Chapter 144 The Story of Don't Let Me Go
The apartment fell silent as Professor Arthur finished interpreting the first chapter.
Colin placed the long-cooled black tea on the marble tabletop of the fireplace, then turned around and re-examined Kitahara Iwa sitting at the desk.
His expression was completely different from when he entered.
"Kitahara."
Colin's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a certainty: "If the following chapters can maintain this restraint... then Richard's 'bloodline theory' has already lost from this moment on."
The CWA president, who had reviewed countless papers, shook his head self-deprecatingly: "I retract my previous concerns about 'culture shock'."
"This is not an imitation of British literature at all. The understated despair in the text is the most authentic British narrative."
Professor Arthur, who was sitting on the sofa, slowly took off his reading glasses.
The elderly scholar, who had taught English literature at Oxford University for over thirty years, carefully realigned the Japanese photocopies in his hands, smoothed out the creases on the edges, and then solemnly placed them on his lap.
He turned to his old partner beside him, who was also immersed in the afterglow of the experience, and said, "Ian."
At this moment, Arthur's voice carried a hint of urgency as he said, "I think we have a tough battle to fight in the next few months that we absolutely must win."
Hearing his old partner's words, Ian slowly closed the notebook in his hand.
Through the lenses of his reading glasses, his gaze lingered on the manuscript in his hand, and he fell into a deep silence.
When he looked up at Kitahara Iwa again, the disdain and worry in his eyes had completely vanished.
"Mr. Kitahara."
Ian paused, seemingly searching for words that matched the first draft.
"Over the past thirty years, I have translated and commented on countless works by Japanese authors. I have studied the works of Yasunari Kawabata, Yukio Mishima, Kenzaburo Oe, and many others..."
"I used to think that my understanding of Japanese literature had reached its limit within the framework of these masters."
At this point, Ian shook his head, his tone revealing a heartfelt admiration, and said, "But today, you've made me re-examine my arrogance."
"The opening you wrote is neither a 'Japanese writer's forced adaptation of a British story' nor a 'Japanese story packaged in a British style'."
"It transcends regional labels and directly touches upon the core essence of pure literature."
"It is an honor to be one of its earliest readers."
Witnessing the change in attitude of these three literary giants, Kenichi Sato, who had remained silent until now, was deeply shaken.
Although Chief Editor Sato couldn't understand those profound English sentences, he was all too familiar with the instinctive reactions of top writers when faced with masterpieces.
Seeing how these three veterans of the European literary world treasured those few thin pages of draft, he finally understood the deeper meaning behind Kitahara Iwao's choice to stay in London.
Kitahara Iwa is not trying to "prove himself to Europe" by compromising his principles, but rather using the absolute depth of his texts to engage in a literary dialogue at the highest level.
Kitahara Iwao didn't even need to say a word in defense; the sheer tension of those few pages of text dispelled all the doubts and dissuasion of the three European giants.
With pure literary skill, he convinced these three industry authorities, who had initially held a pessimistic attitude, to sit back at their desks and become the first readers and translators of this work.
As a senior editor-in-chief, Editor-in-Chief Sato knew all too well what this meant.
When these three gatekeepers of European fine literature were willing to stay in this apartment to oversee the work.
Sir Richard's prejudice that "Easterners cannot write about the English soul" has become a complete joke.
Beginning with Chapter Two, a collaborative mechanism that is a marvel in the history of world literature is formed in this apartment overlooking the Thames.
Every morning, Kitahara Iwao begins writing by his window, accompanied by the chimes of Big Ben.
He abandoned the pursuit of word count and instead maintained an incredibly disciplined and terrifying level of precision, producing only about three thousand words of Japanese first drafts each day. However, almost every sentence was carefully considered and required no structural revisions.
Every afternoon at two o'clock, Professor Arthur and Mr. Ian would ring the apartment doorbell on time.
Professor Arthur was responsible for translating Kitahara Iwa's first draft into English sentence by sentence on site.
His translations abandoned crude literal translations and instead carried out a precise "reproduction of the feel of the language," striving to perfectly transplant the oppressive, damp, and cold layers of Kitahara Iwa's Japanese into the English context.
Mr. Ian, on the other hand, was responsible for taking notes and polishing the text.
He would carefully mark the localized rhetoric that needed fine-tuning, and even write annotations in the margins suggesting which classic British novel this passage could be paired with.
The two elderly people were 72 and 69 years old, respectively.
