Chapter 139 European Arrogance

Amid this near-frenzied national frenzy, the most fervent reactions, even bordering on pilgrimage, came from Japan's own mystery novelists and literary masters.

For a long time, the Japanese literary scene has been deeply rooted in a kind of "Western filter".

In the subconscious of many writers, even if you have won the Naoki Prize and the Edogawa Rampo Prize in China, you can never be considered a true "world-class master" unless you have received official recognition from authoritative Western awards.

Those European juries, holding champagne cups, were the highest, inviolable temple in their hearts.

In the past, the CWA Golden Dagger Award, a hardcore award completely monopolized by English-language dominance, was a forbidden zone that they dared not even dream of.

Now, Kitahara Iwa not only stood before the hall's entrance, but also kicked open the door that had been closed for decades.

A seasoned writer who had toiled in the mystery genre for twenty years and won numerous national awards wrote these passionate words in his column draft that evening: "When I heard the radio broadcast, I was in my study revising a manuscript I was preparing to submit to a national short story award. I stopped writing, looked at the pile of manuscripts on the table, and couldn't stop trembling."

"As writers, we know better than anyone how terrifyingly difficult it is to cross language and cultural barriers to impress those inherently arrogant British judges."

"I'm not jealous of Kitahara-sensei. Because jealousy can only arise between competitors on the same level."

"When someone achieves a miracle that our generation would never even dare to dream of in a lifetime, any sourness and resentment seem as ridiculous as a clown."

"While we were still fighting tooth and nail for fame in the country..."

"And Professor Kitahara has already crossed the ocean, single-handedly setting foot on the continent of English literature!"

This is just a microcosm of the upheaval in the literary world.

That evening, another veteran of the social school, known for his sharp tongue and long-standing criticism of young writers, unusually set aside all his arrogance and sharpness when interviewed by the Yomiuri Shimbun by phone, leaving only a reverent statement: "I once pessimistically thought that after Mr. Seicho Matsumoto, Japanese mystery fiction would need at least fifty years to make a faint voice heard internationally."

"But Kitahara-kun shortened that time to today."

What pushed this literary fervor to its absolute climax was a short review by Haruki Murakami, a top literary star and close friend of Kitahara Iwao, published in the urgent special issue of "Bungei Shunju" the following day.

Haruki Murakami's writing, as always, carries that unique personal rhythm: "When I heard the news, I had just finished my morning 10-kilometer run."

"To be honest, I wasn't surprised."

"For a long time, the Japanese literary world has subconsciously accepted that the boundaries of Western literature are an insurmountable, hard wall."

"People are used to meticulously pruning bonsai within the walls and praising each other. Even when they occasionally peek outside, they always do so with a cautious, polite attitude, as if afraid of going against the rules. People are too used to seeking a sense of recognition within the coordinate system set by others."

"But Iwa-kun is different."

"You will never find anything like 'flattery' or 'inferiority complex' in his writing. He is like a stubborn well digger who doesn't care whether the coordinates on the ground are east or west."

"He simply turned his back to everyone and focused intently, inch by inch, digging into the deepest recesses of human nature until he touched the underground water veins shared by all mankind."

"Yan Jun did not knock on the arrogant door of the West, but used the cold and real well water to make the Westerners outside the wall bow their heads to him."

"Well done."

This fervor, which set aside all notions of intellectual rivalry, quickly and thoroughly swept through the entire industry after these influential figures spoke out.

For the first time, renowned writers of the Socialist and Orthodox schools of thought, who had once fiercely debated different literary genres in newspapers, united as one, and the pages of major literary magazines were completely flooded with articles in support of these famous writers.

Because of their obsession with the idea that "authoritative Western awards are the highest truths," Kitahara Iwa is no longer just a gifted colleague.

Rather, he was the uncrowned king who looked up at the stars for them and shattered the ceiling of the entire Japanese literary world.

late July.

Tokyo, Narita International Airport.

Kitahara Iwao and Sato Kenichi took a direct Japan Airlines flight to London Heathrow.

A transoceanic flight that lasts up to twelve hours.

From the moment he boarded the plane and took his seat, Kenichi Sato didn't have a moment to spare.

On the cramped folding table in front of him lay a thick package of information spanning over thirty pages—the history of the CWA Golden Dagger Awards, narrative analyses of past winners, background investigations and personal preferences of the seven core members of this year's judging committee, the schedule of every step of the awards banquet, and even a "Guide to Handling Tricks from the British Media" that he had worked on overnight.

He held a red ballpoint pen and kept drawing lines on the paper, filling the blank spaces with dense annotations.

