Chapter 140 European Literature That Relies on Past Achievements

The following afternoon, in the closed-door meeting room of the CWA review committee.

The air was filled with the acidic smell of fermented coffee and the lingering smoke from cigars that had been hanging in the air all night.

On the heavy oak table, a dozen or so top European and American manuscripts that were shortlisted for the preliminary selection this year were scattered haphazardly.

Seven figures representing the pinnacle of English crime literature have been engaged in a five-hour, exhausting tug-of-war here.

When the agenda finally moved to the only Asian work, "Confessions," the murmurs in the meeting room, which had been discussing other works, gradually subsided.

"Are we really going to reserve a top nomination spot for a Japanese character's school revenge story?"

An elderly judge with a full head of white hair took off his reading glasses, wearily rubbed his temples, and broke the silence first, saying, "I admit its multi-perspective narrative is impeccable. But ladies and gentlemen, Japan's juvenile laws, its oppressive class bullying mechanisms..."

"These social contexts are too alien to European readers. It's like an exquisitely manicured oriental bonsai, novel but lacking the broad social depth we experience when reading Dürrenmatt."

"I agree."

Another female critic from France twirled her pen and added in a critical, academic tone, "It's not just the background barrier; its precision even makes it feel somewhat mechanical."

"In my opinion, Kitahara Iwao is like an emotionless formula derivator, treating each character as a variable and forcibly pushing them into a moral dead end."

"It's thrilling as a horror novel, but it lacks humanistic warmth. Can it be considered 'great literature'?"

As soon as he finished speaking, a murmur of agreement rippled through the conference room.

The sense of cultural superiority accumulated over hundreds of years makes them instinctively want to use a seemingly impeccable theory to exclude a work from the highest hall of knowledge when faced with a foreign work.

"No warmth? An oriental bonsai?"

At that moment, Colin, the chairman of the jury, who was sitting at the head of the long table, suddenly let out a cold laugh.

He interrupted all the whispers, reached out and pulled the thick manuscript of "Confessions" in front of him.

"Three weeks ago, when Arthur slammed this manuscript on my desk, I thought, just like you, that he was senile, actually praising a Far Eastern novel with a sensationalist theme."

Colin glanced around the conference table and said in a low voice, "But when I turned to the first page in front of the fireplace, I withdrew all my arrogance."

"Everyone here has spent their whole life immersed in words."

"Look me in the eye and answer me... Don't use hypocritical academic excuses like 'different cultural backgrounds' or 'lack of human warmth' to cover up the fear you feel deep inside while reading this book."

Colin slammed his hand down on the manuscript, making a dull thud.

"You think it lacks social depth? Ridiculous! This isn't some exotic Eastern campus ghost story at all; it's about the common evils of humanity in modern civilized society. It's the monster hatched after the collapse of the family system!"

Colin took a deep breath, recalling the emotions he felt when he first read "Confessions"...

"When I read the mother's diary entry, 'I gave birth to a monster,' and then the final, silent countdown about the bomb, I had to open the window and gasp for air to suppress the nausea and stomach cramps."

"Kitahara Iwa did not come to cater to our classical traditions."

Colin's voice softened, regaining the restraint of an old-school scholar: "He didn't make any high-handed moral judgments in the book. He simply constructed an absolutely closed narrative space, putting aside those things we usually call 'juvenile delinquency laws' and 'family'..." "The societal ills that were being covered up have been completely exposed and thrown in."

Colin paused for a moment, his gaze falling on the manuscript on the table.

There was no preaching, nor any divine intervention to save them. He simply stepped aside and quietly watched as humanity within them self-destructed.

"If we don't even have the capacity to confront this reality, and instead use lofty excuses like 'not great enough literature' to mask our deep unease."

At this point, Colin lowered his head, his gaze falling on the manuscript on the table, and said, "Then this golden dagger, which represents the highest honor, has actually been rusted for a long time."

At this moment, the conference room fell silent. It was no longer the tense, undercurrent-filled atmosphere of before, but rather a speechless silence after the veil of pretense had been completely removed.

The French female judge paused for a moment with her pen, then silently placed it on her notebook.

The old judge who had initiated the attack put his reading glasses back on, his gaze fixed on the copy in front of him, which he had only flipped through a dozen pages of, and he didn't turn to the next page for a long time.