Faced with this masterpiece that was gradually taking shape in their hands, these two accomplished giants unleashed an almost obsessive work ethic.
At the end of the first week, they voluntarily requested that their arrival time be moved forward to noon.
"That way, we can have lunch together before translating and discuss the issues left over from the previous day."
Professor Arthur made the following suggestion.
In the second week, they tacitly extended their working hours until 9 p.m.
"When a character's fate reaches that crossroads."
Mr. Ian said, rubbing his aching wrist, "If I can't finish translating that chapter that day, I won't be able to sleep at all that night."
To accommodate Kitahara Iwa's schedule, these two old-school intellectuals turned down advanced lectures at Oxford University, stopped writing columns for The Times, and even refused all meaningless social dinners.
Because each and every one of them knows it perfectly well.
In this unassuming riverside apartment, what they are experiencing and witnessing together is more than just a cross-language translation.
Rather, it is a truly great "literary event" that is destined to be repeatedly reprinted in the future, written into literary history textbooks, and completely end the prejudice between East and West regarding pure literature.
Meanwhile, public opinion in Japan has been in an uproar for the past two weeks.
The aftershocks of Sir Richard's interview did not subside; instead, they burned even brighter amidst the united outcry and support.
For two consecutive weeks, the Yomiuri Shimbun published a column refuting the prejudices of European conservatives from different perspectives.
The Asahi Shimbun even invited three heavyweight scholars in the field of Japanese pure literature to co-author a lengthy editorial entitled "Looking at the Century of Eurocentrism Through Confessions."
Cultural scholars and publishers took turns broadcasting on major television stations during evening slots, bringing this debate to the forefront of public attention.
Nowadays, the emotions of readers on the street are even more intense than those of the media.
Several of Tokyo’s largest bookstore chains have filled their most prominent street-facing windows with copies of "Confessions".
When interviewed, the bookstore managers all gave the same answer: "This is not based on sales considerations; it is our basic stance as practitioners in the Japanese industry."
Amid this wave of near-nationwide support, Kitahara Iwa's name has been elevated to an unprecedented level.
But the more fervent the support, the stronger the outside world's desire for Kitahara Iwa's response.
The silence that lasted for several days allowed the sense of shared hatred against the enemy to gradually ferment into an anxious wait.
Everyone is eagerly awaiting a response from Kitahara Iwa, who is at the center of the storm.
However, Kitahara Iwa, who was at the center of the vortex, simply sat quietly at his desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the river, bathed in the gloomy London sunlight.
Seeing Kitahara Iwa's actions, Sato Kenichi hesitated several times before swallowing his words, unable to bear to shatter the absolute purity that belonged to the creator.
However, as public outrage grew louder, urgent faxes from the Tokyo editorial office piled up like snowflakes on the apartment's coffee table.
Faced with immense expectations and pressure from across the sea, Sato, the editor in charge, finally reached his limit.
On this day, he took a copy of the Yomiuri Shimbun's front-page editorial that he had just received and walked briskly to Kitahara Iwao's desk.
"Teacher Kitahara."
Editor-in-Chief Sato gently placed the fax with the bold title on the corner of the table, his tone anxious as he said, "The emotions in the country have reached their peak, and the readers are all waiting for your response."
"At this time, if you can speak up and reassure everyone, telling them that we are not backing down, the effect will be very good..."
Before Kenichi Sato could finish speaking, Iwata Kitahara paused slightly with his pen, then solemnly placed the pen on the pen holder, looked up, and took the fax from Kenichi Sato's hand.
Kitahara Iwa's gaze then swept across the dense text, finally lingering on the black-and-white photograph in the report of "readers spontaneously posting handwritten posters in bookstores."
Kitahara Iwao quietly looked at the slightly messy yet powerful handwriting on the photo.
He had always viewed this storm as a pure contest between himself and European conservatives, but he never expected that his readers in Japan would spontaneously stand in his way in such a passionate manner.
"Editor-in-Chief Sato".
Kitahara Iwa raised his eyes, a rare flicker of emotion in his voice, and said, "Why didn't you tell me sooner about what the readers were doing?"
"I……"
Sato was momentarily speechless, and said somewhat awkwardly, "I see you are completely immersed in writing, and I really don't want to disturb you with the noise from the outside world."
Kitahara Iwa sighed softly, his fingertip lightly tracing the photograph on the newspaper.
"I originally thought that the best counterattack would be to completely shatter prejudice with an impeccable new book."
"As long as I ignore it, the storm won't really affect anyone else."
