Chapter 149 The Most Tragic Literary Fiasco in British History
Chapter 151 The Most Tragic Literary Fiasco in British History
After the agreement was reached, the speed at which the three multinational publishing giants operated completely broke the historical limit of the British publishing industry in the past 150 years.
Faber Publishing Co., Ltd.
The typesetting center on the fourth floor of the headquarters building was brightly lit at 3:15 a.m.
Typesetters are the group with the most regular work schedules in the publishing industry because this job requires an absolutely high level of concentration, and staying up late is a big no-no.
At 3:50 a.m., the first proofreaders to arrive met at the elevator entrance on the fourth floor.
"What exactly happened?"
Paul, a seasoned proofreader, wrapped tightly in his coat and holding a cup of espresso he'd brought from home, his face contorted with irritation at being interrupted from his sleep, said, "Dragging people out of bed in the middle of the night—did the printing plant catch fire, or did all the typesetters explode?"
A female colleague next to me, still half-asleep and yawning, replied, "Who knows? The supervisor didn't say a word on the phone, just told us to come over immediately."
"This is outrageous! Even the most acerbic newspaper wouldn't go to such lengths. Even if the only manuscript was eaten by a dog, they wouldn't go crazy in the middle of the night, would they?"
"Regardless of whether something terrible has happened or not, if they don't give me a reasonable explanation later, the first thing I'll do after dawn is call the union representative and sue them for violating labor rights!"
Paul grumbled angrily as he pushed open the door to the typesetting center.
The hall was not as dark as he had imagined.
Dozens of bulky typesetting terminals had already been preheated, their heavy CRT screens emitting a faint glow, and the cooling fans in the chassis making a low hum.
The group of British employees, who had walked into the company full of anger and were about to vent their morning grumpiness, suddenly found their voices caught in their throats when they looked up and saw the figure at the front of the lobby.
Margaret Hughes was already sitting expressionlessly in her supervisor's seat.
Paul hesitated for a second, but relying on his seniority, he still took a step forward and broke the deadlock, saying, "Ms. Hughes—although you are the editor-in-chief, in Britain, a midnight recall without warning is a serious violation of regulations."
"If the company cannot provide a reasonable explanation today, the union will definitely intervene and investigate after dawn."
Faced with questions from her employees, the "Iron Lady" simply raised her head calmly and said, "From now until the project ends, everyone's hourly wage will be quadrupled. Everyone will have seven days of paid leave next week."
Margaret knew exactly what was most effective in dealing with this group, so she didn't offer any explanations or launch into a long discussion about literary miracles.
Then Margaret stood up, glanced at the team members who were frozen in place, and continued, "If anyone feels that this allowance is not enough to compensate for your sleep, or insists on calling the union to demand an explanation, you can turn around and leave now."
"I promise I won't stop you, but please don't come to work at Faber anymore."
As soon as he finished speaking, the hall fell silent.
Faced with a promise of four times the hourly wage, seven days of paid leave, and a warning of termination, the labor rights that were just clamoring for help seem utterly vulnerable.
Paul swallowed hard and silently shut his mouth.
The next second, dozens of layout designers took off their coats, put away all their complaints, and quickly went to their workstations and pulled out chairs.
An hour later, the final English translation of over four hundred pages arrived on time.
Susan quickly divided the team into four assault groups, working on multiple fronts simultaneously.
Margaret raised the proofreading standards to the highest level in Faber's history, a standard that is only used when typesetting the complete works of Nobel laureates or deceased literary giants.
Every word, every punctuation mark, even the smallest line spacing, must be independently and blindly reviewed by two people, back to back, with no room for error.
And Margaret herself sat in the center of the typesetting.
This top figure, who usually only appears at the executive meeting on Mondays, did not leave this floor for 32 consecutive hours.
The secretary brings black coffee and sandwiches every four hours.
Margaret's eyes were fixed on the long proof that had just been printed on the table. She chewed and swallowed mechanically, and afterwards she couldn't recall what she had eaten at all.
