Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 155 Richard's Fate and Kitahara Iwa's Reaction

On this day, the four most credible national newspapers in Britain—The Times, The Guardian, The Daily Telegraph, and The Independent—simultaneously published the same article on their front pages.

This open letter, titled "An Open Letter to the Public," was jointly signed by four organizations: CWA, Random House, Faber, and HarperCollins.

It is not a literary review, so it makes no mention of Kitahara Iwao's evaluation, nor does it comment on the recent defection turmoil in Fleet Street.

Instead, it states a fact: "Dear British readers:"

"Over the past few days, the discussion surrounding Mr. Kitahara Iwao's new work, 'Don't Let Me Go,' has become the most prominent cultural event in the country."

"As the introducer and publisher of this work in the English-speaking world, we would like to take this opportunity to share some facts that have not yet been made public with our readers."

"Three days before the official release of 'Never Let Me Go,' the complete English translation of the book, translated by Professor Arthur of Oxford University and senior literary critic Mr. Ian, was sent to twenty senior scholars and critics in London who are recognized as core authorities, with priority review."

"This is a standard practice in the publishing industry when dealing with a work of great literary significance, aiming to ensure that core critics are the first to read it, form professional judgments, and voice leading academic opinions in public discussions."

"This is a trust. It is also a responsibility."

Whether in a crowded subway car or at a breakfast table in the early morning, most readers of this letter have not yet realized the true meaning behind it.

Many people even felt an overwhelming sense of envy and jealousy: while readers all over London were frantically searching for books in bookstores, these twenty scholars were comfortably reading the complete manuscript just three days before its official release!

However, this envious reverie did not last long.

As the reader's gaze follows the ink downwards to the third paragraph, the letter maintains its straightforward tone, yet reveals a startling truth.

"In the past three days since the book's release, and in the three days that 'Never Let Me Go' has generated an unprecedented reader response across the UK, we have noticed a very puzzling phenomenon."

"None of the twenty core critics who received the complete manuscript ever publicly uttered a single word."

"There was nothing, not praise or criticism, not even any public statement based on their professional identity."

They maintained a surprising collective silence.

"At the same time, some commentators on Fleet Street published a large number of offensive articles without receiving the manuscript or even reading the original work, characterizing the work and its author as an 'Eastern commercial bubble,' a 'fourteen-day farce,' and a hastily written piece devoid of any literary foundation."

"And those twenty core critics who had actually read the masterpiece chose to stand by and watch as they witnessed this public slander that was seriously inconsistent with the actual quality of the work."

The last paragraph of the letter was written by Colin himself.

In order to make this passage the core of the entire letter and even the whole incident that would ultimately be remembered by history, he devoted more effort to it than to the rest of the text combined.

"CWA and this letter are the joint signatories and we absolutely respect any serious academic criticism based on the text itself."

"If those twenty scholars do indeed believe that 'Never Let Me Go' has significant literary flaws after reading it, we welcome and look forward to them writing articles to explain their academic judgments."

"But we cannot understand or accept the fact that these twenty gentlemen chose collective silence in the face of three days of frenzied slander from the outside media after reading this masterpiece."

"We respect academic discussion, but we cannot accept that prejudice and cowardice can overcome the honesty that scholars should have when faced with a great work."

At the very end of the letter was a list of twelve of the twenty core critics who received the manuscript.

Colin deliberately concealed the names of the other eight people, but all twelve of them who were publicly listed had, without exception, made offensive remarks against Kitahara Iwa in the past two weeks or had served as core members in the conservative camp.

The first line of the list prominently displays several large characters.

Sir Richard.

Chelsea district, 8:15 a.m.

The butler delivered four copies of the day's national newspapers to the door of the cigar room.

Having endured the oppressive meeting yesterday afternoon, Sir Richard barely slept a wink all night and was now slumped in a leather sofa.

He picked up the top-of-the-line Times and flipped to the front page, but when his gaze fell on the striking headline of the open letter, his bloodshot eyes twitched slightly.

His gaze moved line by line among the printed words.

Although the letter contained no vehement accusations, it only stated the facts.

But as he read these words, Sir Richard felt his throat tighten and his breathing become increasingly heavy.

Even the unconscious pressure from his fingers left tiny creases on the edge of the newspaper.

