Chapter: 64
While not quite as influential as the name Homer, the name Herodotus was still pretty darn powerful.
After all, he’s plagiarized some of the most popular novels in commercial fiction history—The Count of Monte Cristo and Sherlock Holmes! It’d be weird if he didn’t have a hefty reputation.
Naturally, there were plenty of Herodotus fans in the room.
“Hee hee! Heh, the great Herodotus read my novel…!”
“As of today, I’m officially a Herodotusian!”
Anyway, there was a bit of a ruckus and some confusion.
In the end, I managed to achieve my goal of reading the novels written by the authors in this reading group. They seemed to want feedback, but since I wasn’t a real author—just a plagiarizing one—I could only muster up some encouragement.
Fortunately, that was more than enough to make the authors happy.
Of course, not every author was this enthusiastic.
“Hey, Guyron…? Didn’t you say before that compared to Homer, Herodotus was barely a toenail…?”
“If it’s a god’s toenail, isn’t it only natural to be higher than a human head?”
“What?”
This group was basically a “Homer cult,” wherein folks followed the writer named Homer.
Fans who excessively venerate one author tend to think the influence of others is a joke. They’d argue things like, “Homer is so incredible that Herodotus isn’t even in the running.”
While they didn’t say this outright in my presence, I could spot several readers who were visibly uncomfortable.
In that atmosphere…
Isolette suddenly spoke up as if something had struck her.
“Wait a sec, Ed, if you’re Herodotus… are you close with Homer…?”
“Huh?”
“I thought you two were so chummy that you wrote recommendations for each other and even ran a charity foundation together… Does that mean you and Mr. Homer hang out often and chat?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Oh my gosh… You’re actually friends with that Homer guy…!”
And that was the tipping point.
The uncomfortable “Homer extremists” suddenly lit up with excitement and became even more aggressive than the Herodotus fans.
“What kind of person is Homer? He must be really kind, good, dignified, noble, gentle, sincere, and pious, right?”
“Please! Tell us stories about the savior, Homer!”
So, there I was, stuck dealing with fanatics all day before finally returning to the Kapeter Residence.
And yes, Isolette was right there with me.
After quietly observing the reading gathering, Isolette finally spoke as we walked along.
“I always thought you’d be a children’s author, Ed. I never imagined you’d end up as… a commercial writer. Well, back then, they didn’t have things like serialized fiction in magazines, did they? It’s funny to think about…”
“Really?”
“Honestly, at one point, I thought maybe you could be Homer—though that sounds ridiculous now considering how old you are! But in my memory, you were the greatest author. And look at you now! You really became a great author: the best commercial fiction writer, Herodotus.”
“Hmm.”
“But don’t get it twisted; I’m a fan of Homer right now, and Herodotus is in third place.”
Third?
So you’ve got another favorite author besides Homer and Herodotus?
Now that piqued my interest a bit.
“Who’s in second place?”
“A new writer from the Kingdom of Harren—Sophocles. I read a book in Haren, and wow, the imagination was terrifyingly good… I got completely hooked!”
“Ahh.”
“You’ve read it too, huh? Hehe.”
Suddenly, my excitement faded.
Right. I guess Ishlette’s own critical talent could easily spot the cultural value in works like “Les Misérables” and “1984.”
It made sense she’d prefer the works of Sophocles—which I almost literally copied from my previous world—over the localized works of Homer I had manipulated for this realm.
To me, that was kind of a buzzkill since I was hoping for the emergence of another talented writer.
“…….”
This kind of thing makes me feel a bit messy.
Sure, I tried not to worry about it too much, but honestly, my impact on the literature in this world—my previous life’s literature—was just colossal.
I might’ve plagiarized a ton of novels to advance this literary “industry,” but that probably meant quite a few “authors” fell under my shadow. Sure, I dig around to read obscure works, though…
Not every reader does that.
Even if I build an artists’ foundation to support thousands of authors, the “food” for authors isn’t just bread; it’s the readers’ attention. Writers are like flames who can burn up and vanish, but they can’t be content with simply reflecting the sun’s light like the moon. Writers need to be the light themselves.