No one loudly admitted their mistake, nor did anyone immediately show any exaggerated awe.

But everyone present knew that the debate was over.

When truly weighty texts are dissected and laid out on the table, the arrogance built upon centuries of cultural superiority dissipates like foam hitting a reef.

In this closed-door conference room, this group of experts at the pinnacle of their field upheld the bottom line of literature with their professional conscience.

However, this internal approval, limited to a very small number of high-ranking officials, cannot dismantle the stereotypes of the entire European society overnight.

When the timeline rewinds to this moment—

Those invisible prejudices that permeated the ink of British newspapers and drifted on the campus lawns, along with the long, drizzling rain of London at night, finally materialized at the awards banquet as a seemingly polite but actually suffocating wall of xenophobia.

The banquet was held in the main banquet hall on the second floor of the hotel.

When the waiter wearing white gloves pushed open the heavy double oak door, a luxurious space with a ceiling height of nearly six meters suddenly appeared.

A huge Victorian crystal chandelier refracts warm yellow light into the air, while the dark oak wainscoting around it has developed a warm patina over time.

The huge Persian carpet beneath my feet was so thick that it could swallow up the sound of all leather shoes and high heels.

The air is filled with the subtle acidity of champagne bubbles bursting, the sweet aroma of natural beeswax burning quietly, and the scents of various high-end colognes.

The more than 150 guests present were all from the core power circle of the European crime literature world.

Most of the men wore well-tailored bespoke suits or traditional tailcoats, with their shirt cufflinks occasionally reflecting a silver glint.

The ladies' evening gowns were elegant and appropriate. Under the dappled light, her shoulders and neck had a porcelain-like texture unique to Caucasians in Europe.

Top writers and publishing giants from the UK, France, Germany, and Sweden are gathering in small groups in various corners.

They held champagne glasses and engaged in the kind of low-volume, meticulously calculated Vanity Fair small talk in English or French.

The banquet hall was filled with the somber strains of string music and the constant sounds of conversation.

In this closed social space constructed by white faces and European languages, Kitahara Iwao and Sato Kenichi, dressed in dark gray custom-made suits, naturally attracted everyone's attention when they entered.

In the eyes of others, the boundaries of identity have been silently drawn: a young Asian face, an outlier who writes crime novels, and a stranger who has just stepped into this place.

In this arena of fame and fortune, boundaries are invisible, yet more solid than any physical wall.

People maintained just the right amount of politeness while tacitly keeping an insurmountable distance.

At this moment, Kitahara Iwa was holding a glass of very low-alcohol sparkling wine, standing by a pillar at the edge of the banquet hall.

Kenichi Sato, standing beside him, was already fully engaged in his work.

The ace editor of Shinchosha was holding a wine glass and, sweating profusely, trying to squeeze into a conversation circle of two French publishers in heavily accented English.

While wiping his sweat, he earnestly gestured with his signature hand gesture, trying to promote Shinchosha's overseas copyright plans for next year.

But his efforts were like hitting an invisible, soft glass barrier.

The Frenchman across from me maintained a perpetually cold, professional smile.

His gaze passed over Kenichi Sato's shoulder as he aimlessly wandered around the hall, even his frequent nods conveying a perfunctory weariness.

After Kenichi Sato once again stumbled over a topic, the publisher finally lost his patience.

He interrupted Kenichi Sato with impeccable politeness, quickly pulled a business card from his pocket, and handed it to him.

This is not out of sincerity for cooperation, but merely to end this torturous one-sided sales pitch.

Then, he made an excuse that he had to see an old friend, and left without looking back, holding his wine glass.

Kenichi Sato stood awkwardly in place, clutching the sharp-edged piece of cardboard. He opened his mouth, but could only swallow silently.

This rejection is not isolated.

Kitahara Iwa stood quietly in the shadow of a pillar to the side. The European social whispers, which were not deliberately lowered in volume, inevitably drifted into his ears along with the sound of violin strings.

"See that? Those are people from the Shinchosha in Japan."

A few steps to the right, a bearded British book critic, holding a glass of champagne, turned to his companion and chuckled, saying, "They actually flew in for the dinner."

"After all, this is Asia's first time being nominated, so it's inevitable that we're a little excited."