The pressure of the editor-in-chief's personal presence made the entire layout team run even to the restroom.
There wasn't a single word of idle chatter in the lobby on the fourth floor.
Instead, there was the dull thud of typesetting terminals, the creaking of paper being ejected by dot matrix printers, and the scratching sound of countless red pens rapidly gliding across proofreading paper.
When the proofreading had been going on for eighteen hours, and the book was about two-thirds complete, Susan walked up to Margaret and reported in a low voice.
"Margaret. Two proofreaders in Group Three are requesting a replacement."
"
"What's wrong? Can't your eyes hold up anymore?"
"No. It's my emotions that gave out."
Susan said with a hint of helplessness, "They just finished proofreading the part where Tommy screams in the wilderness—both of them broke down and cried one after the other. They need ten minutes to catch their breath."
Margaret paused for two seconds, then nodded and said, "Give them fifteen minutes, then let the substitutes take their place."
"
Then Margaret lowered her head again and continued to examine the proof in front of her.
But the red pen in her hand hovered above the page for a barely perceptible moment before she resumed writing and continued her reading rhythm.
Because she herself had felt the same suffocating sensation when she read that passage.
While Faber was wrestling with the text in the center of the layout, pushing forward page by page.
The violent clearing operations on another front have already begun ahead of schedule.
Penguin Random House is located in a heavy printing facility in East London.
At five o'clock in the morning, accompanied by the piercing sound of mechanical brakes, the conveyor belt of the No. 3 main production line was forcibly stopped.
This would normally be an absolutely unforgivable major production accident.
Because if a Heidelberg rotary press stops midway, the resulting ink waste and production delays must be compensated with real money.
The factory manager, summoned to the workshop, looked at the suddenly stopped machines and angrily grabbed the night shift supervisor by the collar, roaring, "Who gave the order to stop the machines? This is the first print run of the former prime minister's memoirs, 50,000 copies, and it's already one-third complete!"
"If we clear the site now, who will pay for the tens of thousands of pounds in waste and the politicians' breach of contract penalties!"
The night shift supervisor, pale-faced, swallowed hard and handed over a heavy cell phone, saying, "Factory Manager—this is President Robert's direct line. He's waiting for you to answer."
The factory manager was stunned for a moment, then grabbed the phone and held it to his ear, his voice still tinged with barely suppressed anger, "Mr. Robert? This is the factory manager."
"Why is Line 3 being shut down? This is a former prime minister's memoir. Now, with the forced clearing, not to mention the tens of thousands of pounds in waste losses, who will be responsible for the hefty breach of contract penalties and the public relations crisis?"
Robert's voice came through the phone: "The group headquarters will fully cover all losses and penalties."
"As for the former prime minister's anger, Penguin Random House's legal department will handle that. What you need to do now is clear out Line 3 immediately."
"But Mr. President, what kind of urgent document could be more important than the former Prime Minister's first printed book?"
The factory manager, his face filled with disbelief, tried one last time to argue, "Even if it's a royal commission, it doesn't justify forcibly clearing the entire production line in the middle of the night!"
"It's a novel called 'Don't Let Me Go.' The author is a young Japanese man named Kitahara Iwao."
Robert interrupted his questioning directly, revealing his hand without hesitation: "Listen, this is not an ordinary printing order."
"It's about whether Penguin Random will be able to maintain its dominance in the European literary market in the future."
"And now we have less than seventy-two hours to get it all over bookstores across the UK."
There was a pause on the other end of the phone, followed by a sudden increase in the pressure: "For this book, Penguin Random House, Faber, and HarperCollins have broken down barriers and launched an unprecedented joint operation."
"So immediately clear out Line 3 and go to the Hengwen warehouse to get the highest quality paper."
"I don't want to hear any objective reasons. Before the film is released, I want to see the equipment ready and waiting."
Beep, beep, beep.
The call was unilaterally disconnected.
The factory manager stood frozen in place, listening to the busy tone on the receiver, his anger completely gone.
Instead, he looked horrified.
Three multinational giants join forces?
