classic.”
─┼
I returned to the hotel, lay down on the bed, and reread Spring Dream.
And the result was.... “As I thought.” My first impression had been right.
On a second reading, it only became more solid. Thud. I set Spring Dream on my chest and made up my mind.
I would present a new interpretation of Spring Dream.
As for where to publish it...
The third issue of Pyeong would still be the best choice, wouldn’t it? I did feel it was a little early to be deciding the issue’s contents already.
If it were Gyeongseong Geul, just choosing the topic would take forever.
Gyeongseong Geul had its own gravity, certainly, but in terms of sheer convenience, it couldn’t hold a candle to Pyeong.
In other words, it was too convenient for me. “Then let’s stir things up a little.” Nothing too dramatic. Click! I took a photo of Spring Dream,
and asked intern Yoon Gyeong-min to handle the rest.
I told him to upload it to Gyeongseong Publishing’s social media with a few lines of copy. Then, a little later,
the efficient Yoon Gyeong-min had the promotional team post the feed.
A photo of the original Japanese edition of Spring Dream.
And beneath it: Reading Kazuma Tsuji’s Spring Dream in Japan. It has been many years since Kazuma Tsuji passed away. He remains a beloved writer, but perhaps now we can try a slightly different interpretation.
#SpringDream #Bookstagram #KazumaTsuji #Pyeong #RereadingTheClassics #WorldLiterature #NobelPrizeInLiterature
It looked convincing. And sure enough, the likes began climbing in an instant.
Kazuma Tsuji was hugely popular in Korea as well, so the response came right away.
The reaction wasn’t bad.
People were especially interested in the fact that I was dealing with literature that had succeeded on a global scale, even won the Nobel Prize in Literature—in other words, “world literature.”
That was probably because works we called world literature were, by definition, already of a high caliber.
The novel was high-level, so the criticism had to be high-level as well.
And then something entirely unexpected happened.
Someone from a place I’d never anticipated responded to the SNS feed.
Bzzzt. A mail arrived on my phone.
I opened it absentmindedly and had to murmur, “Good heavens.”
They wanted to run my criticism in their quarterly publication.
I texted the number the editor had left.
After switching my phone to a Japanese keyboard, I laboriously typed out a message. Hello. This is critic Mok Hyunsun. I’ve checked the text. The reply came back immediately. Critic! I’m honored to be able to greet you like this. If texting is inconvenient, we can always talk on the phone.
Ah, text is fine. I barely speak any Japanese.
I see. In that case, how did you find our proposal? We really want to publish your piece. Please, I hope you’ll look on it favorably.
If I said this long message had arrived within a minute, would you believe me?
The editor seemed to be staking his life on this.
I still answered haltingly, no doubt making him terribly impatient. I’m inclined to be positive about it as well.
Spring Dream, after all, was Japanese literature.
It seemed meaningful to publish my criticism in Japan first.
Also, I hadn’t done anything like it before, so it sounded fun.
Bzzzt. Thank you very much. First of all, the fee we must obviously mention is....
“Oh.” I was startled by the number.
They were paying that much?
So this was what they meant when they said the Japanese publishing market was healthy. The pay itself was on a completely different scale from Korea’s.
All right. Then what’s the deadline?
Ah, well.
Well? The fast-firing messages came to a pause.
It seemed he was struggling with the wording.
......The webzine is set to go live in three days.
“Three days?” For an ordinary critic, that would have been a difficult deadline.
Even if the content were already fully prepared,
writing the piece and polishing the prose would easily take up all three days.
Again, that was assuming the material was already completely prepared.
You don’t need to send us anything long! Even something very brief would be perfectly fine. If we can publish your work in the webzine, anything will do.
Well, it was nice of them to be so enthusiastic. Please!
I looked at Spring Dream lying on my bed.
And the language that was already forming in my head.
Three days.
Honestly... that was more than enough.
I think I can do it.
Really? Thank you! Our editor-in-chief will be thrilled as well!
However.
There was one point First Printing needed to understand.
It won’t be all good news. Are you sure that’s all right? There was silence for a moment.
He probably knew very well how Spring Dream was viewed in Japanese society.
If they were asking me to soften the whole thing into something pleasant, I had no intention of doing so.
And then—I will bear it.
That was a reply I genuinely liked.
I even grinned.
He’d said he would bear it.
That was practically the same as saying he’d share fate with the person handing him the manuscript.
And then. Bzzzt. Another message.
Still, I ask again just in case—are you truly not willing to meet with writer Nashida.....?
Good grief. Persistent.
I didn’t know whether Nashida was the one begging for this or whether the publisher wanted it more than he did, but either way, he had brought up the offer again at a remarkably bad time.
I couldn’t exactly remain cold to a publisher that was willing to share destiny with me to the end.
So I had no choice but to send this reply: I’ll be busy with the film festival and related matters from tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow morning, though, a cup of coffee should be fine.
─┼
Nashida received rare and welcome news.
Mok Hyunsun, who had come to Japan, was willing to make time for him.
He owed that to the editor’s relentless courting, they said. So Nashida accepted the appointment at once.
The morning timing wasn’t a problem. He could have gone at dawn.
And so, the next morning,
he went to the hotel where Mok Hyunsun was staying with an editor who spoke Korean fairly well. “Oh! He’s here.”
When Mok Hyunsun stepped out of the elevator, he looked much younger than he did in photos.
I had always thought Koreans tended to look somewhat more mature than Japanese people,
but even accounting for that, Mok Hyunsun still gave off the impression of a university student.
Someone this young debuted with such brilliance and wrote work this astonishing....
It was impossible to believe even with my own eyes.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Mok Hyunsun greeted him warmly.
Judging from his expression, it didn’t seem he held any personal feeling toward Nashida; he simply appeared to find the meeting burdensome in his capacity as a critic meeting an author.
The two of them continued their conversation over coffee.
The editor’s interpretation wasn’t perfect, but it was more than sufficient to convey the meaning. The more talkative one was Nashida.
He thanked him for writing such a good critique, and then seriously explained how it had affected his own body of work.
“I realized something after reading your review, critic. The desire to rise. That was the most powerful unconscious force in my work. But now that I’m aware of it... putting that desire into my work has started to feel unnatural.”
“That would make sense. Up until now, you’ve been placing that sensibility into your work unconsciously.”
“In short, my work has developed an empty space.”
An empty space.
That might have been a devastating loss for a writer.
But Nashida didn’t regret having read Mok Hyunsun’s criticism.
Only—“What can I fill this empty space with? Of course, I know that as a writer I have to overcome this kind of turning point on my own, but... I’m curious what you think, critic.”
In truth, Mok Hyunsun had no obligation to provide an answer.
But he fell into serious thought.
He narrowed his eyes and quietly looked out at the view beyond the hotel window. Nashida felt it.
Perhaps this was one of the most important moments of his career as a writer.
He might be receiving the key to overcoming all the crises he would face in the life ahead of him.
A little while later,
Mok Hyunsun opened his mouth.