His whole body was tense, like a fully drawn bow, completely in a state of excitement like a chief of staff repeatedly rehearsing the battle plan before going into battle.

For the next dozen or so hours, Kitahara Iwa simply leaned quietly against the porthole, flipping through an old paperback book in the dim light of a reading lamp.

This is an original English novel with slightly curled edges—"The Spy Who Returned from the Cold".

John le Carré's masterpiece, which won the CWA Golden Dagger Award in 1963.

Soon, the plane landed at Heathrow Airport.

It was raining in London at that moment.

It wasn't the violent, crisp downpour of a Tokyo summer, but rather the long, drawn-out drizzle unique to Britain, as if it were seeping out of nowhere from the air.

Kitahara Iwa stepped out of the automatic doors of the terminal and stood under the eaves, glancing up at the sky.

The leaden-gray clouds completely covered the entire field of vision, without a single gap, and showed no sign of the clouds clearing up.

Unlike Tokyo's skies, which are occasionally overcast but always reveal blue skies, London's rain has a long, persistent, and damp feel.

The car slowly came to a stop at the side entrance of a long-established luxury hotel in central London.

After checking in, it was just past 2 p.m.

Kenichi Sato's professional instincts as Shinchosha's ace editor-in-chief prevented him from immediately returning to his room to rest.

Instead, he stopped at the newspaper rack in the hotel lobby and bought all the day's issues of The Times, The Daily Telegraph, and several long-established literary weekly magazines.

He was eager to know how Kitahara Iwa was welcomed on the front page of this unfamiliar island nation.

The two sat down on the leather sofa in the lobby bar.

Soon the waiter brought two steaming cups of Earl Grey tea.

Kenichi Sato first opened the best-selling Daily Telegraph and went straight to the literary supplement.

However, after only scanning down two paragraphs, his expectant expression gradually darkened.

This is a preview commentary that takes up a quarter of the page of the finalists.

The author, a senior member of the Royal Society of Literature, wrote a piece that contained no insults, but exuded a suffocating, condescending British arrogance: "...without a doubt, Kitahara's 'fessions' is an extremely exquisite Oriental jigsaw puzzle."

"It has amazing narrative tricks and a crime setting with exotic and exotic elements."

"But that's all."

"Once the novelty of its Far East fades, you'll find that it still fails to touch the core of traditional European crime literature... such as philosophical inquiries into the depths of the soul."

"Making an exception to include it in the final shortlist is more like a tolerant gesture by the CWA to demonstrate the 'global inclusivity' of this year's awards."

"After all, a finely crafted imported artifact deserves to be exhibited, but the real golden dagger should remain in a country with a legitimate literary lineage..."

Upon seeing this, Kenichi Sato gripped the edge of the newspaper tightly, his knuckles turning slightly white from the force, and the anger of being slighted surged in his chest like magma.

He gritted his teeth and muttered a curse in Japanese, "These stubborn bastards..."

Sitting opposite him, Kitahara Iwa put down his white porcelain teacup, took the newspaper with a calm expression, and quickly scanned the carefully chosen commentary. His face showed neither the embarrassment of being hit where it hurt, nor the anger of a writer being belittled.

"A very normal prejudice, but written quite frankly."

Kitahara Iwa neatly folded the newspaper along the creases and casually placed it on the marble tabletop.

"Editor-in-Chief Sato said that the cultural barriers between East and West are built by hundreds of years of industrial revolution and colonial history."

Kitahara Iwa looked out the window at the long stretch of London's drizzling rain and slowly explained, "It's unrealistic to expect that just because a book is shortlisted, people will immediately set aside their centuries-old status and worship you."

"They have the right to be arrogant, and what we need to do is to use the work itself to shatter that arrogance little by little."

Editor-in-Chief Sato was stunned for a moment upon hearing this.

Looking at Kitahara Iwa's calm face, his anger slowly subsided.

Kitahara Iwao could calmly regard this arrogance as a legacy of history, but for ordinary Japanese people in London, this prejudice, cloaked in the guise of civilization, was a real thorn stuck in their flesh.

Almost at the same time.

In the University College London Library Café, a few blocks away.

Several Japanese exchange students were sitting around a round table.

A boy named Inoue stared intently at the open copy of The Daily Telegraph on the table, his neck flushed red with anger.

"This isn't literary criticism; it's arrogant prejudice!"

Inoue pointed to the passage in the newspaper, his voice rising several decibels as he said, "'Oriental Puzzle Toys'? Did they even bother to read the core message?"

"How is Kitahara-sensei's questioning of the juvenile delinquency law and his analysis of the breakdown of modern families any less compelling than their classical European tragedies?"

