Chapter 147 The Battle Among the Three Major Publishers

Over the next few days, the same scene quietly played out in various corners of London.

The twenty conservative writers who received the manuscript initially opened the cover with critical sneers.

Like Sir Richard, they kept red pens handy, ready to circle any "unorthodox Eastern grammar" or "superficial emotional descriptions" in the text.

But after turning the third page, the red pen slipped from their hands.

They initially tried to nitpick the grammar between the lines, attempting to mock the text's shallowness from a condescending perspective.

But "Never Let Me Go" is like a cold winter rain, silently yet irresistibly soaking into their proud system of criticism.

When these old-fashioned writers, who had spent their lives dissecting other people's words to make a living, read Cathy's calm monologue in which he had completely given up on even accusations, they felt a real chill.

Looking at the signature "Kitahara Iwa" on the title page, they no longer felt anger, but a sense of powerlessness and terror as their pretense was completely stripped away.

This is a kind of tremor that only true insiders can understand.

Laymen might only find the story sad, but these connoisseurs who have spent most of their lives immersed in the literary world understand it better than anyone else.

When you truly understand the unfathomable talent and oppressive feeling beneath that calm brushstroke, you will desperately realize that once this work is published, it will become an unshakable monument.

What followed was a near-collapse-like retreat that occurred only at the top core circle.

Because the twenty people Colin sent the letter to had precisely seized control of mainstream literary criticism in London.

As a result, the major mainstream newspapers, which had been shouting "defend the orthodoxy of European literature" the day before, suddenly fell into a strange standstill.

The newspaper editors were stunned to receive calls from these literary giants, who demanded that they remove the headline condemnation they had just submitted the day before, at all costs.

Even the highly anticipated weekend televised debate was abruptly canceled because several key guests refused to attend, citing "sudden illness."

The lower-level editors and peripheral media had no idea what had happened, but within that small circle of people who received the envelope, these twenty writers reached a consensus.

If I were to grit my teeth and publish those articles mocking Kitahara Iwao for "lacking soul and substance" now, I would be forever nailed to the pillar of shame in the history of English literature when this book is officially published, becoming a laughing stock for centuries to come.

They didn't shut up because of a change of heart; rather, their spines were shattered by the absolute power of the text.

Forty-eight hours ago, those arrogant remarks were their pledge of allegiance to the conservatives; now, they have become a deadly noose they cannot avoid.

This divisive state, where the upper echelons collectively feigned death while the lower echelons continued to hurl insults, lasted for three whole days.

Ultimately, it was The Times Literary Supplement, which also received the manuscript and held a prestigious position in the English-speaking world, that personally tore away everyone's fig leaf in a near-self-destructive manner.

In its latest issue this week, the century-old newspaper's article was remarkably simple: "An Apology to the East."

The main text contains no lengthy explanations or elaborate academic jargon; instead, it offers only a few sharp and incisive analyses: "For the past two weeks, we have built a high wall with 'bloodline' and 'foundation,' and with the arrogance of censors, we have attempted to nail a Japanese writer to the pillar of shame."

"However, this young man, whom we dismissed as a 'commercial writer,' wrote a masterpiece that puts the entire European literary world to shame, using a more authentic British style and a deeper spiritual compassion than we do."

"He didn't go to great lengths to climb over the high walls we've built. He simply placed this work here quietly, and the barrier constructed of prejudice and ignorance crumbled with a bang."

"Faced with 'Never Let Me Go,' all our sense of superiority regarding the 'ceiling of European literature' is utterly insignificant. This magazine hereby apologizes to this young writer. Facts have proven that the greatness of literature lies not in noble lineage, but in honesty toward humanity."

"He slapped us hard in the face with an impeccable work and taught us a new lesson about how to have reverence for true literature."

At this time, apart from the editor-in-chief of The Times Literary Supplement who chose to "cut off his own arm" after seeing the manuscript in person, a strange atmosphere was actually permeating the editorial departments of other major newspapers and periodicals.

When those top-tier writers at the very top of the pyramid, those twenty core writers who received the manuscripts, called in the middle of the night, even at the cost of breaching their contracts, to forcibly withdraw the denunciations they had just submitted the day before, the editors on duty, though full of doubts, did not investigate further.

So what if the paper is retracted?

The space is now empty; just fill it in.

After all, in London today, boycotting Kitahara Iwa and defending pure literature has long become a kind of "political correctness" that doesn't require much thought.

Even if a top columnist's article is withdrawn, you can easily find plenty of second- or third-rate writers in the cheap pubs of Fleet Street who are willing to verbally attack Kitahara Iwa for a few pounds' worth of payment.

