Novelist Running Through Time

Chapter 125

TL: KSD

Anyone working in the Korean publishing industry sometimes suffer from mental agony—

“Ugh, why don’t Koreans read books….”

—muttering such nonsense.

However, the real reason for the suffering of Korean publishing industry workers is not because of the ‘industry recession’.

If that were the case, all Koreans should have been suffering. Since 1997, the devastated economy of the common people has become a tradition in Korea.

Therefore, the ‘real reason’ Korean publishing industry workers are suffering is not because the industry is struggling,

but because—

We’re on the brink of death—

and unfortunately, it’s those damn Japanese.

And this feeling is exactly the same for people in the Japanese film industry.

Many Japanese filmmakers felt like their guts wrenching when they saw So Tae-woong bringing home something like the Berlin Golden Bear from the neighboring country while they were barely surviving.

Film director Kenji Matsumoto was no exception.

The Japanese film industry, especially the live-action sector, is going through a terrible dark age. The pain is doubled because the past golden age of Japanese cinema was so brilliant.

The ‘production committee’ system entrenched in the industry and the monopoly of distributors reduced directors’ authority and increased the influence of sponsors, further lowering the treatment of all filmmakers.

And with only the past being glorious, an industry where the present is tough and there’s no future does not attract talent.

Kenji Matsumoto, who dreamed of becoming the savior of the Japanese film industry, saw his vision darken.

Fortunately, however, the wise predecessors left numerous famous sayings to save the suffering people.

The sayings they left behind still remain by our side, shining like the North Star, guiding our lives.

「If you don’t like the temple, you should leave the temple.」

「If you’re frustrated, you should do it yourself.」

「If you’re pissed off, get out.」

So Kenji Matsumoto quit being a film director.

And then he transitioned to being an animation film director, the last bastion of the Japanese film industry.

However, the ‘gonzo’ attitude he had developed while sticking to live-action films didn’t disappear easily, and that twisted stubbornness stuck to his heart like a sticky gum was, in a word, close to an artistic obsession.

That’s right. He was a man with a disease.

Kenji Matsumoto was a man who, even knowing that the heroine’s bouncing breasts bring in money, stubbornly poured his heart into elements of social criticism,

and he was a man with a strange disease that made him feel uneasy unless he crammed mise-en-scène and metaphors into movies even for 7-year-olds.

That bizarre persistence was the most crucial reason that would later make him a master of Japanese animated films, but that’s a story from a different time.

The ‘present’ Kenji Matsumoto was a rookie director who had succeeded in turning a Korean novel into a film against everyone’s opposition, and that film swept through Japanese theaters, instantly changing his world.

Thus, the current director Kenji Matsumoto was a rookie who couldn’t believe in his talent and believed that the success of the film was driven by the original author’s ability.

Therefore, his gratitude for the unbelievable success was directed towards a young boy.

“Author M-Moon In!”

Director Matsumoto, who was sitting on the floor of writer Siedehara’s house, ran out to the garden barefoot as soon as he saw Moon In.

“I really wanted to meet you!”

Director Matsumoto grabbed Moon In’s hand. It was closer to capturing than shaking hands.

At an age where one would normally be startled and run away if a middle-aged man with an impatient impression and bloodshot eyes suddenly grabbed their hand, fortunately Moon In, having been through thick and thin, was no longer at a level to be surprised by this much.

Moon In maintained a serene expression akin to a Tibetan fox, while director Matsumoto, unable to contain his excitement, babbled away.

“Author Moon In…! No, should I call you Author Fumihito instead? No, it doesn’t matter what I call you, that’s not important right now. I am truly grateful! I am humbled to have gained such undeserved fame through this wonderful work. It’s all thanks to you. Thank you! How can I ever repay this grace…?”

To this, Moon In replied.

“……”

Director Matsumoto didn’t understand.

It was in Korean.

So Eisaku Siedehara laughed and translated.

“He says he doesn’t understand Japanese.”

“Ah.”

EP 8 – Dark Adaptation

Wandering around Baekhak Entertainment, one encounters all sorts of people. Actors, singers, idols, comedians, and so on.

Since Baekhak Entertainment is an octopus-like company that would be hit with antitrust laws and explode if it were in the U.S., the types of people wandering around the company were countless.

But among them, So Tae-woong was an exception. He was a person who came all the way to Baekhak Entertainment just to secure the film adaptation of my work, lurking around sneakily.

So, film director So Tae-woong was, in my opinion, the Park Ji-sung, Kim Yuna, and Yoo Jae-suk of stalker world. Of course, So Tae-woong is So Tae-woong in the world of film directors.

However, the director Matsumoto I met in Japan also showed a level of madness comparable to So Tae-woong. Starting with grabbing the hand of a kid he met for the first time and pouring out everything he wanted to say, he seemed a bit crazy.

I don’t know if all film directors’ personalities are like this, or if director Matsumoto is the So Tae-woong of Japan.

Moreover, I don’t speak Japanese.

So it was even scarier.