Kitahara Iwa shook his head and said, "But I overlooked... everyone far away is bearing this storm for me."
"If I continue to remain silent now, it would truly be a betrayal to them."
Upon hearing this, Sato Kenichi was momentarily stunned, but then he understood Kitahara Iwao's meaning. His tense nerves instantly relaxed, and his eyes lit up with surprise as he said, "Then I'll contact the special correspondents of the major newspapers in London right now to arrange a brief statement for you..."
"There's no need to alarm the reporters."
Kitahara Iwa shook his head and pulled out a blank sheet of paper from his side.
Then he picked up the pen again, carefully wrote a few lines on the paper, and handed it to Kenichi Sato with both hands.
"Just send it to Shincho-sha and have them publish this in my name in the newspaper."
Kenichi Sato took the letter and looked down at it.
There are no lofty, empty philosophies here, nor any public relations platitudes, only a writer's most sincere response to the reader:
"To all my readers who have spoken out in support: I have seen those handwritten posters in the bookstore."
"Thank you very much. Please don't be angry about distant prejudices, and don't worry about me."
"A writer's dignity is not something to be fought over with words; our rebuttal will always be on the manuscript paper."
"I have decided to stay in London for the time being, and I am currently writing my next novel on the banks of the Thames."
"Ladies and gentlemen, let our works speak for themselves."
Looking at the few words on the letter, Kenichi Sato let out a long sigh of relief.
Kitahara Iwao's words gently accepted the reader's goodwill, and very graciously glossed over the pointless war of words, neatly concluding all the suspense and counterattacks in the "new book".
Kenichi Sato then carefully folded the letter, solemnly put it into his pocket, and quietly turned and left the study, gently closing the door behind him.
The following morning, this brief yet weighty statement made its way to the front pages of major Japanese media outlets as expected.
It skillfully calmed the situation at the rear and completely focused the industry's attention on London.
However, in this apartment on the banks of the Thames, all the noise and storms of the outside world are shut out by the wooden doors.
Time here loses its worldly measure.
Between sunrise and sunset, the only measuring instruments in this room are the scratching sound of Kitahara Iwao's pen tip on paper, and the unwavering, day-to-day deliberation and translation by the two old professors, Arthur and Ian.
In this almost isolated state of absolute focus, by the end of the first week, the first five chapters of "Don't Let Me Go" had already been quietly written.
In these five chapters, Kitahara Iwao uses a style imbued with the damp, cold atmosphere of England to slowly unfold the seemingly idyllic childhood at Haytham School.
Thirty-one-year-old caregiver Casey rewinds her memories, pulling the reader back to that secluded boarding school: the neatly trimmed lawns, soccer lessons on cloudy days, the subtle jealousy and affection between the boys and girls... everything seems ordinary and heartwarming.
However, beneath this seemingly ordinary British school life, Kitahara Iwao has precisely laid unsettling undercurrents, like a scalpel: the abnormally strict health checks, the teachers' hesitant yet compassionate gazes, the inexplicable fear of the outside world, and the mysterious "lady" who regularly comes to collect the children's best artwork.
Kitahara Iwao didn't write a single word about "death" or "organs," but with this "carefully packaged everyday lie," he planted a chilling sense of oppression in the reader's heart.
This calm despair builds up tension in Chapter Five.
The second week of writing allowed the narrative rhythm to enter a breathtakingly precise interlocking.
As the second week began, the story's narrative pace entered a breathtakingly precise progression.
The three main characters, Casey, Tommy, and Rose, gradually grow up.
After graduating from Haytham School, they entered a transit agency called "The Cottage".
They began to come into contact with the world outside of Haytham, with "ordinary humans" who were not clones.
They began to truly realize the difference between themselves and these "ordinary humans".
It's not a physical difference; their bodies are exactly the same as any "normal human body."
It's a difference in fate.
"Ordinary humans" can get married.
You can have children, change jobs, move, and grow old.
And they...
Their life trajectories are fixed.
A few years later, you will receive a "notification" and then begin your first donation.
A few years later, the second and third time.
Then "Done".
This trajectory cannot be changed, delayed, or escaped.
When Kitahara Iwao wrote these chapters, his restraint reached an almost cruel level.
It doesn't describe crying, anger, or escape.
The story only describes Casey and Tommy sitting under the apple tree in the backyard of a cottage on a sunny afternoon, discussing with great hope an extremely humble rumor: if they could somehow prove to the higher-ups that they truly loved each other, they might be able to get a few years of "extension".