Just to finish printing a paperback novel about a young man from the East in three days?
He would never have believed it if he hadn't heard it with his own ears.
However, the factory manager dared not delay for even half a second. He turned around abruptly, grabbed the workshop's full-frequency walkie-talkie, and issued a complete clearing order in a hoarse voice that was almost cracking.
Several heavy forklifts roared into the workshop and ruthlessly scooped up the former prime minister's memoirs, which were steadily progressing.
Those unfinished products, printed with the standard smiling faces of politicians, were roughly pushed over in the dark temporary storage area like a pile of cheap cardboard boxes.
The following morning, when the former prime minister's agent called to inquire about the progress, he received only this reply: "Emergency equipment maintenance, delayed by two weeks."
The agent's furious curses came through the receiver, but no one at Penguin Random House paid any attention to his anger.
Because in the face of this production line that is about to run at full speed, the politicians' clichés have become worthless.
The old ink was quickly washed away by a high-pressure water gun.
The highest grade wood-based paper, which is usually locked in temperature-controlled warehouses, was transported out by the ton.
When the robust robotic arm clamped these rolls of white paper, weighing several tons, into the rotary printing press, even a veteran printer with twenty years of experience couldn't help but take a second look.
This paper boasts a top-tier weight and fiber structure in the printing industry, offering a warm and delicate touch, and producing a soft, silky sound when turning the pages.
It is usually used only in limited edition hardcover books or royal commemorative publications.
Using it to print a first-edition paperback book is an act of madness in terms of cost accounting.
But Robert Finley left only one sentence when he signed off on it: "This masterpiece, destined to go down in history, must not be printed on cheap pulp."
The still-warm metal printing plates were inserted into the cylinders by the workers, and the low-frequency roar that could only be heard when a heavy-duty rotary printing press was running at full speed filled the factory.
The sound, which resonated from the floor all the way to the ceiling, made one's chest tremble.
The ink rollers spin at an extremely high speed of hundreds of revolutions per minute, and the paper is drawn out of the roll at high speed. Each step, from wetting, inking, printing, drying, to cutting, is carried out at a frantic pace, measured in seconds.
Every English word that Professor Arthur and Mr. Ian translated overnight—Casey's memories, Tommy's anger, Ruth's lies, Haytham's fog, and the ending that left all readers speechless—was pressed into expensive woodfree paper fibers with the clanging of tight industrial gears.
The workers work in three shifts.
The machines hummed 24 hours a day.
The first batch of finished products slid off the end of the production line the following evening.
Still warm from the ink not being completely dry, it exudes a unique, crisp smell characteristic of new books, a blend of paper fibers and printing chemicals.
The quality inspector retrieved a brand-new book, still warm from the ink, from the assembly line, skillfully opened it, and prepared to use a magnifying glass to check the halftone dots and printing quality.
His gaze fell on the third page, initially just to check the ink density, but gradually stopped when he scanned the first few lines of English letters.
This is the passage where Casey begins to tell the story of Haytham.
In this deafening, chemically-filled heavy industrial workshop, the veteran quality inspector, who had worked there for ten years, unconsciously put down his magnifying glass.
The low-frequency roar of the heavy printing press seemed to have faded away, and the mechanical sounds of the conveyor belt had receded into the background.
His eyes were fixed on the paper, his gaze sweeping down the calm lines of text.
At that moment, he completely forgot that he was on a quality inspection line that required a high degree of concentration.
Standing there beside the roaring machines, I was completely immersed in the world constructed by the words.
The immense undercurrent hidden beneath the words made this old worker, who usually only cared about paper weight and ink ratio, feel an inexplicable tremor and a lump in his throat.
"Hey! What are you daydreaming about!"
It wasn't until his colleague next to him shoved his shoulder hard and yelled, "The conveyor belt is going to get clogged!"
The quality inspector suddenly shivered, as if he had just surfaced from deep water, and gasped for breath as he came to his senses.
"What's wrong? Did the ink smudge?"
A colleague noticed that the quality inspector looked unwell and quickly came over to ask him what was wrong.