Soon, when Sir Richard's gaze swept over the conclusion at the end of the article regarding scholarly conduct, the veins on the back of his aged hand immediately taut, and he trembled slightly, unable to suppress it.

Because his name was printed as the first line of the list at the end of the page.

He stared at those words for a long time.

The reputation, authority, and influence in literary criticism that he had built up over most of his life.

Today, all that past capital seems utterly powerless in the face of this short line of text.

Yesterday afternoon, he thought that as long as he hid in his study and didn't say a word, he could get through this storm by letting time slowly wash everything away.

But he was wrong.

The real dead end is when someone forces a decision on him for him.

With this letter that simply stated the facts, Colin shattered Colin's attempt to remain silent and exposed him directly to the gaze of the entire British public.

From that morning onward, as newspapers were sold on the streets, the name "Sir Richard" would forever be inextricably linked to the saying: "When faced with a great work, prejudice and cowardice triumph over honesty."

Moreover, this humiliation was a judgment that would accompany him for the rest of his life!

Seeing this, Sir Richard slowly placed the newspaper back on the mahogany coffee table.

Then, as if all his strength had left him, he leaned against the leather back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

The cigar room was deathly silent.

On the table sat a cup of cold black tea, an untouched cigar box, and four identical front-page newspapers.

In this spacious room, which had once hosted half of the British literary world, Sir Richard sat alone in silence.

There was nothing more he could do but wait quietly for the storm that was about to engulf him.

In fact, the storm had already made landfall outside the window.

Just as he was isolating himself in this deathly silence, the open letter, published in four major newspapers, ignited a substantial information shockwave throughout the British literary world.

From seven in the morning when it was on the newspaper until ten in the morning, within just three hours, the contents of this letter had thoroughly permeated every corner of the British cultural world through word of mouth, telephone, and fax.

In university classrooms, professors circulate newspapers during morning coffee breaks; on the bulletin boards in publishing houses' corridors, the full text of open letters is pinned high; and in the offices of literary agents, the phone rings incessantly with inquiries about The Times.

Ordinary readers who were deeply moved by "Never Let Me Go" were no longer mocking Fleet Street's "change of face" after reading the letter; instead, they felt a deep and unquenchable anger.

While the Fleet Street newspapers certainly acted in an ugly manner, they could at least use "not having read the original manuscript before" as a shield to whitewash their change of heart as "a change of opinion after reading it."

However, the twenty people on the list of those who wrote the open letter had access to the complete text three days before the book was released.

They were convinced it was a great work sooner than anyone else in the UK.

But when Fleet Street launched a three-day systematic smear campaign, they held the most compelling rebuttal evidence, yet chose to lock the truth away in their study.

They watched helplessly as Kitahara Iwa was denigrated as an "Eastern commercial bubble" and a "hasty, unfounded work," yet they did nothing.

This is not a misjudgment at all.

Misjudging a work is forgivable, but knowingly turning a blind eye to a great work in order to protect one's own prejudice is far more egregious than plagiarism in the European literary world, which values ​​academic integrity.

Plagiarists at least implicitly acknowledge the excellence of their work, while these twenty individuals allowed prejudice and cowardice to devour the most basic qualities of scholars.

honest!

When this anger over "dishonesty" boiled over throughout London's cultural scene, a substantial reckoning inevitably ensued.

Sir Richard, whose name is clearly listed first on the list, is destined to bear the first death knell.

10:00 AM, Chelsea district.

Sir Richard's study was deathly still; the last embers in the fireplace had long since lost their warmth.

He slumped in the sofa like a soulless shell, with the newspaper that had pronounced his academic death sentence still lying quietly on the mahogany coffee table beside him.

In the midst of this deathly silence, where even the air seemed to freeze, the antique brass landline in the corner suddenly rang.

This is an antique that Richard bought from an antique shop forty years ago. The pure copper body gleams with a warm, dark golden luster in the dim light.

The dull, metallic vibrations broke the silence of the room. In this cramped space filled with the smell of newspaper ink, the mechanical ringing sounded particularly jarring.

Richard stared at the phone, which had rung three times.

Less than two hours after the open letter was published, very few people would call his private hotline.

With that thought in mind, Sir Richard took a deep breath and reached for the heavy receiver.

Good morning, Richard.

The sound coming through the receiver confirmed his judgment.