They didn't even dare to ask for the freedom and dignity to "live as human beings." All they begged for was a few years of companionship before being torn apart.
This humble wish, at its most desperate moment, met with the cruelest verdict as the story reached its climax.
As Kitahara Iwao wrote the second half of the second week, he wrote about the scene where Tommy and Casey went to find "the lady".
The air in Kitahara Iwa's study became incredibly heavy.
In the story, Tommy and Kathy, after years of searching, finally knock on the door of the mysterious "lady" who had collected their paintings in Haytham.
They naively believed that the lady had collected the paintings to prove to a high-level committee that these cloned children also possessed souls and were real people.
If they can prove this again with more mature works, and prove that they truly love each other, perhaps they can get that long-awaited "suspension," even if it's only for a few years.
Tommy stood in front of the door, clutching the art books he had painstakingly created over the years and carefully hidden under his bed.
This is the most precious and secretive trump card in his life.
His hands trembled slightly uncontrollably, while Casey stood beside him, tightly gripping his other hand.
Then the door opened.
The lady quietly watched the two grown-up Haytham children and listened to their incoherent but hopeful requests.
After a long, deathly silence, the lady cruelly shattered their last remaining illusions in a weary tone.
Haytham never had any redemption plan of "using paintings to prove the soul".
This school, which appears to be full of humanistic care, exists only to soothe the lingering sense of moral guilt that "ordinary people" feel when their organs are harvested.
Its existence is merely an excuse for those indifferent users to comfort themselves... At least, these "consumables" once spent a painless childhood in a good school.
But the so-called "soul" and the so-called "postponement of donation" are all lies.
There has never been any way to escape fate.
As the lady looked at the paintings that Tommy treasured in his arms, a tear of pity welled up in her eyes, but in the end she slowly shook her head.
"Children."
The woman's voice carried an irretrievable sorrow.
"I'm sorry. There has never been a postponement, never."
You can read the latest updated chapters of "Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s" without any issues on the "Renren Bookstore" APP, with over one million books available for free. Visit the APP's official website for more information.
When Kitahara Iwao wrote these chapters, his restraint reached an almost cruel level.
It doesn't describe crying, anger, or escape.
The story only describes Casey and Tommy sitting under the apple tree in the backyard of a cottage on a sunny afternoon, discussing with great hope an extremely humble rumor: if they could somehow prove to the higher-ups that they truly loved each other, they might be able to get a few years of "extension".
They didn't even dare to ask for the freedom and dignity to "live as human beings." All they begged for was a few years of companionship before being torn apart.
This humble wish, at its most desperate moment, met with the cruelest verdict as the story reached its climax.
As Kitahara Iwao wrote the second half of the second week, he wrote about the scene where Tommy and Casey went to find "the lady".
The air in Kitahara Iwa's study became incredibly heavy.
In the story, Tommy and Kathy, after years of searching, finally knock on the door of the mysterious "lady" who had collected their paintings in Haytham.
They naively believed that the lady had collected the paintings to prove to a high-level committee that these cloned children also possessed souls and were real people.
If they can prove this again with more mature works, and prove that they truly love each other, perhaps they can get that long-awaited "suspension," even if it's only for a few years.
Tommy stood in front of the door, clutching the art books he had painstakingly created over the years and carefully hidden under his bed.
This is the most precious and secretive trump card in his life.
His hands trembled slightly uncontrollably, while Casey stood beside him, tightly gripping his other hand.
Then the door opened.
The lady quietly watched the two grown-up Haytham children and listened to their incoherent but hopeful requests.
After a long, deathly silence, the lady cruelly shattered their last remaining illusions in a weary tone.
Haytham never had any redemption plan of "using paintings to prove the soul".
This school, which appears to be full of humanistic care, exists only to soothe the lingering sense of moral guilt that "ordinary people" feel when their organs are harvested.
Its existence is merely an excuse for those indifferent users to comfort themselves... At least, these "consumables" once spent a painless childhood in a good school.
But the so-called "soul" and the so-called "postponement of donation" are all lies.
There has never been any way to escape fate.
As the lady looked at the paintings that Tommy treasured in his arms, a tear of pity welled up in her eyes, but in the end she slowly shook her head.
"Children."
The woman's voice carried an irretrievable sorrow.
"I'm sorry. There has never been a postponement, never."
Then "Done".
This trajectory cannot be changed, delayed, or escaped.
When Kitahara Iwao wrote these chapters, his restraint reached an almost cruel level.
