The Count of Monte Cristo - 2
When I first set foot in this world's literature—that is, when the only things called literature were characterless Knight Literature or vulgar novels little better than cheap erotic tales—I despaired. I had no confidence I could survive in a world devoid of entertainment. I lacked the courage to endure a life without literature.
"Sion."
"Yes, young master."
"It's great how fun novels are popping up these days, isn't it?"
"I agree entirely. This is all thanks to your works, young master."
So I stole. Various classics from my previous life—starting with Don Quixote, I transplanted modern literature into this world. I arbitrarily shoehorned the essence of literature, which should have built up over long histories and paradigm shifts, into this world's literary timeline.
Honestly, I felt anxious. Literature ultimately advances hand-in-hand with broader societal paradigm shifts. In that sense, the works I plagiarized were just castles built on sand. They were cultures from outside this world, not birthed from its own paradigms.
"Is it really thanks to my works?"
"Pardon?"
"No, have you read this? It's a serial novel I've been enjoying lately… The protagonist's a worker at a magic tool factory. It's fun, but you really feel life's hardships in it… Probably based on real experience."
"Hmm? Is that to your taste, young master?"
"It's fresh."
"I'm not familiar with it, but there must be something only you can see."
"Pfft. You think so?"
"Yes. I lack talent like yours, after all."
But classics are classics because they transcend eras. And furthermore, they serve as the catalyst ushering in new ones. That's the true power of literature, I believe. It doesn't age across generations, stays captivating as civilizations advance, and retains value worth respecting even as societies change. Stories of people.
"It's not really about talent, but yeah, sure."
"You have a tendency to undervalue your own gifts, young master."
"My works are the best, but I'm not that great a person."
Come to think of it, that's why I fell for classics in my previous life. A 21st-century modern might not marvel at tech from decades ago, but they still get moved reading literature from centuries past. I couldn't forget that thrill, so I became a translator.
"If the author of such great works isn't impressive, then no one in this world is."
Anyone who can create is impressive. An author's greatness is inseparable from the act of creation itself.
But I'm talentless at creation. My role is merely to catalyze theirs.
"Alright, enough chit-chat. Can you proofread these manuscripts?"
"The short stories for the academy?"
"Yeah."
"They're short stories, but it's a shame they won't see the light of day."
"I'll collect them into an anthology later, when the time's right."
Through magazine serials, I'd gauged the students' styles and culled dozens of shorts to bolster them. Some shone in fables and satire, others in wordplay and poetic sensibility, still others in tight, structured prose. I'd curated pieces to reinforce each unique spark.
Advance this world's literature via my past life's classics.
Then savor the evolved results, reveling in life's joys.
"You'll go down in history as the god of literature, young master."
"Fits the name Homerus nicely."
This was the pinnacle of imaginable lives!
The Count of Monte Cristo, hailed as the apex of pure entertainment, transcended lowbrow success to captivate even the empire's elite—nobles and magnates alike.
"Have you read The Count of Monte Cristo? It's serialized in that cheap rag Half and Half… Ahem, for a magazine like that, it's shockingly fun."
"Ah! I have. My maid recommended it."
A novel from the bargain-bin mag named Half and Half—for being half the price of others—began trending in high society. Sure, plenty dismissed it as plebeian fare, but 'pure fun's' onslaught knew no class barriers.
The real victims? Collectors.
"Arrrgh! The paper—the paper tears right off!"
"Why the hell does this trash publisher use such trash paper?!"
Those who snapped up multiples of favorites for display cases. For collection obsessives, the disposable pulp of cheap mags was torture.
"Single volume! We need a single volume!"
"Half and Half, put out a single volume! Refuse, and we'll torch the publisher!"
Thus, public clamor formed for a Count of Monte Cristo single volume.
And only one publisher fit the bill.
"That Dolling Kindersley! I'll grind my bones to dust for Homerus author's new single volume!"
"It's Herodotus for The Count of Monte Cristo. Don't screw it up."
"Yes! Naturally!"
And so, the single-volume edition of The Count of Monte Cristo was greenlit.
Single-volume publication: compiling serials from papers or mags into one bound book.
Several perks. Plenty of readers shunned magazine serials outright. For those craving a full story in one go, piecemeal issues felt lacking.
It also tantalized collectors. Sturdy, good-paper volumes with solid covers beat flimsy cheap mags hands-down.
For publishers, repackaging proven hits minimized risk while maximizing returns.
"President Dolling."
"Yes! Author!"
And for me, champion of literary progress, it was opportunity.
A chance to blur high and low culture's lines.
To foster truly 'popular' culture blooming beyond class.
"How about slipping in a recommendation under the Homerus name?"
"Pardon?"
"Single volumes need blurbs, right? And among blurb-worthy authors, Homerus has the biggest name. So I'll write one."
"Is… is that allowed?"
"Why not?"
Thus, I opted to turbocharge The Count of Monte Cristo's hype: a self-blab.
Truth be told, outing Homerus and Herodotus as one might earn 'madman' jeers… but no harm if undiscovered. Even exposed, authors get an eccentric pass. Just screams confidence.
"You're… truly wondrous, author."
"I get that a lot."
"Ah, then we'll do the blurb your way. For illustrations or binding, any preferences? Classic leather?"
"Bible vibe?"
"Bible…?"
"Yeah. We'll refine the design, but… it symbolizes the Count's resurrection too. Ah! A limited gold-leaf edition sounds perfect."
In-story, Father Faria's treasure hid clues in a gold-leaf Bible. The Bible as resurrection icon? Symbolically spot-on.
"Hmm, much to ponder…"
"Heh, thanks as always, President."
"I'm the grateful one! You're literature's treasure!"
Single-volume details wrapped.
Now, back to the academy kids.
The academy students were dying.
Regret, desolation, obsession. Regretting why they couldn't write better, self-flagellation breeding ruin, desperate writing binges to claw back—rinse, repeat.
"Ugh, urgh… Homerus's shorts were enough…"
"Homerus is god…! I'm worthless…"
"Today's short was fun… hehe…"
States deteriorating, yet literary prowess skyrocketed daily.
(Though skill and true storytelling are distinct beasts.)
"You've all worked hard. Reader votes were rough, but I think you each delivered wonderful, personality-packed tales."
Technique alone doesn't birth masterpieces.
"So, votes aside, let's try 'co-authoring.' One by one, in sequence."
"Eh?"
"What'd he…?"
"Huhh…?"
But if they had the prose,
I had the stories.
I knew the timeless ones.
"I've set the co-author order and partners. So from now—"
"Waaaah!!!"
"Eeeek! Co-co-authoring with Homerus…!"
"Heh-heh…!"
…Calming them would take time.
As their screams echoed, I pictured classics we'd birth together.
For instance, fairy tales stuffed with endless puns, linguistic puzzles, mathematical paradoxes, and such.