Ambivalence (1)
There were unmistakable tears in Nasida’s eyes.
Even the editor serving as interpreter seemed startled. “What do you think?” I asked Nasida, pretending not to notice.
He went silent for a long moment before finally summing it up in a single line. “It’s suffocating. I’ve never felt anything like this before.”
“...”
“To think a novel by a writer I admired and respected could be read in this way. It feels as if some pillar inside me has come crashing down... I’m sad. And, ah... I don’t know how to put it. Honestly, I want to deny it.” That made sense. Of course it did.
Until now, Kazuma had been seen as a writer almost like a teacher who had found human compassion in postwar Japanese society.
But the Kazuma I had analyzed was... a frail man who did not know what to do with his own debt and shame.
It was only natural that this would shock a younger writer who admired him. But he only wanted to deny it; he could not truly deny it.
His bloodshot eyes had already said as much.
At least one or two parts of my argument had reached him.
If they had not, there would have been nothing for him to mourn. Nasida said, “What angers me most is that the Kazuma you analyzed in Spring Dream feels the most like a writer. Not because he served his country or revealed human compassion, or any of those grand aims, but because he simply exposed his inner self.”
“The fact that he revealed that inner self in such an outstanding way is exactly why Spring Dream is a remarkable work. I have no intention of belittling Kazuma as a writer.”
“I know. And yet... I’m still this sad because I’m Japanese, I suppose.”
“That would be my guess.”
My ability to identify Kazuma’s psychology inside Spring Dream with relative ease had, in the end, been possible because I was not Japanese.
I had no admiration and no prejudice clouding the page. In truth, the same was true of the Nobel Prize in Literature.
Just because a novel was excellent for one reason in the past did not mean it would remain excellent for the same reason now.
Once again, that was what I meant by “the times.”
When the times changed, so too did the standards by which literature was judged. Nasida said, “In any case, please be careful. This is the kind of piece that could offend a lot of people. If possible, maybe you should soften some of the phrasing—”
“Ah, I’m afraid that’s not something I can do.”
“?”
“I already sent the manuscript to the publisher.”
─┼
“W-what is this?” After reading the manuscript the editor from First Printing had brought over for the quarterly magazine First, the chief editor’s eyes widened.
The manuscript belonged to Mok Hyunsun, typed up after the editor had transcribed it from photos of his handwritten pages and printed it out. “I was shocked too after reading it. Can we really run this as is?” The editor’s voice trembled faintly at the end.
That was how shocking Mok Hyunsun’s writing was. “...Huh.” Only then did the chief editor understand what Mok Hyunsun had meant. -There’s bound to be more than just pleasant talk in there, are you sure you’re okay with that? So that was what he had meant.
He had expected some criticism of Kazuma.
After all, Kazuma belonged to the postwar era, and Mok Hyunsun was Korean.
There was a chance he might say things like praising war, or invading another country and then acting like the victim.
And the chief editor had been prepared to accept that degree of criticism, along with the backlash it might bring.
There were plenty of people who already judged that kind of content about wartime Japan in exactly that way. But this was not that sort of criticism.
Mok Hyunsun had dissected Spring Dream—no, Kazuma himself—piece by piece, exposing the flesh beneath.
What mattered was the conclusion he reached.
And the answer Mok Hyunsun had pulled out was nothing other than “weakness” or “shame.” A writer who had seemed like the embodiment of human compassion, who loved frail human beings, was in fact that frail human being himself.
For anyone who loved Kazuma, it was a conclusion that was hard to accept. But the problem was... The writing is too good. If this were about any writer other than Kazuma, I would have accepted it at once.
That was the persuasive force and power of Mok Hyunsun’s writing.
His criticism had dismantled the image of Kazuma that had been firmly fixed in the chief editor’s mind.
Yes. If you look at it rationally, Kazuma’s writing is undoubtedly defeatist. It’s just that defeatism has been covered over as human compassion by a single line: “It’s warm.” Whether Kazuma intended it or not, that was ultimately sleight of hand. And the person who noticed a sleight of hand that had remained effective for so long was...
None other than “Mok Hyunsun of Korea.”
Thud. The chief editor set the printed criticism down on the table. “...What should we do? Should we run it?”
“...”
The chief editor fell into thought. If we put this out, there will be an uproar. At the very least, the anti-Korean crowd and the right-wingers won’t sit still. But the writing really is outstanding. The perspective on Spring Dream is completely fresh, and the understanding of the author is as deep as it could possibly be. It makes no sense to let criticism like this slip away!
“...Editor? I think maybe we should explain things properly to Critic Mok and ask for a revised version—”
The most important point is this: Mok Hyunsun used his own logic to make Kazuma shine in a different way. This isn’t a piece that insults Kazuma. It merely looks at him as a human being who lived through an era. And from the standpoint of someone who studied literature...
He could feel that this interpretation was far more artistic.
Kazuma no longer seemed like some grand artist who had given hope to the Japanese people,
but a weak yet human soul who had suffered under guilt and debt before dying. “...Sir? Chief editor?” The editor kept calling him, trying to pull him out of his daze.
Still half lost in thought, the chief editor reached a conclusion.
“Print it.”
“Pardon?”
“Run it exactly as it is, without changing a single letter.”
“B-but...”