Upon hearing this, the quality inspector glanced down at the new book in his hand, swallowed hard, and said in a slightly hoarse voice, "No—it's alright. The printing quality is fine."
After saying that, the quality inspector put the book back on the assembly line.
But for the next few seconds, his gaze remained fixed on the book with "Never Let Me Go" printed on the cover, until it was packed into a cardboard box and completely disappeared from his sight.
The cardboard box filled with new books did not linger in the factory area for long.
It traveled along the conveyor belt, merging with thousands of identical cardboard boxes, and was quickly pushed by forklifts to the loading platform outside the factory, where it was caught in a downpour.
Here, another crazy relay race about speed is already in full swing.
Penguin Random House's printing press has completed its mission, and now the baton has been passed to HarperCollins.
HarperCollins' logistics control room.
James Wharton's logistics director, a veteran of 25 years in the British publishing and transport industry, slammed down three landline phones in less than 12 hours, forcefully using power and capital to break down the UK's nationwide transport capacity network.
Under normal circumstances, this level of nationwide distribution would require at least a week of coordination.
But he directly used all of HarperCollins’ core resources throughout England, Scotland and Wales.
He not only forcibly restarted three backup hubs that usually only operate at full capacity during the Christmas season, but also temporarily added two cross-regional dedicated lines.
To fill the capacity gap, he even used his personal connections to urgently intercept eight heavy-duty container trucks from his partners.
When the first batch of finished products from Penguin Random House's printing press was packed, a truly spectacular sight appeared in the publishing world.
For the first time ever, a convoy bearing the HarperCollins dark blue logo drove into the factory grounds of its arch-rival Penguin Langdon, forming a long line outside the loading platform.
It was raining in London at the time.
A dozen or so dark blue heavy trucks were lined up in the rain. Their headlights shone with penetrating low beams, and their engines roared with a deep rumble.
Rainwater streamed freely down the windshield of the car, being roughly swept away by the wipers.
The air was filled with the mixed smell of diesel exhaust and damp, cold rain.
"Hurry up! Be careful with the waterproof tarpaulin!"
The dispatcher shouted incessantly through the rain, holding a megaphone.
Workers wearing fluorescent reflective vests pushed hydraulic carts, loading boxes of new books onto the trucks through the mud.
The corrugated outer shell of the cardboard box was wet from the rain, and its color deepened from light brown.
But the books inside were tightly wrapped in three layers of thick plastic film, preventing even a trace of moisture from seeping in.
At 11 p.m. that night, a brief clearance order came over the dispatch radio.
With a piercing screech of the airlock being released, the first truck honked its horn and set off.
The massive wheels rolled through the puddles and headed toward the dark highway.
"Car number one, central London."
Then came the second, the third —
"Car number two, Manchester."
"Car number three, Birmingham."
"Car number seven, Oxford, Cambridge."
On the highway late at night, the headlights illuminated the slippery road surface, while the dark red taillights appeared and disappeared in the rain and mist.
The dozen or so trucks simply followed the established schedule and route, driving steadily through the wind and rain.
Meanwhile, in an apartment on the banks of the Thames.
The atmosphere here is completely different from the industrial frenzy outside that has swept up the three giants, hundreds of workers, and more than a dozen heavy trucks.
Kenichi Sato sat on the sofa in the living room.
More precisely, his body barely touched the cushion before he jumped up as if burned and began pacing anxiously back and forth in the limited space.
Then he frequently looked down at the mechanical watch on his wrist, each tick of the second hand seemingly hitting a nerve.
Then his gaze fell on the black landline phone on the coffee table, as if he wanted to force it to ring immediately with his eyes, but the phone remained dead silent.
This period of waiting for the verdict made him feel suffocated.
He tried to pour himself a glass of water to calm himself down, but his hands were shaking violently.
The glass kettle struck the rim of the cup, making a crisp, abrupt sound, and water splashed out, leaving a puddle on the wooden tabletop.
