Novelist Running Through Time

TL: KSD

There were a few heinous crimes in this world that could shock the heavens, the earth, and even a passing cat, and one of them is <Sending a Text at Dawn>.

It wasn’t the malicious notification sound that woke one from sleep. It was the ‘curiosity trigger’ of wanting to know what the dawn text is about that is truly heinous.

But Gu Hak-jun, instead of being angry at this heinous act, rather enjoyed it. This was not only because he was a man of virtue, but because Gu Hak-jun himself also slightly enjoyed this dawn messaging.

That’s right.

Gu Hak-jun enjoyed it too.

EP 8 – Dark Adaptation

Recently, he has been misunderstood as Moon In’s stalker, but Gu Hak-jun’s main occupation is actually a university professor.

He is a person who takes teaching others as his profession.

Such an educator would not refuse questions from a student. Especially if that student was an S-class genius who was dear to his heart.

And Gu Hak-jun is also a novelist. He still has the sensibilities of a youth. The secret literary Q&A exchanged at dawn. Doesn’t it make one’s heart tingle in some way?

On a rainy day. In the deep dawn. A message sent by a young genius exhausted from pondering literature. The rich fragrance of literature blooming from worries and discussions…

Doesn’t it evoke a classic romance, like the philosophers, musicians, and writers of the Renaissance in Europe exchanging their thoughts and ideas through letters?

Although Min Chae-won said it sounded like the beginning of a BL novel, that was just the opinion of an uneducated non-professional. What would a cold capitalist, whose cultural enjoyment was limited to mass media steeped in sexualism, know? Gu Hak-jun had no mercy, not even for his wife. (Of course, only in terms of literature.)

But separate from his own interest, the discussions with Moon In at dawn somehow felt like they lacked substance.

It’s not that they didn’t communicate well.

Rather, they communicated too well.

It was like a drinking party between like-minded friends. Even with cheap drinks and snacks, as long as there was a close friend to talk to, one could repeat the same story for hours and still enjoy the gathering.

And as with such gatherings, upon reflection the next day, the conversations were usually about nothing in particular.

The discussions between Gu Hak-jun and Moon In were like that.

Almost every conversation was ‘Right, right,’ ‘Exactly, exactly.’

Because they understood each other so well, there was no new topic to discuss.

Gu Hak-jun discovered something interesting here: Moon In’s literary perspective was strangely similar to his own.

Thus, Gu Hak-jun was surprised twice.

First, he was surprised that someone who wasn’t his student was so similar to him, and second, he was surprised that a mere middle school writer could keep up with the knowledge of a university professor.

Since Gu Hak-jun also taught literature, he had his own curriculum. It’s not about finding the ‘right answer’ in literature, but since university professors’ classes can’t change every year, there are established patterns and inertia.

So, when Moon In asked, ‘What is literature, exactly?’ Gu Hak-jun began to unravel the repertoire he first teaches to freshmen.

But Moon In already knew that.

So they skipped the basics and moved on to advanced stages.

And yet, Moon In kept up with the progress.

At first, he wondered, ‘What is this kid?’ but it became interesting.

Unable to contain his overflowing intellectual impulses, he started discussing topics beyond the undergraduate level. He got so excited that he even mixed in terms he used in France.

And yet, they still understood each other!

From then on, it was obvious.

It didn’t take long for Gu Hak-jun, who was perfectly gaslighted by the perpetrator, to look forward to dawn.

Although the conversations were pretty much the same every day, Gu Hak-jun found it extremely enjoyable to gradually understand Moon In’s intellectual level.

He knew Moon In was a genius, and he already knew he had been influenced by his own literature, but he hadn’t realized just how exceptionally high Moon In’s level was.

Moon In was like a hedgehog who rarely revealed his inner thoughts, so it was natural. Whether by his actions or his literature, it was clear that he kept his quills up against the world and others.

On the other hand, it meant that this boy, who had tightly locked up his heart, was gradually opening up, which made Gu Hak-jun feel slightly pleased and proud.

Park Chang-woon summed up those feelings in a few words.

“So, it’s like a late-blooming disciple who had been hiding 30% of his skills is gradually revealing his true strength to his master, and as a martial artist, you feel proud, right?”

“What did you say?”

Since Gu Hak-jun wasn’t a martial arts fanatic, he didn’t understand Park Chang-woon’s analogy.

But Park Chang-woon wasn’t the type to care whether others understood his analogies or not.

Park Chang-woon continued, reciting the analogy like an old tale sung by a pansori singer.

“A swordsman whose talent is coveted but whose martial arts are too high to dare take as a disciple has come seeking teachings, setting aside even his resentment towards the world… As the grandmaster of a prestigious sect, your feeling of pride is beyond expression.”

Unlike Park Chang-woon, Gu Hak-jun had never written martial arts novels for fun. It was Park Chang-woon who, despite being a pure literature writer, had hidden his name and published several martial arts novels under a pseudonym.

But roughly understanding the gist, Gu Hak-jun couldn’t deny he felt very proud.

However, acknowledging this outright seemed a bit improper, so Gu Hak-jun cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“Anyway, it’s been a while since we last met.”

“What do you mean, a while? We see each other every day in the game world.”

Park Chang-woon used games as a means to keep in touch with friends who lived far away, had no time, and were too old and tired to meet up in person.

Thanks to smacking the backs of his peers who couldn’t even properly use a smartphone and teaching them the game, they all noisily walked around the world of Battlegrounds, carrying guns and frying pans.

Gu Hak-jun, who was the only one playing while shooting, felt like he was about to get a heart attack amidst the atmosphere of old folks on an outing, but as the ‘youngest’, he had no choice.