“We made a promise, didn’t we? That no matter what kind of piece came in, we would handle it.” That was also a promise made to the writers who entrusted them with their manuscripts.
Accepting a commission meant trusting the publisher.
Then the publisher, too, had a duty to embrace the work. “This piece is worth handling. Of course, people will complain at first. But in the long run... we absolutely need to put this on our webzine.”
He had already smelled it.
In the end, many people would come to agree with Mok Hyunsun’s article.
“When does the piece go up on the webzine?”
“Midnight, three days from now.”
“Hmm. Three days.” He glanced at the calendar and said, “Two days left. Until then, everyone, enjoy the peace.”
─┼
They were going to publish my piece in First Printing.
To be honest, I had thought they might reject it, but they accepted it more readily than I expected. Since I had written a manuscript I had never intended to write in the first place, I decided to enjoy the real purpose of my trip to Japan: the film festival.
The festival was centered around the movie theaters in Shinjuku.
So many people had poured in that Shinjuku, already crowded to begin with, seemed to boil over with them. “You need to see as many films as possible. There are a lot you can only watch here,” Critic Yang Yeon-gyu said, almost like a reminder.
I followed him around at my leisure, and because he had already checked out the good films in advance, I was able to watch quite comfortably.
As expected, the films he chose were interesting.
Out of the three I watched on the first day, two stayed with me: the period drama Women of the Bridge, with a geisha as its protagonist, and The Toy Man, about a hikikomori.
I could sense a subtle thread connecting the two films, and I thought it would be good to unpack that somewhere if the chance arose.
Then, the next day came.
As expected, I left the hotel with Yang Yeon-gyu.
He had told me in advance, “Today is interview day, so there will be a lot of reporters. After the screenings, they ask notable guests for their impressions. Even people who aren’t directly involved in film, like Critic Mok and me, might get questions.”
“That should be fun. There were a lot of interesting films yesterday. Ah, would you watch Inside the Box with me later?”
“The film based on Nasida’s novel?”
“Yes. They’re selling Critique right in front of the theater. I was too busy with other films yesterday to look around, but I should stop by today.”
“Good. Inside the Box was one of the films I absolutely planned to see at this festival. Ah, come to think of it.” Yang Yeon-gyu asked rather cautiously, “Has the Spring Dream criticism been published smoothly?”
“Ah, that? It goes up tomorrow. So today, we need to have even more fun.”
“...Aren’t you afraid? There’s definitely going to be pushback.”
I just smiled. “Haha, whether they accept it or not is up to the Japanese readers.”
A little later, I came out of a theater in Shinjuku after watching Inside the Box.
Honestly, the film was merely so-so.
It seemed there were quite a few things lost in the process of adapting the original work. Then again, adaptation could be harder than creating something from scratch. Meanwhile, a large crowd was gathered in front of the theater, looking over Critique.
“Wow, you’re selling well,” Yang Yeon-gyu said lightly, half-joking.
I let out a small laugh. “We have to sell as many copies as we can while we still can.” By tomorrow, nobody would want to buy it anymore.
At that point, I decided to revise the plan a little.
Originally, Critique was supposed to be sold here until the festival ended, but I changed my mind. I spoke to the First Printing employee handling promotions.
When I introduced myself as Mok Hyunsun, he bowed so deeply I thought his back might snap. “Ah! It’s an honor to meet you, Critic.”
That uniquely Japanese habit of bowing like your spine is made of rope still hasn’t grown on me.
Anyway. “Has Critique been selling well?”
“Yes. We’ve sold almost everything we brought today. The criticism of Acting Class was extremely popular, after all. We’ll probably be sold out by tomorrow, so we were going to urgently bring over more stock from Korea—”
“No, no. There’s no need for that.” I waved a hand. “Let’s sell only until today.”
“...Pardon?”
“Sell Critique only until today. So please do everything you can to make sure there’s no stock left.”
“No, but Critic, why all of a sudden—?”
“Just pass that along to the chief editor. I’m sure he’ll understand.” Once the article went up on the webzine, there would naturally be people enraged by it.
And I had no idea what they might do if they came to this sales booth, so I needed to clear it out before then.
Since they had already sold most of the copies I brought from Korea, there was nothing to lose. Then Yang Yeon-gyu asked from beside me, “I can guess why you’re pulling the booth, but... aren’t you disappointed? It seemed like you planned to turn Critique into a topic and draw readers in.”
“A topic?” Come now. “In terms of making a splash, Critique can’t possibly compete with Spring Dream.”
That wasn’t exactly my intention, but still.
We went to the next theater.
As we entered, Yang Yeon-gyu said to me, “This is the film I’m most looking forward to at this festival. I know a Japanese film critic who saw it here yesterday before anyone else, and he said it left him speechless.”
“Is that so?” We walked into the theater.
A staff member noticed the invitation badges around our necks and spoke to us politely. “You’re here as invited guests, yes? Please come this way.” She led us to the front section of the theater.
There, people who had also been invited were gathering, apparently ready to jot down notes. Behind them, reporters were busy taking photographs.
I had watched films at the festival, but this was my first time in a setting like this.
Judging by the atmosphere, it had to be one of two things: a highly anticipated film or a controversial one.
Before long, the film began.
On the black-and-white screen, a Japanese title slowly appeared. Samurai.