Looking at his almost out-of-control appearance, Kenichi Sato cursed under his breath, grabbed a tissue and haphazardly wiped the water stains dry. He then threw the crumpled wet tissue into the trash can and began pacing aimlessly around the living room again.
"Penguin Random House, Faber, and HarperCollins — jointly published —"
Kenichi Sato kept rubbing his face vigorously, trying to use the warmth of his palms to clear his head, but to no avail.
He seemed to be under some kind of spell, pacing back and forth in the living room, muttering to himself: "Something that has never happened in 150 years—the entire 7.2-hour forced distribution—if this gets back to the Japanese publishing industry, it will definitely cause a major earthquake—"
At this moment, Kenichi Sato's brain was torn between excessive excitement and chaos, and even his breathing rhythm became fragmented.
At that moment, accompanied by a slight scraping sound from the door hinges, the study door opened.
Then Kitahara Iwa came out.
He looked at Sato, who was pacing around the living room like a headless fly, shook his head, and interrupted him, saying, "Editor-in-Chief Sato."
Upon hearing this, Kenichi Sato abruptly stopped and quickly turned to look at Iwata Kitahara.
"If you keep walking like this, the downstairs neighbors will come and bang on the ceiling to protest."
Kitahara Iwa walked to the bar and poured himself a glass of warm water.
"Teacher Kitahara! Do you even understand what's happening outside?"
Hearing Kitahara Iwa's somewhat indifferent tone, Sato Kenichi's voice rose uncontrollably, his hands waving helplessly in the air, trying to release the excitement that was almost bursting his chest.
"These are the three major publishing giants!"
"Now, for your book, a century-old rule has been broken! This is unprecedented in the entire history of English literature—"
"I know."
Before Sato Kenichi could finish speaking, Kitahara Iwa interrupted, saying, "After all, I was the one who proposed the plan."
"Yes! It's because it was your suggestion that I—"
Looking at Kitahara Iwa's expressionless face, Sato Kenichi's excitement suddenly vanished, as if he had punched a cotton ball.
Kitahara Iwa looked up at the clock on the wall.
It is 3:40 a.m.
"Everything that can be done has been done. The printing presses in London won't spin faster just because you walk around in your living room."
O
As Kitahara Iwatsu spoke, he placed the empty water glass back on the bar counter, saying, "After dawn, there will be more practical troubles to deal with."
"What you should do right now is get some sleep and conserve your energy."
Upon hearing this, Kenichi Sato opened his mouth, but ultimately couldn't bring himself to say, "Tonight is a historic moment, how could I possibly sleep?"
"I'm going to sleep now."
Before Kenichi Sato could respond, Iwao Kitahara turned and walked towards the bedroom.
Before entering, he stopped and advised, "Go and rest; tomorrow's situation will be even more complicated."
The door closed.
Kenichi Sato was the only one left in the living room.
He heard the sounds of slippers hitting the floor and sheets rustling inside the door, then everything fell silent.
Kenichi Sato was stunned for a long time before slowly retreating back to the sofa and sitting down, letting out a long breath.
Despite his rational advice that he needed to rest, he knew he was destined to have a sleepless night.
Next, Kenichi Sato leaned over and pulled open a drawer in the coffee table, pulling out a hardcover notebook and a fountain pen.
He unscrewed the pen cap and began to list on the paper the tedious tasks that needed to be handled by the British after dawn.
Layout progress confirmation, printing yield sampling inspection, logistics network hub scheduling —
When his pen wrote the words "joint promotion and endorsement by famous people", the pen paused slightly on the paper, and the ink bleed out to form a tiny black dot.
Kenichi Sato knew very well that given Kitahara Iwa's current status as a "public enemy" in Britain, it would be extremely difficult for him to find someone to endorse him in this traditionally arrogant circle.
As it turns out, Kenichi Sato's fears have come true.
While the heavy printing presses in East London were roaring deafeningly, the headquarters of the three giants in the city center, a dozen kilometers away, were also busy.
While the physical books are being printed, the commercial marketing campaign has already begun in these brightly lit offices.