The caller was Lord Cavendish, a senior official of the Royal Commission for Literature, a friend of nearly forty years, and the behind-the-scenes controller of several core literary quarterlies in Britain.

Good morning, Cavendish.

Richard's voice was dry, but he still instinctively maintained the impeccable, polite tone typical of the British upper class.

"It's raining really hard in London today."

Cavendish said.

His impeccable Oxford accent was as smooth as still water, perfectly masking any emotional fluctuations with its unhurried rhythm characteristic of old-fashioned aristocrats.

In traditional gentlemanly etiquette, starting with the most appropriate weather greetings often foreshadows an extremely unseemly conversation to come, thus necessitating an elegant buffer beforehand.

"yes."

Richard took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice calm as he said, "It's been like this all week."

"It's summer after all; London summers are always like this."

Cavendish continued, and then the small talk came to an abrupt end.

Cavendish made no mention of Kitahara Iwa or the open letter on the front page of today's Times, but instead got to the point in a bland, businesslike tone.

"Richard, given some recent developments in London's cultural scene—"

He paused deliberately for half a second, as if carefully choosing his words, before saying, "The situation has changed."

"The committee held a brief consultation this morning."

Cavendish spoke slowly, "We all agree that your literary views have made an outstanding contribution to this quarterly over the past few decades."

"But in the current context, it may no longer fit the forward-thinking and inclusiveness that this quarterly publication wants to demonstrate in the future."

Cavendish continued, "The committee needs a navigator with a more straightforward stance."

Richard held the cold receiver.

The so-called "purity" is nothing more than the absence of the stain of this morning's open letter on one's resume.

After a two-second silence, Cavendish's tone shifted slightly, taking on a more familiar tone than one might expect from a private conversation.

"For your health's sake, and to avoid further media attention,"

Cavendish softened his tone and said, "Taking the initiative to resign from the positions of honorary chairman and chief judge, and going to a country estate to recuperate for a while, might be a dignified choice."

Richard listened quietly, fully aware of the underlying logic behind this set of polite words.

Cavendish's offer was not a suggestion, but rather a multiple-choice question in administrative procedure.

He can either sign his resignation today and leave quietly, or the committee can officially publish a notice tomorrow removing him from all his posts, thus saving face for himself.

Thinking of this, Richard gripped the brass receiver, his knuckles turning white from excessive force.

He had imagined countless times that if he were to face a power struggle during his career, he would definitely fight back with reason and defend his final dignity with the pride that "academic evaluation should never be swayed by public sentiment."

But when the moment actually came, faced with Cavendish's flawless rhetoric and the open letter that revealed the whole truth, he found his throat tighten and he couldn't even squeeze out a single syllable of rebuttal.

Every accusation Colin made in his open letter was accurate.

He did indeed receive the manuscript early on and knew it was a rare masterpiece, but he chose to stand idly by in order to protect his own prejudices amidst the repeated slanders from the outside world.

Faced with these irrefutable facts, any defense seems pale and laughable.

"I understand, Cavendish."

Richard's voice was dry, like sandpaper had been rubbed against it, as he said, "My resignation will be on your desk before noon."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone.

"Thank you, Richard. Take care."

With a soft click, the call was abruptly cut off.

Forty years of friendship came to an end in the most dignified way during this phone call that lasted less than three minutes.

Richard slowly put the receiver back on the phone.

With the dull thud of brass gears meshing, he leaned back in his leather chair, as if the last bit of strength in his body had been completely drained by that soft sound.

After sitting quietly for a moment, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out a Parker gold pen that his father had left him.

He used this pen to write his first academic paper and signed countless prestigious literary award review documents.

Now, this pen will be used to sign the final document.

Sir Richard submitted his resignation that afternoon.

Temporary apartments in Kitahara Iwa on the banks of the Thames.

The noise outside the window has been going on since early morning.

The once quiet riverside street below the apartment building was now unusually crowded.

Dozens of reporters and photographers stood guard on the sidewalk opposite the main entrance of the apartment building; some held microphones with the TV station logo, while others carried video cameras.

The flashes of old-fashioned film cameras, typical of the 1990s, occasionally lit up on a gloomy London afternoon, while long microphone cords tangled on the wet ground.

Two broadcast vans were parked on the street corner, their antennas already raised, ready to switch to live coverage at any moment.