Thus, the pages that the writers had fearfully removed, as if they were their death warrant, were quickly filled with crudely written, abusive articles by outside writers.

The editors proceeded with typesetting and printing as usual, and even felt that today's counterattack was more intense than yesterday's.

The root cause of this absurd phenomenon is that the complete manuscript of "Never Let Me Go" is currently only in the hands of those twenty writers.

The vast majority of ordinary media outlets, peripheral commentators, and the general public have never even read a single line of the original text.

Thus, a strikingly ironic misalignment of public opinion emerged in London that morning.

In the outer circles where information is severely lagging, an absurd carnival built on ignorance continues in full swing.

In a long-established café in London's West End, the tables are filled with the rich smoke of cigars and an air of smug satisfaction.

Several self-important columnists and self-proclaimed orthodox conservative writers sat around a round table, spitting as they discussed the "ignorant Easterner" as the perfect topic of conversation that morning.

"That guy who made his fortune writing crime novels probably won't even have the courage to step out of the hotel this time."

A writer wearing gold-rimmed glasses stirred his coffee with smug satisfaction, saying with a tone full of disdain, "Sir Richard's comments from the other day were absolutely spot on."

"Do you believe it or not? Once the opinion section is published this morning, the entire British literary world will join forces to issue him the final expulsion order."

"He will realize that simply translating Japanese into English won't capture the essence of the Thames."

"Absolutely right. This is the birthplace of Dickens and Brontë; we absolutely cannot allow an Easterner who writes commercial suspense to come here and tarnish the threshold of pure literature!"

Another person banged on the table and loudly echoed, "Does he even know what existentialism is? Does he know what the depth of the soul is?"

At this point, an old-school critic sitting in the corner sighed with deep regret: "I just can't understand how true academic giants like Professor Arthur and Mr. Ian could be fooled by such a attention-seeking clown?"

"To actually speak up for him like that, it's as if they've been blinded by Eastern deception; it seems they've already ruined their reputation!"

"Never mind those two old senile men; scholars always tend to become a bit arrogant when they get old."

The man with the gold-rimmed glasses sneered, picked up his coffee cup, and continued, "As long as Sir Richard and The Times are still around, and as long as the true watchmen of European literature are still erecting high walls in front of us, that Eastern writer will never be able to take a single step across."

"Just wait and see, he'll soon be slinking back home with his tail between his legs."

After saying that, the group of people, holding their coffee cups, burst into unrestrained laughter.

They were filled with righteous indignation and pride, firmly believing that they were acting as loyal knights defending the high walls of European culture, sharing the same breath and destiny with true literary orthodoxy.

They were immersed in a noble illusion, believing they were waging a cultural defense war that they were certain to win.

But no sooner had he finished speaking than the newspaper boy outside pushed open the door and placed the Times Literary Supplement, still smelling of fresh ink, and several other major newspapers on their table.

"Come, gentlemen, let us enjoy how Sir Richard and The Times, with their sharp pens, have utterly nailed that oriental man to the pillory of shame!"

The writer with the gold-rimmed glasses who spoke first rubbed his hands excitedly, grabbed the top-page "Literary Supplement," and vigorously shook the newspaper open.

The other people at the table, holding their coffees, leisurely gathered around, ready to share this sumptuous morning feast.

However, the smug smile that was still on the corner of the man's mouth a second ago froze completely the moment his eyes fell on the front page, as if he had been doused with a bucket of ice water.

There were no lengthy denunciations, no sharp and biting satire.

All that meets the eye is a large expanse of glaring blank space, and in the very center a bold, black title: "An Apology to the East".

"What's wrong? Did Sir Richard's harsh words frighten you?"

The old-fashioned commentator next to him chuckled and peeked over.

However, the next second, the old-school critic's coffee cup suddenly shook, spilling brown liquid onto the table, but he was completely unaware.

"How...how is this possible? Is there a layout error? Or has the editor-in-chief gone mad?!"

His voice trembled as he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, staring intently at the headline of The Times Literary Supplement: “An Apology to the East.”

"Quick! Quick, see what the other newspapers are saying!"

The old-school commentator jumped to his feet, knocking over the chair behind him, and frantically flipped through the pages of The Guardian and The Daily Telegraph.

The newspaper was roughly turned over, and the scent of ink from the early morning filled the stagnant air.

However, when they saw the headlines of other newspapers, their pale faces suddenly softened, and they even breathed a long sigh of relief.

The Guardian's culture section still features that eye-catching denouncing article: "No compromise: Drive commercial crime novels out of London."

The Daily Telegraph is also still criticizing Kitahara Iwao for lacking literary depth. Everything is exactly as they predicted.