According to the traditional practice of the British publishing industry, before the release of a major new book, editors-in-chief will always personally invite literary giants or bestselling authors to write a few words of praise, which will be printed in the most prominent position on the poster to endorse it.
To promote this unprecedented joint operation, Margaret immediately called the two Booker Prize winners.
But when the person on the other end of the phone heard that the author to be recommended was "Kitahara Iwao," their attitude instantly plummeted.
"That Kitahara Iwao who made deals with Colin of CWA? Sorry, Ms. Hughes, I've always been careful with my reputation."
The other party didn't even ask to see the manuscript before coldly hanging up the phone.
Penguin Langdon and HarperCollins also ran into a snag.
Several bestselling chart regulars whom James contacted avoided him like the plague as soon as they heard that he was writing a recommendation for that young Japanese man who was rumored to have made dirty deals with the judging panel.
Even the authoritative book critics whom Robert usually paid a high salary to declined the offer with various clumsy excuses.
They searched for more than a dozen prominent figures in the literary world, but all of them failed.
The entire mainstream British literary circle seemed to have secretly reached a tacit agreement to jointly suppress the movement.
No established writer would want their name printed on the same piece of paper as Kitahara Iwa.
When the rejection messages came in, Robert glanced at the list of rejections, which was entirely marked in red, and casually pushed it aside.
With only four days left to count down, they didn't even have time to get angry.
"Notify the typesetting department to remove the originally planned section featuring recommendations from renowned authors."
Robert picked up the intercom immediately and said in a very fast voice, "Cancel this step and go straight to printing."
Looking at the poster sketch on the screen, Margaret immediately followed up: "Then fill in all the blank areas on the poster. Since there's no literary endorsement, there's no need for fancy transitional designs."
James closed the folder in front of him and offered the most straightforward alternative: "Use the most basic method."
Buy up every available GG slot. Since there are no book reviews to drive traffic, then use absolute exposure to force this book into everyone's sight.
Twenty-four hours later.
London in the early morning – the difference is immediately apparent when I open my eyes.
Penguin Random House's massive investment instantly reclaimed all the prime spots on the London Underground.
When the first group of commuters stepped onto the deep, long escalator in the early morning, they found that the colorful and flashy GG logos that used to be on both sides had disappeared.
Instead, there are minimalist white posters that extend down the 100-meter-long passageway, like endless white walls.
Overnight, the red double-decker buses crowding the streets and the giant light boxes along the Thames were all taken over by this same scene.
HarperCollins, on the other hand, demonstrated their strength in the UK retail market.
From the largest Waterstones flagship store in the city center to independent booksellers on street corners, all the street-facing shop windows were emptied and neatly arranged with the same book displayed on top.
Even the bookstore clerks were forced to wear a pure white brooch with the book title printed on it on their uniforms.
At the same time, Faber Publishing directly utilized their network of contacts in the pure literature media industry, which they had cultivated for half a century.
The Times, The Guardian, and The Daily Telegraph, published that morning, not only left a full blank front page, but also filled the inside pages with introductory discussions by contributing writers, their voices filled with bewilderment.
Whether it's posters or newspapers, the visuals are so minimalist they border on arrogant.
In the very center are only two lines of bold black text: "Never Let Me Go." Below Kitahara Iwa is a highly provocative caption: "The book that made The Times Literary Supplement apologize."
What truly alarmed the entire British publishing industry were the three logos at the very bottom of the image.
Penguin Randon, Faber, and HarperCollins.
These three mortal enemies, who have fought for over a century, openly displayed their logos side by side without any polite explanation of "joint production."
To industry insiders who have always believed in copyright monopolies, this was so absurd it resembled a terrible printing accident.
Before 9 a.m., this joint promotion, which defied common industry norms, had already dominated the morning news on major television networks.
According to the business calculations of the executives of the three giants, this unprecedentedly high price for exposure should quickly translate into public curiosity and alarming pre-sale sales.
However, things did not unfold entirely according to the logic of capital.