His companion shrugged, his tone carrying a hint of condescending tolerance: "But flying all this way just to be a foil is rather pathetic. Does that young Japanese writer really think he can bring the golden dagger back to Tokyo tonight?"

"Perhaps they see the nomination as a national honor. They just treat it as an expensive weekend trip to London."

The two clinked their glasses and let out a knowing chuckle.

For a full twenty minutes, no one came over to greet Kitahara Iwa.

Faced with this vast and mature European literary industry, they tacitly ignored this young face from the East.

But Kitahara Iwa's eyes still didn't show any resentment at being treated coldly. Instead, he held his glass of very low-alcohol sparkling wine and quietly watched everything.

Hearing those contemptuous comments, Kitahara Iwa's heart didn't even flutter.

Just as Kenichi Sato retreated to a corner in frustration, picking up his water glass to moisten his dry throat...

The conversations in the small area around them suddenly and without warning subsided.

A tall, elderly British man with a full head of gray hair, dressed in a dark navy blue traditional tailcoat, was carrying a half-empty glass of sherry. He walked through the crowd and headed straight for Kitahara Iwao and Sato Kenichi.

The man was around sixty years old, with a thin face, a high, hooked nose, and a cold, stubborn jawline.

His navy blue tailored suit was perfectly wrinkle-free, with a discreet silver literary club badge pinned to the left lapel.

Judging from his upright posture and the way people bowed to him along the way, he was undoubtedly a big figure with absolute authority in the British literary world.

He walked up to Kitahara Iwa, slightly raised the crystal glass in his hand, and smiled impeccably in a high-society manner, saying, "Welcome to London, Mr. Kitahara."

He spoke with a perfect accent and an old-fashioned Oxford lilt in English.

"Thanks."

Kitahara Iwa responded politely.

The old man nodded in satisfaction, holding his wine glass and turning slightly to face the hall side by side with Kitahara Iwa, adopting a relaxed posture of "an elder and a younger person chatting casually".

"I have to say, I was deeply impressed by 'Confessions'."

The old man said with just the right amount of praise, "It really made me re-examine some of my preconceived notions about Japanese literature."

Kitahara Iwa didn't respond, but simply nodded calmly, waiting for the other person to continue.

The old man took a sip of sherry, his gaze sweeping across the hall to several French writers who were engaged in lively conversation not far away. "To be honest," he said, "the premise of this novel is very captivating."

"A mother who lost her daughter turns the sacred classroom into a courtroom to retaliate against a minor murderer—this morally ambiguous zone between justice and vigilante justice carries a very unique, Eastern rawness and marginality."

"For us European readers, this is absolutely an excellent window into understanding the workings of Far Eastern societies."

At this point, the old man smiled and turned his head, his gaze returning to Kitahara Iwa.

"but……"

In the context of old-school British scholars, this is a highly damaging transition word.

It means that all the previous flowery praise has come to an end, and the time has come to reveal the true colors.

"The works that receive the highest praise in the European literary tradition often have to go beyond brilliant suspense or bold moral dilemmas."

The old man slowed down his speech, enunciating each word with exceptional clarity, as if a patient professor were correcting a common-sense mistake for a foreign student.

"What we seek is a deep resonance with the humanist tradition and a philosophical inquiry into the essence of the human soul."

"That irreplaceable sense of weight must be built on the historical foundation laid by Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, and Proust over hundreds of years."

"certainly,"

The old man paused, then added in a tone that was full of regret yet extremely dignified: "As an excellent 'commercial genre novel,' your achievements are already dazzling enough. It's truly outstanding."

A perfect smile, impeccable wording, and not a single word that could be accused of being "rude," yet arrogance was etched into his very bones.

The subtext of this passage is quite straightforward: You've written a very exciting story about an exotic Eastern world, and we enjoyed it immensely. But please don't confuse standing outside the window admiring the scenery with stepping into a grand hall and becoming its master. Our literature has a foundation built over hundreds of years, while you are merely a passerby writing bestsellers. Know your place.

Although Kenichi Sato, who was standing to the side, stuttered a bit in his foreign language, his intuition, honed over twenty years in the publishing industry, had already picked up on the derogatory tone beneath the flowery language.