It doesn't describe crying, anger, or escape.
The story only describes Casey and Tommy sitting under the apple tree in the backyard of a cottage on a sunny afternoon, discussing with great hope an extremely humble rumor: if they could somehow prove to the higher-ups that they truly loved each other, they might be able to get a few years of "extension".
They didn't even dare to ask for the freedom and dignity to "live as human beings." All they begged for was a few years of companionship before being torn apart.
This humble wish, at its most desperate moment, met with the cruelest verdict as the story reached its climax.
As Kitahara Iwao wrote the second half of the second week, he wrote about the scene where Tommy and Casey went to find "the lady".
The air in Kitahara Iwa's study became incredibly heavy.
In the story, Tommy and Kathy, after years of searching, finally knock on the door of the mysterious "lady" who had collected their paintings in Haytham.
They naively believed that the lady had collected the paintings to prove to a high-level committee that these cloned children also possessed souls and were real people.
If they can prove this again with more mature works, and prove that they truly love each other, perhaps they can get that long-awaited "suspension," even if it's only for a few years.
Tommy stood in front of the door, clutching the art books he had painstakingly created over the years and carefully hidden under his bed.
This is the most precious and secretive trump card in his life.
His hands trembled slightly uncontrollably, while Casey stood beside him, tightly gripping his other hand.
Then the door opened.
The lady quietly watched the two grown-up Haytham children and listened to their incoherent but hopeful requests.
After a long, deathly silence, the lady cruelly shattered their last remaining illusions in a weary tone.
Haytham never had any redemption plan of "using paintings to prove the soul".
This school, which appears to be full of humanistic care, exists only to soothe the lingering sense of moral guilt that "ordinary people" feel when their organs are harvested.
Its existence is merely an excuse for those indifferent users to comfort themselves... At least, these "consumables" once spent a painless childhood in a good school.
But the so-called "soul" and the so-called "postponement of donation" are all lies.
There has never been any way to escape fate.
As the lady looked at the paintings that Tommy treasured in his arms, a tear of pity welled up in her eyes, but in the end she slowly shook her head.
"Children."
The woman's voice carried an irretrievable sorrow.
"I'm sorry. There has never been a postponement, never."
When Kitahara Iwao wrote these chapters, his restraint reached an almost cruel level.
It doesn't describe crying, anger, or escape.
The story only describes Casey and Tommy sitting under the apple tree in the backyard of a cottage on a sunny afternoon, discussing with great hope an extremely humble rumor: if they could somehow prove to the higher-ups that they truly loved each other, they might be able to get a few years of "extension".
They didn't even dare to ask for the freedom and dignity to "live as human beings." All they begged for was a few years of companionship before being torn apart.
This humble wish, at its most desperate moment, met with the cruelest verdict as the story reached its climax.
As Kitahara Iwao wrote the second half of the second week, he wrote about the scene where Tommy and Casey went to find "the lady".
The air in Kitahara Iwa's study became incredibly heavy.
In the story, Tommy and Kathy, after years of searching, finally knock on the door of the mysterious "lady" who had collected their paintings in Haytham.
They naively believed that the lady had collected the paintings to prove to a high-level committee that these cloned children also possessed souls and were real people.
If they can prove this again with more mature works, and prove that they truly love each other, perhaps they can get that long-awaited "suspension," even if it's only for a few years.
Tommy stood in front of the door, clutching the art books he had painstakingly created over the years and carefully hidden under his bed.
This is the most precious and secretive trump card in his life.
His hands trembled slightly uncontrollably, while Casey stood beside him, tightly gripping his other hand.
Then the door opened.
The lady quietly watched the two grown-up Haytham children and listened to their incoherent but hopeful requests.
After a long, deathly silence, the lady cruelly shattered their last remaining illusions in a weary tone.
Haytham never had any redemption plan of "using paintings to prove the soul".
This school, which appears to be full of humanistic care, exists only to soothe the lingering sense of moral guilt that "ordinary people" feel when their organs are harvested.
Its existence is merely an excuse for those indifferent users to comfort themselves... At least, these "consumables" once spent a painless childhood in a good school.
But the so-called "soul" and the so-called "postponement of donation" are all lies.
There has never been any way to escape fate.
As the lady looked at the paintings that Tommy treasured in his arms, a tear of pity welled up in her eyes, but in the end she slowly shook her head.
"Children."
The woman's voice carried an irretrievable sorrow.
"I'm sorry. There has never been a postponement, never."