"Ha! I knew it!"

The man with the gold-rimmed glasses slumped back into his chair with a sigh of relief, picked up his coffee cup again, and sneered with a mixture of contempt and anger, "I never thought even The Times would be corrupt!"

"That's right!"

Another man slammed his fist on the table, spitting as he shouted, "How much money did that Asian man actually spend? He managed to buy the front page of this century-old newspaper? He's a disgrace to British literature!"

"They've lost all shame, actually writing such spineless and stupid things as 'We owe the East an apology.' The editor-in-chief's pockets must be overflowing with yen!"

The old-school critic shook his head in anguish, saying, "Fortunately, fortunately, our European literary scene still has The Guardian, and pillars like Sir Richard who haven't been bought off by money!"

The café was filled with a cheerful atmosphere once again.

These peripheral writers found the most perfect logical explanation, and they excitedly mocked the Times's depravity, continuing their revelry in their false fortress.

However, these indignant second-rate writers, sipping their coffee, had no idea what an absurd division was taking place in the London literary scene at that moment.

Meanwhile, in the true literary elite at the top of the pyramid, the other nineteen writers, whose arrogance had been utterly shattered by the manuscript, sat in their studies, watching the farce unfold outside their windows, their faces dripping with cold sweat.

Looking at the insulting articles that were supposed to be published in their own newspapers as planned, but were instead filled in by second-rate writers, they felt no pride, but rather saw them as death knells.

But they didn't dare to speak out and echo the tabloids' jubilation, let alone stand up and accuse The Times of taking money.

Because they knew better than anyone else that The Times' seemingly self-destructive apology letter was not a betrayal at all.

Instead, this century-old newspaper jumped into the sinking ship first, before "Never Let Me Go" was officially published and amazed all of Europe, in order to preserve the last bit of dignity for itself.

However, with the publication of "An Apology to the East" in The Times Literary Supplement, public opinion on the streets of London was instantly ignited.

For the vast majority of ordinary readers and conservative supporters who had never seen the manuscript, this short essay printed on the front page was nothing short of an absurd surrender.

Starting at eight o'clock in the morning, the switchboard of the supplement editorial department was completely overwhelmed by frustrated readers' hotline calls.

The other end of the phone was filled with anger at being betrayed and hysterical questioning.

Countless loyal subscribers slammed the newspapers onto their breakfast tables, and protest letters rained down on Fleet Street mailboxes:

"Was the backbone of this century-old newspaper bought out with yen?"

"The dignity of European fine literature has actually knelt before an Easterner who writes commercial genre novels!"

Not only among external readers, but even within the editorial staff of The Times Literary Supplement, an uncontrollable sense of humiliation and anger was surging.

The senior editors who were excluded from core decision-making last night and only saw the front page this morning stormed into the editor-in-chief's office in anger.

Their faces flushed red, and they pounded on the mahogany desk, loudly demanding to know why this was happening.

"We've become the laughingstock of the entire London literary world! What are you so afraid of?"

The usually mild-mannered deputy editor was now trembling with anger, saying, "If it's due to pressure from higher-ups, or some shady deal, you at least owe us editors who have worked here half our lives and value the newspaper's reputation more than our own lives an explanation!"

Faced with his indignant subordinates, the white-haired editor-in-chief neither slammed his fist on the table nor shouted at them. He simply leaned back in his chair and listened to the constant stream of unsubscription calls coming from the lobby outside.

Looking at his elite subordinates, whose faces were filled with humiliation, there was no guilt in his eyes, only a kind of exhaustion and clarity after a whole night of textual baptism.

He did not attempt to produce Kitahara Iwa's manuscript to prove his innocence.

Because he knew very well that without truly calming down and reading the whole story, any verbal defense or explanation would seem pale and powerless.

Thinking of this, the editor-in-chief placed his hands on the table and interrupted the deputy editor-in-chief's questioning with his mouth.

"Go back to your workstations."

The editor-in-chief's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable certainty: "Then let's get to work."

Seeing the angry and disappointed looks in his subordinates' eyes, the old editor-in-chief remained silent for a moment, then softened his tone slightly and said, "I know you feel that today is the most humiliating day in the history of our publication."

"But remember, when Kitahara Iwa's books are displayed in bookstore windows, you will understand that all the scorn we endure today is to prevent this century-old newspaper from becoming a blind joke in the future history of literature."

To these uninformed bystanders and low-level editors, this was nothing more than a humiliating compromise and an unforgivable cultural betrayal.

But to the few true predators at the top of the pyramid in London, this was no apology at all.

This is the highest level of warning before a hurricane passes through, and it also carries the strongest scent of blood in the capital markets.