His face flushed red, and he instinctively wanted to retort, but Kitahara Iwa stopped him.

At this moment, Kitahara Iwa's face showed no sign of anger. Instead, he held his sparkling wine and quietly watched the condescending old British man.

In the meticulously calculated rhythms of social life in the world of fame and fortune, such disregard for length is like abruptly cutting off the music at the climax of a waltz, enough to create an eerie sense of oppression.

The old British man's smile was no longer as perfect, and a hint of uncertainty appeared in his eyes.

Just as his composed demeanor was about to crack, Kitahara Iwa finally spoke.

However, he didn't rush to refute. Instead, he slightly turned his head to look at Kenichi Sato beside him and asked, "Editor-in-Chief Sato, who is this gentleman?"

Before Sato could speak, a European publisher holding a wine glass nearby heard the commotion and introduced him in heavily respectful English: "This is Sir Richard. He is a titan of traditional British literature and a highly respected critic of classical literature."

"I see."

Kitahara Iwa nodded, his tone returning to its usual calm: "Thank you for your candor, Sir Richard. I also respect your perspective."

Sir Richard maintained his impeccable smile upon hearing this, but a hint of inquiry lingered in his eyes, as if wondering why Kitahara Iwa was so mild-mannered. He had been being sarcastic, yet Kitahara Iwa still insisted that he was right.

"However, I would also like to share some of my personal views."

At this point, Kitahara Iwa continued, "The depth of literature has never depended on the creator's geographical coordinates. It depends only on whether a person is honest enough when gazing into the abyss of human nature."

Sir Richard frowned slightly, about to speak and refute with a more complex set of Western literary theories, but was directly silenced by Kitahara Iwa's steady yet penetrating voice.

"You just mentioned Dostoevsky."

Kitahara Iwao gazed at the proud British luminary and said in a measured tone, "But the greatness of 'Crime and Punishment' does not lie in the fact that it inherited a foundation built over hundreds of years, but in the fact that the author, in that particular era, ruthlessly confronted the ills of Russian society."

"If European writers a hundred years from now can only comfortably hide behind the tombstones of their predecessors, using a set of clichéd 'traditions' to cover up their indifference and cowardice towards the real pain points of modern society... then this so-called profundity is nothing more than an exquisite ruin."

As Kitahara Iwa finished speaking, the faces of everyone around him showed expressions of disbelief.

The impeccable high-society smile on Sir Richard's face gradually vanished.

The phrase "exquisite ruins" is like a rusty iron awl, precisely and cruelly piercing through his arrogant shell as a "guardian of tradition," striking at the most fatal sore spot of the entire European literary world today...

This literary giant, who had spent his life using his seniority to lecture others, felt his chest heaving violently with sudden shame and anger.

He subconsciously took half a step forward, his breathing becoming heavy, trying to adopt the dignity of an elder to reprimand this arrogant young man.

But when he met Kitahara Iwa's unwavering eyes, the retort he was about to deliver suddenly caught in his throat.

All the arguments, when faced with objective statements, seem like mere rage.

Sir Richard realized with a pang of sadness that the reason he could not refute it was because the other party had pointed out a reality that he knew all too well but was unwilling to admit: they were indeed living off their past achievements.

At that moment, Sir Richard's jaw muscles twitched slightly.

His lifelong adherence to British decorum now became a shackle binding him, pinning him firmly to this undeniable humiliation.

Just as this high-ranking knight fell into this state of utter disarray and speechlessness.

Kitahara Iwa didn't give him any chance to catch his breath and turned his head to look at Sato Kenichi beside him.

Speaking in fluent English that everyone in the room could understand, and in a gentle, almost humble, tone, he asked, "By the way, Editor-in-Chief Sato, since Sir Richard is a titan of traditional literature, which of his works is shortlisted for the Golden Dagger competition tonight?"

"We should buy a copy and read it later, so we can truly appreciate the solid foundation that European literature has built on this ruin."

The air seemed to freeze for a moment.

Kenichi Sato was taken aback for a moment. Having worked in the publishing industry for twenty years, he immediately understood the meaning behind that seemingly casual remark.

Kenichi Sato did not show any gloating expression, but quickly put on a serious and professional demeanor, recalling the situation carefully.

A moment later, Sato Kenichi shook his head very sincerely at Kitahara Iwa.