The Japanese girl sitting next to him also pursed her lips tightly and whispered in agreement: "It's the same in literature class. Whenever it's literature from our country, the professor's comment is always 'unique Far Eastern style,' as if we can only write folklore for their curiosity."

Their discussion caught the attention of several other European students at the same table.

Thomas, the British boy sitting opposite, put down his mug and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

No matter when or where, ( ) will always be your most loyal reading companion.

He then glanced at Inoue, shrugged, and spoke in a very polite, proper, yet condescending London accent: "Listen, Inoue...? You're getting too excited. I just finished reading the English translation last night, and to be fair, it's an extremely clever story."

"The monologue in the first chapter is textbook-level structural control."

"Since you admit that its structure is practically perfect..."

Upon hearing this, Inoue, as if grasping at a straw, quickly retorted, "Then why does this report use such condescending terms as 'a tolerant attitude'? Doesn't it deserve to wield a golden dagger?"

"Because a 'perfect story' and 'great literature' are two different things."

The one who interrupted was a French exchange student sitting next to Thomas.

He spread his hands and said in a rational, academic tone, "The works of you Asian writers often focus too much on local social news. You write about revenge and legal loopholes, which is very appealing, but this is only a discussion within the realm of sociology."

The French man paused, tapped the table lightly with his finger, and continued, "But the European tradition of crime literature... such as le Carré or Dürrenmatt... explores the desolation of the human soul after God's absence."

"The former addresses social issues, while the latter raises philosophical questions. This is the essential difference in the depth of literature."

"That's right."

Thomas smiled and picked up the conversation. He looked at the Seiko watch on Inoue's wrist and made a very powerful analogy: "If I had to describe it, 'Confessions' is like a precision watch made in Japan, or a Sony Walkman."

"Every gear meshes perfectly, operating with high efficiency, precision, and zero errors. As an industrial product or a genre novel, it is world-class."

Thomas picked up his coffee and leaned back in his chair: "But my friend, we're talking about the soul of art now, not precise mechanical engineering."

"For your literature, this may be an incredible pinnacle. But by London's standards, it still lacks the depth that comes from being steeped in centuries of religious and humanistic traditions."

"So don't be too sensitive. Being shortlisted is already the greatest compliment for this novel."

Inoue's mouth was agape, his heart filled with grievances, anger, and resentment, as if a wet sponge was stuck in his throat.

He wanted to refute them, to tell them that the humanity depicted by Kitahara-sensei was more touching than their so-called "religious tradition."

But faced with the other party's deep-rooted sense of cultural superiority—"You only know how to build machines, you don't understand souls" and "Comparing you to precision instruments is already a compliment"—he found that even with a vast vocabulary of English, he couldn't find any logic to break down this invisible wall.

Inoue looked at the European students with their nonchalant, even tolerant, polite smiles.

In the end, he could only bite his lip tightly and bury his flushed face in pain.

The Japanese girl sitting next to him silently withdrew her hand from the table and lowered her head helplessly.

This is not an isolated case.

On this gloomy, rainy afternoon, similar feelings of frustration were playing out in different corners of London.

On the college lawn outside several teaching buildings, another Japanese boy was eagerly handing his British roommate a newly purchased English translation of "Confessions".

"Paul, you really should check this out. It's the first book from our country to be shortlisted for the Golden Dagger. The multi-perspective narrative and revenge plot will absolutely change your understanding of crime novels."

The British boy named Paul took the book and casually glanced at the synopsis on the back cover.

He then smiled politely and smoothly handed the book back.

"Congratulations, that's truly a remarkable achievement."

Paul even patted his Japanese roommate on the shoulder in a friendly manner and said, "However, as you know, I've been rereading Agatha Christie and Durenmatt lately, and my brain simply can't hold any more cases."

"If I ever need some light Eastern mystery novels to pass the time when I'm on a long-haul flight during my vacation, I'll buy one and take a look."

"Easy Eastern mystery solving", "A way to pass the time".

When these light and airy words were forcibly linked with the unfathomable malice of human nature in "Confessions," the boy's hand holding the book froze in mid-air.

He watched his roommate turn and leave, and suddenly felt a deep sadness.

He realized that in this country that had been nurtured by Shakespeare and Conan Doyle for centuries, the other party had already labeled this work, which embodied Kitahara Iwao's hard work, as "entertainment" without even turning to the first page.

But the desperate Japanese exchange student was unaware of this.

This seemingly impregnable wall of prejudice was actually cracked from the inside by a group of people several months ago.

Initially, when 65-year-old veteran translator Ian Smith accepted the commission from Penguin Books, some of his colleagues even joked with him in a bar, "A veteran translator who has twice propelled French literature to the top of the literary rankings is taking on a popular Japanese revenge novel?"