Otherwise—well…
This was pretty much the reality of the Korean literary scene in my past life. Up until the early 2000s, the government’s “support policy for artists” was, “Artists are not beggars! Please don’t treat writers like they’re less than human!” People insisted, “Even if I only earn 300,000 won a month, I can hold my head high because I’m a writer.”
But then, in the 2010s, when the government cut back on artist support and made blacklists, they fought back, saying it was “killing the soul of artists.”
And then in the 2020s… ugh…
I’m not really sure. I mean, I’m not a writer, after all. Isn’t it a bit silly for someone who’s not a writer to go on about the “soul of a writer”?
That’s why I decided not to overthink it too deeply.
But still, I can’t help but feel a bit pinned down in moments like this, and as if it showed, Isolette tilted her head curiously.
“Ed, what’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”
“Oh, just a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
“Hehe. Is that so?”
“……”
I kept my lips sealed, going silent.
Isolette didn’t press for answers either, just quietly walked beside me. We fell into another lengthy silence, letting it stretch out around us.
Once again, it was Isolette who broke the quiet.
“Speaking of which, this reminds me of childhood. You gifted me ‘The Little Mermaid,’ and I used to bug mom to read it until I fell asleep…”
“Really?”
“Honestly, back then, I thought the ending where the mermaid became an air spirit felt forced. I mean, she could have just turned into bubbles and scattered around, and that would’ve been a beautiful ending… But hmm, didn’t it feel like a bit of a forced happy ending? Because, you know, it’s a fairy tale?”
“Well….”
I don’t think Andersen was aiming for happy endings in his fairy tales.
Um, then again…
I don’t really know. Everyone has different standards for happy endings.
The protagonist of “Little Red Riding Hood” repented and went to heaven, the main character of “The Snow Queen” returned home with friends, and the ugly duckling from “The Ugly Duckling” realized he was a swan. Sure, some fairy tales end on a murky note too.
However, considering that pre-modern fairy tales often seem “void of dreams or hope,”…
Andersen’s fairy tales still seem to have his version of a ‘happy ending.’
“Uh-oh, Ed! Shooting stars are falling. Is this a meteor shower?”
“…Right? They say falling stars mean someone’s about to kick the bucket…”
“Well, wow, are you superstitious? If you are, a day full of falling stars might not cut it for you!”
“True, I guess.”
“But superstitions aren’t all bad. The only one I know about shooting stars is this.”
“Huh?”
“When you see a shooting star with someone you love, it means you two are destined to be together.”
“Wow, talk about a common and romantic superstition…”
I said, slightly cringing.
Isolette laughed, grinning playfully.
“Isn’t that charmingly childish?”
“Well, sure, that’s not untrue. A superstition should have that allure.”
“So, Ed.”
“Yeah?”
“If the dilemma you’re dealing with is a writer’s struggle… why not return to your youthful days and try crafting a fairy tale?”
“A fairy tale?”
I had actually organized an “Andersen’s Fairy Tale Collection” for my soon-to-be-born niece.
But of course, Isolette wouldn’t know that.
“I’m still waiting for the brand-new fairy tale you’ll write, Ed.”
“…….”
That coincidence washed over me like some kind of ‘magic.’ It was the magic of literature, where the work and reader spark a connection.
“Destiny” feels so romanticized.
But, it’s too obvious to dismiss as just a coincidence.
Some folks call it “the power of literature,” while others refer to it as “the soul of literature.”
That’s the magic.
“Ever since you gave me ‘The Little Mermaid,’ I’ve been falling asleep to it every night until today.”
“For over ten years…?”
“Do you think I’m childish?”
“…Uh.”
And then…
That magic is what kept me glued to literature for decades, from my past life to this one.
If literature is about dying and being reborn without wanting to let go…
“I like it because it feels childish.”
“Ha! Right?”
For a decade or so.
Yeah.
It was just the right amount of youthful charm to be enjoyable.
.
.
.
[She watched the star falling, leaving a bright flame trailing behind it.]
[“Someone is dying.”]
[The eight-armed girl mused.]
[Because her now-departed grandmother once said that when stars fall, the spirits ascend to heaven.]
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