"I'm very sorry, Kitahara-sensei. I've just checked the final selection list for tonight repeatedly... Sir Richard's name isn't on it."

"Yeah?"

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa nodded with some regret, then turned around again to look at Sir Richard in front of him.

"That's a real shame. It seems that time hasn't yet provided the answer in this hall of fame, the highest honor in crime literature."

Kitahara Iwa nodded slightly in acknowledgment and said, "I hope you have a pleasant evening as a viewer. Excuse me."

After saying this, Kitahara Iwa didn't look at the other person again, turned around, and walked to the other side of the hall.

Seeing this, Kenichi Sato grinned, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and quickly followed.

At this moment, Sir Richard stood alone in the same spot.

Looking at Kitahara Iwa's retreating figure, his old face, etched with arrogance, finally twisted completely.

The British dignity he had maintained for decades in the world of fame and fortune was shattered in the face of such blatant disregard.

"You will pay the price for your arrogance, young man!"

At that moment, Richard suddenly stepped forward, his voice, though deliberately lowered, revealing undisguised exasperation and malice: "As long as I remain in the Royal Society of Literature, your books will never receive a single good word from European critics!"

"I will make all publishers know how foolish it is to allocate resources to an Asian writer who doesn't know the rules..."

"Then blacklist me too, Richard."

Just then, an old but powerful voice suddenly came from behind Richard, coldly interrupting his threat.

Sir Richard's voice stopped abruptly, as if he had been suddenly choked.

He turned around abruptly and saw Arthur Pendleton, a retired professor from Oxford University with a full head of white hair, and Ian Smith, a senior translator, walking through the crowd with wine glasses in hand.

Arthur didn't even glance at Richard, who was frozen in place, and walked straight past him towards Kitahara Rock.

The seventy-year-old British literary giant, with undisguised admiration and respect on his face, extended his right hand.

"Mr. Kitahara, it's a pleasure to meet you. I am Arthur Pendleton, one of the English translators of Confessions."

The old professor's loud voice drew the attention of many publishers around him, who remarked, "His insights on 'facing the abyss of humanity' were more exhilarating than all the champagne in the room."

"Please allow me to express my respect for this great work; it is the most moving text I have read in the past five years."

Standing to the side, Ian Smith smiled and echoed, his eyes filled with the mutual respect between professional creators, saying, "In order not to ruin the cold, suffocating feeling in your book, the two of us old bones stayed up for several nights in a row, and almost got into an argument on the phone over the translation of a few Japanese honorifics."

As the two men showered him with undisguised praise, Sir Richard's face gradually turned from ashen to deathly pale.

He stared intently at Arthur Pendleton, whose hair was completely white.

In the hierarchical British academic world, Arthur's reputation far surpassed his.

The vicious and arrogant remarks he had just made, which attempted to use his circle's power to suppress the other party, now appeared as an arrogant and ridiculous joke in front of this true literary authority.

"Arthur...you, you guys actually..."

Richard's lips trembled slightly, and cold sweat trickled down his temples.

Richard forced a stiff, extremely strained smile, trying to save face, and said, "I was just exchanging some thoughts with Mr. Kitahara about audience targeting."

"Yeah?"

Arthur, still looking at Kitahara Iwa, didn't turn to look at Richard behind him and said, "Richard, if the exchange is over, you can go have a drink first. We need to talk to Mr. Kitahara about the text itself alone."

This expulsion order, devoid of any profanity, completely shattered Richard's last psychological defenses.

Sir Richard tightened his grip on the sherry glass.

Under the watchful eyes of several people around him, the veteran critic did not try to save face any longer. He nodded stiffly, turned around without a word, and disappeared into the crowd.

This desperate attempt to maintain a steady pace ultimately revealed a hint of undisguised haste.

However, Kitahara Iwao did not mind Richard's departure, and politely extended his right hand to the two translators he was meeting for the first time, shaking hands briefly.

At this moment, Kitahara Iwa maintained a perfectly professional and restrained demeanor, and said humbly, "Thank you both for your hard work."

"It is my honor to have you two as translators of this work."

"Haha, Kitahara-sensei, you flatter me!"

Hearing Kitahara Iwa's words, Arthur and Ian laughed at the same time.