"Ian, are you short of money for your mortgage payment lately?"

Even Ian himself initially only intended it to be an easy, routine commercial job.

He originally planned to use the fastest, most formulaic sentence structure to finish this so-called "Oriental genre novel" in half a month and then take the commission.

Until he casually turned to the first page of "Confessions".

That evening, Ian sat at his desk and read the first chapter in one go. When he read the female teacher's monologue as she calmly completed the cruel trial, the well-traveled old translator felt a chill run down his spine.

This is hardly a popular mystery novel.

This is clearly a mirror that has been stripped of its embellishments, revealing the deep-seated problems of humanity and society.

"To translate it using ordinary business terminology is practically murder."

At this moment, Ian completely overturned the original assembly line plan.

To accurately convey those chillingly calm words, he stayed up for three consecutive nights.

But when he got completely stuck on translating a Japanese honorific into English, he realized that his grasp of the Eastern context was still not deep enough.

So he dialed the phone of Arthur Pendleton, a retired professor at Oxford University and a leading figure in British Japanese literature.

Arthur on the other end of the phone was initially impatient.

This elderly professor, who has spent his life translating Yukio Mishima and Kenzaburo Oe, scoffs at the "crime mystery" genre: "Ian, I only translate serious literature. I don't have time to read an Eastern puzzle game to kill time on the subway."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Arthur. I'm just faxing you the first chapter."

Ian's voice was hoarse from staying up all night as he said, "If you still have this attitude after reading this, I will never bother you again for the rest of my life."

Ten minutes later, the faxed copy of Chapter One came out of the machine in Arthur's study.

The old professor had only intended to glance at it, but once he stood by the fax machine and his gaze fell on the paper, he never looked away.

That night, the seventy-year-old academic giant sat on the single sofa in his study for the entire night.

In the following days, Arthur not only personally took over the translation of the most crucial psychological monologue in the entire book, but also, after finalizing the manuscript, directly took the thick manuscript and knocked on the door of his Oxford classmate of forty years... the current chairman of the CWA review committee.

Colin was sitting in front of the fireplace in his study, drinking his morning tea.

He was somewhat surprised to see his old friend with dark circles under his eyes suddenly visit, so he put down his teacup.

"Arthur? It's only eight in the morning. Don't tell me you drove all the way from Oxford just to mooch a cup of my tea."

Arthur didn't exchange pleasantries, but went straight to his desk and placed the heavy final draft on it.

"I'm here to give you and your jury a gift."

Colin glanced suspiciously at the author's name and book title on the manuscript cover.

When he saw the Romanized text on it, his brows immediately furrowed.

"A Japanese crime novel?"

Colin leaned back in his chair, his tone carrying a hint of old-fashioned British stubbornness: "Arthur, you know my opinion on Asian suspense literature."

"I acknowledge their amazing talent for locked-room mysteries and serial murder tricks, but those works often focus too much on technique and lack a deep exploration of the human soul."

"In the criteria for judging Golden Dagger, such simple Eastern puzzle games are not up to standard."

"Two weeks ago, my prejudice was even deeper than yours."

Arthur looked into his old friend's eyes and replied calmly, "But I'm standing here today to tell you... that this is an exception."

Upon hearing this, Colin's initially casual gaze gradually turned serious.

"Colin, put away your stereotypes about Far Eastern literature."

Seeing Colin's change in expression, Arthur tapped the manuscript on the table and said, word by word, "If you and your jury miss it because of arrogance, I guarantee it will be the most regrettable thing you ever did in your entire career."

As soon as he finished speaking, the study fell into a brief silence.

Colin stared at Arthur for a long time.

He knew his old friend too well; a leading figure who valued academic reputation above all else would never praise a mediocre work for the sake of personal favors.

So Colin didn't argue anymore. Instead, he silently took out his reading glasses from his breast pocket, put them on, reached for the manuscript, and turned to the first page.

At first, he was just quickly browsing through it with a critical eye.

But after only three minutes, he slowed down his page-turning speed, his back gradually moved away from the soft chair back, and he leaned forward slightly, his posture changing from casual to extremely focused.

Only the ticking of the clock and the rustling of turning pages remained in the study.

After an unknown amount of time, Colin finally finished reading the first chapter.

He took off his reading glasses and exhaled a long breath, as if to release all the pent-up feelings in his chest evoked by the words.

Then he looked up at Arthur, his arrogance and prejudice completely gone, and nodded heavily.

"Leave it here. I'll put it as the first priority for discussion in the closed-door meeting this afternoon."

This is your treasure trove of urban novels.