Experiencing a middle-aged man with a impatient impression and bloodshot eyes staring at me and spewing out words I couldn’t understand like a machine gun isn’t something anyone can easily go through.

However, our conversation proceeded more smoothly than expected, thanks to the presence of two people who could translate between Korean and Japanese.

With the help of Lim Yang-wook and writer Siedehara, the meeting with director Matsumoto was quite fruitful and deep.

That day, many conversations took place at writer Siedehara’s house.

The most interesting conversation was about why director Matsumoto was so fixated on ‘Guitar’.

“It’s like… the darkness of society…”

“Darkness?”

“Yes. From the moment of setting the protagonist as a girl who escaped from a group of runaway teenagers, something went ‘ping-‘ for me.”

If I were to describe director Matsumoto’s inclination in literary terms, it seemed closer to participatory literature rather than pure literature.

This was clearly revealed in the topics of conversation he discussed.

“Modern society, especially life in rural areas, looks very sophisticated and modern, but sometimes I wonder. Is the term ‘modern’ synonymous with ‘sophisticated’? I don’t think so.”

“Hmm…”

“In fact, the life of modern people is a repetition of labor, struggling to survive while being burdened by gas bills, electricity bills, water bills, and insurance premiums. Urban life is not advanced at all. No! The word ‘advanced’ itself commonly used implies that humans are beings tied to labor and wages. According to research on the distribution of the truly poor, a significant proportion of them live in cities, not rural areas. Yet, mass media depict cities as sleek spaces filled with grand skyscrapers and neatly dressed office workers. The people struggling in the shadows within those spaces receive no attention at all. They certainly exist, they are not so few as to be ignored, and they are suffering serious pain, yet they are overlooked!”

“Hmm…”

“In that sense, I find the lifestyle of runaway teenagers dealt with in ‘Guitar’ to be a very meaningful setting in literary terms. The fact that this work was ahead of its time can be seen in the issue of Toyoko Kids problem that’s recently emerging in Japan… Ahem!”

Director Matsumoto’s seemingly endless artistic discourse came to a halt with the mention of the term ‘Toyoko kids’.

It seemed he thought it was a somewhat inappropriate topic to discuss in front of a child.

Indeed, the issue of runaway teenagers earning money through underage prostitution near subway stations is not a social issue to be discussed in front of someone under 19.

Especially since the recent incident in which Toyoko kids, exploited for sex, were abandoned and committed suicide together, had cast a chilling pall over Japanese society.

Director Matsumoto, realizing his misstep, awkwardly cleared his throat, and writer Siedehara sipped his tea with an equally awkward smile.

To ease the discomfort of the adults, I shifted the topic to something more comfortable.

“The issue of runaway teenagers is serious in Korea as well. Especially recently, with the spread of drugs, runaway families have been distributing drugs. These organizations, connected to smuggling black market dealers, use children who face relatively lighter legal punishment as distribution networks. Inevitably, many kids with no future, like those from orphanages, get sucked into this. There are no adults around to hold them back, right?”

For some reason, Lim Yang-wook seemed to be having a hard time translating my words.

In the end, writer Siedehara changed the subject. I also calmed down and wrapped up the dark talk.

“That’s right. Isn’t it also the role of us artists to find parts that society doesn’t see and persistently shine a light on them? So I had no choice either. Director Matsumoto here suddenly came to me, lecturing about an artist’s duty and demanding money…”

“W-Writer-nim! When did I ever do that!”

“Then what do you call it when you demand money and tell me not to interfere with the production?”

In the end, Director Matsumoto was teased by writer Siedehara, weighed down by his past deeds.

As a result, the specific amount of money writer Siedehara had invested in Director Matsumoto was revealed.

It was over 3 billion Korean won.

“My goodness…”

Even Lim Yang-wook, who was busy translating, was so shocked by the amount that he let out an exclamation.

I was just as surprised, my mouth hanging open. While Director Matsumoto, overwhelmed with gratitude, kept bowing repeatedly.

“Though I can’t say it enough, I am sincerely grateful to writer Siedehara…”

“That’s enough. You’ve already said it over a thousand times.”

A man who can shell out 3 billion won with just one request, Eisaku Siedehara, sipped his tea leisurely with a relaxed smile.

And I, too, felt grateful to him. It meant he highly valued the writing of a child he briefly met at the Booker International Prize reading.

When I belatedly expressed my gratitude to writer Siedehara, an unexpected answer came back.

It was also the reason for Siedehara’s aggressive investment.

As he savored the scent of tea, Eisaku Siedehara spoke calmly with a serene smile.

“I recently went to the hospital. They said it’s colorectal cancer.”

* * *

It was something even Director Kenji Matsumoto didn’t know. His tears were proof of that.

Death is a subject that, no matter how calmly spoken, can never be taken lightly, so that day’s meeting ended under a heavy weight.

But writer Siedehara tried his best to make us feel comfortable, and the many stories he shared still linger in my mind.

“3 billion won…”

Lying in bed at the hotel, I thought about 3 billion won.

It’s enough to buy a house in Seoul.

And a pretty good house at that.