They waited like fervent fans for Kitahara Iwa to emerge from the apartment.

And all the media outlets are anticipating Kitahara Iwa's "declaration of victory".

Even a brief sarcastic remark or a triumphant smile can make the headlines of tomorrow's newspapers.

Inside that security door that shut out all the noise.

Kitahara Iwa was sitting quietly on the sofa in the living room, with a thick English book spread out on his lap.

This is A.S. Byatt's magnum opus, "The Hidden Book," which was just published this year.

It was August, and this masterpiece, which perfectly blended Victorian romanticism with modern academic deconstruction, was causing a subtle but enormous stir within British intellectual circles.

Kitahara Iwa is flipping through the pages.

His attention was highly focused, his gaze moving slowly and precisely over each line of fine English words and phrases.

Occasionally, he would pause at a certain paragraph and make a small mark in the margin with his red pencil.

The annotations are extremely detailed and professional, showing how Byatt cleverly forged and adapted Victorian sonnets, the subtle metaphors of a pun in different historical contexts, or the extremely restrained emotional blank spaces in a double-threaded epistolary monologue.

To outsiders, this is probably the most insignificant thing in the world at this moment.

The few words that the media outside the window are eagerly awaiting could instantly become tomorrow's front-page headlines if Kitahara Iwa said just one sentence.

But in Kitahara Iwa's world, right now on this sofa, the only thing of value is the analysis and resonance with great texts.

As for the collapse and replacement of those literary authorities outside the door, and the overwhelming praise and apologies on Fleet Street, to him, they were nothing more than irrelevant and noisy background noise detached from pure literature.

At that moment, the apartment door was gently pushed open.

Kenichi Sato strode in.

His condition was much worse than Kitahara Iwa's; he had obvious dark circles under his eyes, his tie was loose and askew in front of his chest, and his hair was somewhat messy from scratching.

But his eyes were shining, a light of uncontainable excitement born from witnessing the collapse of the old power system.

At this moment, Kenichi Sato walked to the sofa with a notebook in his hand, glanced at Iwata Kitahara who was reading with his head down, hesitated for a second, but still couldn't help but speak.

In his view, the news he brought was simply too shocking.

"Teacher Kitahara."

"Um."

Kitahara Iwa didn't look up; the red pencil was stopped on the third line of a certain page.

"Just now, about forty minutes ago—"

Kenichi Sato's voice trembled slightly with suppressed excitement as he said, "Sir Richard has formally submitted his resignation to the Royal Academy of Literature. He has resigned from both his positions as Honorary Chairman and Chief Judge."

Kitahara Iwa circled a point that needed attention, then turned to the next page.

"And it wasn't just Richard—"

Kenichi Sato opened his notebook, his speech unconsciously quickening as he began to report the results of his battle, item by item.

"The other core scholars on the list who remained silent also faced a full purge from the academic community."

"Oxford University urgently cancelled the guest lectureships of three of its members this morning, and Cambridge University simultaneously notified two long-time honorary fellows at King's College to suspend all academic collaborations."

"At least three top academic journals, including The London Review of Books, returned all of their submitted column articles this morning. No reason was given, only that it was due to layout adjustments."

"The publishing industry is even more ruthless."

At this point, Kenichi Sato swallowed hard, turned the page, and continued, "At least two of the established publishing houses that had previously signed contracts with them for the compilation of book reviews have unilaterally terminated their contracts today. They are willing to pay hefty penalties to immediately sever ties."

After saying that, Kenichi Sato closed his notebook, took a deep breath, and looked at Iwao Kitahara, saying, "Professor Kitahara—these twenty people have been completely erased from the academic and social reputation in Europe."

Kenichi Sato brought a very clear message: those twenty once-arrogant writers would be completely wiped out of the British literary scene.

At this moment, Kenichi Sato stood beside the sofa, his eyes fixed on Iwata Kitahara, waiting for him to show surprise, mockery, or even a victor's smile.

However, the only sound in the living room was the faint rustling of pages turning.

Kitahara Iwa's gaze never left the Book of Hidden Things on his lap.

He simply gave a very bland "hmm," then closed the book and placed the red pencil on the coffee table.

"understood."

Before Sato Kenichi could react, Kitahara Iwao had already looked up and asked in a completely indifferent tone, "Have you confirmed your flight and car to Tokyo for tomorrow?"

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