Faced with this brutal act of opening the eyes of the entire British public, the initial response from the self-proclaimed aloof British mainstream cultural circles was neither curiosity nor admiration.
Instead, it was an overwhelming mockery.
Fleet Street is the heart of London’s traditional newspaper industry.
Those columnists who make a living through sharp commentary and biting satire were excitedly sharpening their knives almost the instant they saw the poster.
They viewed this unprecedented joint promotion as a brutal trampling of the dignity of traditional literature by capital.
The Daily Mail's culture section urgently printed an extra edition that afternoon, with a shocking headline on the front page:
"Fourteen Days of Industrial Waste: The Collective Suicide of Three Major Publishers"
"I've seen fast-food style industrial products, but I've never seen such a cheap crash course in literature." Even the third-rate tabloids selling for five pence a copy take longer to type and fabricate lies than this Japanese genius's creative process.
"The three giants have clearly lost their minds. They're trying to use exorbitant marketing budgets to cover up a basic fact that even a three-year-old understands: a product that was only written in fourteen days is so thin it's not even suitable as a coffee table mat!"
The Evening Standard's book review section was even more scathing: "Penguin Random, Faber, and HarperCollins today jointly presented British readers with a complete magic trick: with a little puff of air from the three giants, a lump of ink-smelling waste paper can be packaged into a timeless classic. Unfortunately, we're not fools; we can tell the difference between literature and assembly-line excrement."
As the primary "victim" of that arrogant copy, the editorial office of The Times Literary Supplement was filled with barely suppressed anger.
Several regular book critics were furious in their office. In their view, the poster's tagline, "The book that made The Times apologize," was nothing short of a blatant declaration of war against the entire British classical literature scene.
A senior editor, his face ashen, shoved the manuscript into the typewriter. With a sharp tap, he typed a fierce rebuttal on the column's draft: "We should indeed apologize. We should apologize to all of humanity for the British publishing industry's depravity to such a short-sighted and profit-driven state."
"An Easterner whose native language isn't even English is going to teach us what British literature is in fourteen days on our own turf? That's the worst kind of black humor of the century."
Just as he was about to type the end, a slightly aged hand suddenly reached out and pressed down hard on the typewriter's carriage.
This person is the editor-in-chief of The Times Literary Supplement.
The old man, whose words carried immense weight in the British literary world, had an extremely complex expression at this moment. There was no anger, no desire to retaliate after being provoked, only an expression that mixed with fatigue, awe, and even a hint of lingering fear.
"Editor-in-chief?"
Feeling the power coming from his hand, the senior writer looked up in utter astonishment.
The editor-in-chief ignored him and instead forcefully pulled the mocking manuscript out of the typewriter, crumpling it into a ball in front of all the indignant editors.
"Remove all negative comments about Kitahara Iwao and this book, 'Never Let Me Go,' from tomorrow's layout."
Not a single word is allowed to be uttered.
At this moment, the editor-in-chief's voice was a little hoarse, but it exuded an undeniable authority.
The office fell into a deathly silence, followed by an outburst of incredulous protest.
"But editor-in-chief, they've already slapped us in the face!"
"The newspapers outside are all mocking them. If we don't speak up, readers will think it's The Times."
They've really bowed down to a third-rate novel published in just fourteen days!
"Shut up!"
The editor-in-chief slammed his hand on the table, silencing everyone.
He then took a deep breath, and the trembling he felt a few days earlier after reading the first draft overnight resurfaced in his mind.
Then the editor-in-chief looked at the group of self-important subordinates in front of him, and a hint of pity appeared in his eyes.
"I had read the entire manuscript of that book before."
The editor's voice suddenly turned low, and he said in an unquestionable tone, "Believe me, if you publish this column today, when the sun rises tomorrow, the entire Times will truly become the biggest laughing stock in the history of English literature."
"Put away your arrogance."
"When the bookstore opens tomorrow, go and buy a copy for yourselves, open it to the first page—then you will understand why those three centuries-old enemies went completely mad for an Easterner."