But Eisaku Siedehara used that money for a single film director and a novel by a boy from the neighboring country.

It was closer to charity than an investment, an act of goodwill extended by a veteran of the arts to his juniors.

And that goodwill, rolling down the hill like a snowball, ended up turning the entire country of Japan upside down.

And it birthed a masterpiece.

That masterpiece would remain forever, even after writer Siedehara passed away.

Perhaps, this is the final work left behind by novelist Eisaku Siedehara without picking up a pen.

My mind is a mess.

Money, art, film, capital, popularity, the public, death.

Various words tumble around, tangled like a ball of thread.

They aren’t clear questions, nor clear answers, just a series of thoughts that persistently linger in my head.

At times like this, I turn to literature.

Fortunately, I have some talent for it.

I got out of bed and sat in front of the manuscript paper.

“……”

Director Kenji Matsumoto described ‘Guitar’ like this:

“A novel dealing with the darkness of society.”

But that’s not right.

‘Guitar’ is a novel about ‘me,’ not society.

When I was writing ‘Guitar’, everything was chaotic. I traveled back in time, faced success for the first time, and that initial taste of success was unpleasant.

The public that had ignored my writing now raved about the same work. Because I was a young orphan. So, what was the meaning of my efforts?

What was the meaning of a life begging for success, begging for awards, begging for popularity? All of it seemed meaningless in the face of the birth of a young genius.

That’s right.

The moment I was born, too many things had already been decided.

‘Guitar’ was a novel conceived from this realization.

Therefore, ‘Guitar’ was about my identity.

What is the meaning of a life born without purpose, meaning, or name? How does one fully own their life? What is the meaning of a journey without a destination? What completes a human being?

It is about giving oneself a name. Deciding by one’s own will what kind of person to become, what kind of life to lead. So humans who dream are beautiful…

I wrote such a piece.

Of course, this interpretation is not the only correct one.

The authority of creation lies with the author, but the authority of interpretation lies with the reader. So, it’s up to the reader’s free mind how to interpret it.

But the fact remains that I wrote ‘Guitar’ because of ‘me’.

Looking back, all my novels were like that.

‘Cause of Death’ determined the reason for my death, and ‘Guitar’ pondered the meaning of my life.

‘Demon Sword~nim! Please Control Me!’ taught me, who hated readers, how to entertain them, and ‘A Love Story’ washed away the hatred in ‘Red Hunter’.

And ‘The Show Must Go On’ told me that time is neither linear nor flat, but made up solely of memories.

So, I was able to let go of what I had lost by coming back in time, and finally faced Gu Yu-na in ‘Isomer’.

Therefore, my life progresses through literature.

This is my life.

I’ve staked my life on writing.

But in the end, is my literature progressing?

“Haa…”

It’s a night of deep contemplation.

* * *

Korea and Japan are neighboring countries. There’s almost no time difference. When it’s night in Japan, it’s also night in Korea.

Therefore, when Moon In-seop in Japan, under the spell of dawn emotions, sent a text to Korea, the unfortunate victim had to wake up at dawn to check the message.

Today’s victim was Gu Hak-jun.

“Mmm…”

Writers are, by nature, sensitive people. It means they can be a bit prickly. Park Chang-woon is a walking example of that.

However, Gu Hak-jun, with his gentle character, had been correcting his innate prickliness, cultivating a profound and pure internal strength befitting a great literary figure.

But just as one born under a cursed star cannot escape their fate, humans cannot completely escape their inherent nature.

Gu Hak-jun, too, could not escape the curse of sensitivity, the fate of an artist.

Especially his hearing.

Gu Hak-jun was so sensitive to noise that Min Chae-won, who is accustomed to apartment living, moved to a detached house for her husband, who suffered from noise between floors.

Therefore, he woke up from a single text that arrived at dawn.

“Dam…”

Gu Hak-jun’s refined internal strength prevented the word ‘damn’ from escaping his lips.

But he couldn’t help what he felt inside.

While inwardly cursing, Gu Hak-jun checked his phone.

And then he sheepishly smiled and took back the curse.

The text was from a beloved (soon to be) student, who was as dear to him as the apple of his eye.

“Ah, it’s our In-seop…”

Half-asleep, Gu Hak-jun smiled warmly and read the text.

He squinted slightly because he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“Let’s see…”

「What is literature?」

“Haha…”

It seemed that Author Moon was once again under the magical spell of dawn.

At that age, it can happen.

After agonizing over literature for a long time while intoxicated by night and sleep, he finally throws a desperate question to his most trusted mentor, despite the rudeness.

Gu Hak-jun, understanding this sentiment, sent a sincere reply.

After a short consultation, sacrificing some of his sleep, he went back to bed.

Of course, it would take quite some time for the sensitive Gu Hak-jun to fall back asleep, but his face on the pillow was full of satisfaction from teaching his junior.

However, if he had known about the terrible disaster that was to come, he would not have been able to smile so peacefully.

That disaster began when the same text message arrived the next dawn.

And the day after that, and the day after that, too.

*****

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