Late that night, in Bloomsbury, London.

The office of CEO Robert Finley on the top floor of Penguin Random House's UK headquarters building was still brightly lit.

Robert sat behind his large desk, with the newly printed "Literary Supplement" spread out in front of him.

He has read this short article of less than 800 words three times already.

This was not because he was moved by the literary rhetoric of the article, because at his position, the passion for literary ideals had long given way to the calculation of sales figures.

What truly puzzled him were the three unusual behaviors hidden behind the article that defied common sense.

The first anomaly: The Times Literary Supplement holds an almost temple-like status in the English-language critical world.

In its more than 100-year history, they have never issued a public apology to any writer on behalf of the editorial board.

No matter how great the controversy or how excessive the criticism, the unwritten rule of this century-old publication has always been "We can revise our views, but we will never back down."

Today, they not only bowed their heads, but they bowed so completely.

This means that what compels them to break with centuries-old conventions must possess undeniable absolute quality.

This was enough for the old-fashioned newspaper to make the most realistic decision to cut its losses between "clinging to prejudice" and "ruining its reputation."

The second anomaly: Sir Richard's silence.

As the core engine of the entire conservative movement, Richard has been like a tireless mad dog for the past two weeks, wanting to bite Kitahara Iwa every day in the newspapers.

But for a full thirty-six hours starting yesterday afternoon, Richard did not utter a single word.

There were no new columns, no television interviews, and even his personal agent couldn't reach him.

He seemed to have vanished from London.

The third anomaly: collective silence.

Not only Richard, but also the twenty or so conservative writers who had dominated the British literary scene and were the most vocal in the past two weeks fell into complete silence on the same day.

The prepared attack article was forcibly withdrawn, the scheduled debate was hastily canceled, and no one offered a public explanation.

Robert Finley has been in the publishing industry for thirty years, and he possesses a beast-like intuition that gets straight to the heart of the matter.

He doesn't need to see the whole puzzle to guess the eye of the storm.

These unusual signals, pieced together perfectly, point to only one plausible explanation: something... had been secretly delivered to those twenty people within the past forty-eight hours.

This text was so weighty that it rendered the usually acerbic Sir Richard speechless, caused The Times to back down and cut its losses, and even led the entire conservative commentary community to tacitly choose to remain silent overnight.

And yet, as the CEO of London's largest publishing group, he was completely unaware of this thing that was capable of disrupting the entire market.

Thinking of this, Robert's face darkened, and he picked up the dedicated phone line on the table.

He called his most well-informed source in the industry, a seasoned literary agent who was simultaneously handling covert copyright negotiations for three top multinational publishers.

What exactly happened in London today?

Robert, not bothering with pleasantries, cut straight to the point: "Why did Richard shut up? Why did The Times apologize? What are these rumors circulating that I haven't seen?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

Then, the agent lowered his voice, his tone unusually cautious for someone in the industry, and said, "Robert, I have a copy. I got it this afternoon from someone who received the original at a considerable cost."

"What is it?"

"A brand new full-length novel, in English translation."

Who wrote it?

The agent did not answer immediately.

But a few seconds later, Robert himself said the name: "Kitahara Iwao."

As the words fell silent, a brief silence fell over the other end of the receiver.

At that moment, the gears of self-interest in his brain snapped into action.

"Take that manuscript with you and come to my study in half an hour."

Robert took a deep breath and then said, "I'll have a check ready that buys you all tonight."

At the same time in London, a similar drama was quietly unfolding in two other corners.

Margaret Hughes, editor-in-chief of Faber Publishing.

This 60-year-old veteran publisher, known in the British literary publishing world for his shrewdness and tough methods, also obtained a thick stack of photocopies through his personal network of contacts that he had cultivated for half his life.

James Wharton, the literary editor of HarperCollins UK, a middle-aged man with an astonishing intuition for market trends, had already spent a fortune to buy the incomplete manuscript from an assistant to a conservative critic as early as 9 p.m.

three people.

The three giants who control half of London's publishing industry.

On this seemingly peaceful, foggy night, they each sat in their own studies.

They tacitly pushed aside all the complicated documents and reports at hand, turned on the desk lamp, and opened the Japanese translation manuscript, which smelled of cheap photocopier ink and was roughly bound.

Time, in the studies of these giants who had read countless books, suddenly lost its original measure.

From 10 p.m. to 1 a.m., the thick sheets of photocopy paper were turned page by page.

Initially, they may have been using a critical eye, like those used to assess market value, to examine the initial setting and target audience.