As the editor-in-chief spoke, he threw the crumpled manuscript into the wastebasket, turned around and walked toward his private office, leaving everyone with only a tired back view.
In the evening, with the addition of television media, the nationwide ridicule reached its climax.
On a BBC evening talk show, a guest commentator known for his "sharp tongue" held up a minimalist poster and shook his head and laughed at the camera.
"Fourteen days? Gentlemen, fourteen days to write a novel."
He glanced at Kitahara Iwa's name on the poster out of the corner of his eye, which was behind his gold-rimmed glasses, and said with utter sarcasm, "Charles Dickens took a year to write A Tale of Two Cities, and Tolstoy took six years to write War and Peace."
"And this foreign genius actually claims that he completed a masterpiece in fourteen days that would make the British literary world bow down?"
At this point, he exaggeratedly spread his hands and said, "Fourteen days isn't even enough time for the Irish plumber I hired to fix my leaky sink!"
A thunderous burst of laughter erupted from the audience.
The host then chimed in, pointing to the three logos at the bottom of the poster: "But look, three century-old giants are endorsing him."
"This is precisely the most ridiculous compromise in the history of English literature!"
The commentator scoffed and tossed the poster onto the table, continuing, "This shows that none of these three giants dared to bear the shame of publishing this masterpiece alone; they had to drag their arch-rivals along to share the risk of being nailed to the pillar of historical shame!"
In this overwhelming media frenzy, the entire cultural scene of London, and even ordinary citizens, were swept up in it.
At the Garrick Club in London's West End, old-school aristocrats and literature professors enjoying afternoon tea used this book as an excellent topic of conversation.
"Fourteen days —"
An elderly nobleman, wearing his family crest on his chest, gently stirred his Earl Grey tea with a small spoon and let out a disdainful sneer: "It takes me a full three months to order a tweed suit from a tailor on Savile Row."
"An Easterner who has barely even breathed in the London fog dares to presume to extract the literary soul of Great Britain in fourteen days?"
The Cambridge professor of classics sitting across from him pushed up his glasses and slowly cut a piece of pastry spread with cream.
"Capital is always blind and arrogant."
The old professor's tone revealed a deep-seated sense of academic superiority: "Those idiots at Penguin Langdon and Faber, whose minds are filled with nothing but pounds, think they can rape the reader's aesthetic sense by bombarding them with crude GG."
"They forgot that on this island, literature has a threshold. Ink that hasn't been tempered by time is only fit for printing supermarket discount posters."
"So, this is the Titanic of the publishing world."
A renowned conservative columnist leaned back arrogantly on a leather sofa, exhaling a puff of grayish-white cigar smoke into the air.
He pointed to the newspaper on the table with the finger holding the cigar: "From the moment it tried to challenge the traditional rules of the British Empire with its exorbitant advertising, it had irrevocably hit an iceberg."
"And this iceberg is the indestructible cultural heritage of our Great Britain."
The old gentleman picked up his teacup, his eyes gleaming with a cold, mocking glint of anticipation.
"Then let's use tea instead of wine."
He slightly raised his glass and greeted his old friends at the table, saying in advance, "May this arrogant literary farce sink completely into the Thames tomorrow."
On the rainy streets, Londoners on their way home from get off work passed by shop windows that had been forcibly covered with pure white posters, their eyes no longer filled with the initial curiosity, but instead with suspicion and mockery after being manipulated by the media.
"A book written in fourteen days? I bet ten pounds that the only value of this thing is for lighting the fireplace."
"I'll buy a copy on the first day the bookstore opens; after all, who wouldn't want to witness how the three major publishers throw money into the Thames?"
"I've already reserved the front page spot for my column next Monday, and I can't wait to write that article that tears it to pieces."
The air throughout the British Isles was thick with the smell of gunpowder and a sense of mockery.
Everyone is waiting to see an unprecedented collapse.
The whole of Britain was convinced of this.
Tomorrow, when these pure white books, forcibly crammed into all the bookstore windows, are opened, London will witness the most tragic and ridiculous literary disaster of the century.