But as the story progresses to the middle, and as the fate of the clones is gradually revealed, the royalty rates, initial print runs, and marketing strategies that linger in their minds are completely overwhelmed by the profound and cruel power of the text.

The coffee on the desk had long since gone cold, and the embers in the fireplace were gradually dying down.

On this stormy London night, only the rustling of papers being turned over and increasingly heavy breathing could be heard in these studies.

As Robert turned the last page in his study at his Hampstead mansion, the brass clock on the wall pointed to 1:17 a.m.

He laid the manuscript paper flat on his lap, leaned back in his leather chair, listened to the sound of cold rain hitting the glass outside the window, and let out a long sigh.

As the head of Penguin Random House, his pure faith in words and absolute greed for business reached an unprecedented unity in front of these hundreds of pages.

He stood up abruptly and swept the copies into his briefcase.

He usually had an almost neurotic requirement for the flatness of documents, but at this moment he didn't even care that the pages were crumpled with deep creases.

Robert then strode to the entrance, pulled off his coat and draped it over his shoulders, then pushed open the door and rushed into the chilly London rain.

While sitting in the back seat of the taxi, he vaguely remembered that the safe in his study seemed to have been left unlocked.

But he didn't tell the driver to turn around at all.

Because in his mind, all business plans and risk assessments were temporarily cleared away, leaving only one thought that took precedence over everything else: before dawn, he had to use the highest offer in all of Europe to force Kitahara Iwa onto the signing table.

He pulled out his cell phone in the bumpy train carriage and dialed CWA Chairman Colin's private number.

The phone rang twice before being answered.

Before the other party could speak, Robert directly played his trump card, saying, "Colin, where is Kitahara Iwa? No matter what conditions others offer, Penguin Random House will double everything."

Colin's tired but unusually calm voice came from the other end of the phone: "Robert, come straight to the CWA headquarters building. I'll be waiting for you here."

"you?"

Robert keenly noticed the plural pronoun, and his brow furrowed instantly.

But he didn't ask any more questions, and instead urged the driver to step on the gas again.

James Walton was the most perceptive and the fastest to act of the three.

Because he didn't even read to the end.

When he turned to the penultimate chapter and read the passage where Tommy screamed desperately in the wilderness, he grabbed his cashmere coat from the sofa without hesitation.

As he walked quickly toward the door, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Colin's number.

Because he was the first person to call, the phone was answered after only one ring.

"Listen, Colin! Don't let anyone see him. I'm coming right now!"

James was yelling into the phone on the street.

"James, save your breath, there's no way I'm going to agree to this."

Colin's tone on the phone was filled with deep helplessness, and the background noise seemed to include the sound of a raging storm outside.

"CWA headquarters, I'll be waiting for you here. If you want to sign Kitahara, come and take him by force."

Hearing this, James cursed under his breath, then slammed down the phone, flung open the car door, and slammed on the gas, speeding into the rain.

Meanwhile, on the other side of London, Margaret Hughes closed her manuscript fifteen minutes earlier than Robert.

The first thing this editor-in-chief, known as the "Iron Lady," did after reading the last scene was to slam her bone china coffee cup heavily onto the table.

Brown liquid splashed out, soaking a newly signed annual publishing plan next to her, but she didn't even glance at it.

She stood up, immediately picked up the landline on her desk, and dialed Colin.

However, because James was yelling on the other end of the phone, a cold and harsh busy tone came through the receiver.

This usually elegant Iron Lady clenched her teeth and muttered a curse under her breath.

But she didn't hang up. Instead, she stood by her desk and redialed three times before the call finally went through.

Where is that young Japanese man?

Margaret's voice carried an undeniable firmness.

"Margaret."

Colin seemed to have anticipated this series of phone calls, and said directly, "Come to CWA headquarters. I'll be waiting for you in my office."

Upon hearing Colin's response, Margaret immediately hung up the phone, strode into the dressing room, and quickly changed into a presentable black trench coat.

She is a person whose daily routine is so regular as to be almost rigid, and who has never stepped out of her house after midnight in the past thirty years.

But tonight, this 60-year-old veteran publisher broke all his own rules, opened his black umbrella, and stepped into the cold, rainy night.

As for Robert Finley, who finished reading it last.

As he sat in the back of the taxi, anxiously dialing the number, Margaret had already hung up.

Therefore, he received the exact same answer as the previous two people without any hindrance.

On the same stormy night, three top predators who wield life and death power over the British publishing industry simultaneously shed their usual composed facades.

They sped off from three different directions in London, cutting through the heavy rain, all heading towards the same destination: the CWA headquarters building.

Meanwhile, Kitahara Iwa was having a long phone conversation with Sakai Izumi in his apartment.