Since the older Park Chang-woon treated Gu Hak-jun with respect as a senior in the literary world, Gu Hak-jun also had to treat his elders well in private to maintain the balance of the world.

So, he held back the urge to say ‘aim your shots properly’ and smiled amicably.

“That’s true. Since we meet online all the time, it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long since we last met. I’m glad I finally agreed to play Battlegrounds after rejecting it a few times.”

“Oh, really? Today you’re holding back from telling me to play seriously?”

“Hahaha…”

Gu Hak-jun, a man who’s gentle in reality but becomes a fierce competitor in the game world.

To maintain his friendships, he gritted his teeth and endured the teasing.

However, when he glanced at Park Chang-woon’s face, he noticed he looked noticeably haggard.

Gu Hak-jun’s kind heart outweighed any petty grudges.

“Hyung, you look really tired. Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m not sick, but I am tired.”

“Is there a problem at school…?”

“There’s no major issue with teaching. I’m not a university professor; I just teach middle school kids. What problems could there be?”

“Then why…?”

After hesitating for a moment, Park Chang-woon confessed.

“Actually, I got caught by that bastard too.”

That bastard?

Gu Hak-jun pondered who ‘that bastard’ might be.

And after a moment, his eyes widened in shock.

* * *

Until just before he was attacked by ‘that bastard,’ Park Chang-woon’s daily life was as usual.

Park Chang-woon, the part-time teacher’s daily life was on easy mode.

For the teachers at Baekhak Arts Middle School, life in a private school was a daily survival battle, but for a former minister teaching as a hobby, it was like a beginner’s hunting ground.

The fact that the chairman of the private school foundation was his former student said it all.

So, he would go to work as he pleased, or not, and if the weather was nice, he would toss the class to Teacher Kim and go for a walk. After work, he would take care of his wife, meet friends in the game world…

Then one early morning, a text arrived from ‘that bastard’.

Unlike Gu Hak-jun, who acted gentlemanly even upon hearing the notification sound, Park Chang-woon was honest with his emotions.

“Ah, fuck, what is this… Which bastard…?”

It was from Moon In.

The content of the text was as follows:

“What is literature?”

Park Chang-woon wrote a reply starting with, ‘Hey, you bastard, who taught you to send texts at dawn-’ but hastily erased it.

A streak of reason fiercely warned him that mentioning manners to Moon In could make things quite serious. (TL: Asking the above would be like asking who in your family taught you to send texts at dawn. Since Moon In is an orphan, it would be inappropriate.)

Though he might never know, Moon In succeeded in drawing out ‘Park Chang-woon’s self-restraint’, which not even the president or members of parliament could obtain.

Considering that Park Chang-woon had once been fired as the Minister of Culture for including the word ‘Yuksireul’ in a sentence in front of a member of parliament, it would have been a bit unfair if that parliament member knew this. (TL: Yuksireul doesn’t have a direct translation but roughly means executing/beheading someone like a traitor, even after digging their grave. It implies that even if they are dead, they cannot escape justice. It is used in a derogatory sense. )

And if the president, who had trusted Park Chang-woon with the minister position, found out, he might beat his chest and cry, ‘Why didn’t you act like this back then?’

Anyway, thanks to the chilling warning of his cool-headed reason, Park Chang-woon, who was now awake, immediately replied.

“War.”

It was a quick reply but contained the essence of his thoughts.

And Moon In responded with a text that seemed to understand this.

Feeling good about it and a bit sorry for almost saying something harsh earlier, Park Chang-woon, despite it being early morning, had a heartfelt discussion about literature with Moon In.

He then fell asleep feeling proud and content, just like Gu Hak-jun.

Thinking it wasn’t such a bad happening.

Of course, that was until the next morning when another text came in at dawn.

“This rascal…”

Still, despite living a somewhat reckless life, Park Chang-woon was a writer.

So, instead of feeling annoyed, he felt more empathy toward Moon In.

How desperate must he be to text an old man at dawn?

So, Park Chang-woon made a call instead of a text.

“Hey. Do you have time?”

-Yes?

“I’ll send you the address, come there.”

Park Chang-woon called Moon In out to his favorite restaurant that served good food and was open early in the morning and started getting ready to go out.

If the worry was this deep, they needed to meet face-to-face to talk, not just through texts.

However, Moon In said he was in Japan.

-Sorry, I’m currently in Japan…

“Japan? Where in Japan?”

-Tokyo…

“Got it.”

Park Chang-woon then hung up and went back to sleep.

The next day, he went to the airport instead of school as soon as he woke up.

Moon In had to face Park Chang-woon’s surprise attack before even having breakfast at his hotel.

“Teacher…?”

“Got you, you rascal.”

“Ouch!”

The moment he encountered the text-bombing terrorist, Park Chang-woon smacked him on the top of his head.

Moon In recoiled, hiding his head under the blanket like a startled turtle.

Seeing this, Park Chang-woon chuckled and asked,

“So, what’s going on exactly?”

* * *

Moon In’s worries were extremely complicated.

Not because he was a time traveler, but because he was a novelist with a deeply twisted mind.

‘A novelist who uses pain as the driving force of creation.’

A monster created by the world, and a typical example of an artist with a shattered personality.

And since novelists usually have terrible temperaments, this type is surprisingly common.

However, novelists who use pain as their creative fuel often have unhappy endings, and Moon In was no exception.

But Moon In was given one more chance, no, a miracle.

And that miracle literally changed everything.

To resolve the deepest injustices from the bottom, the novelist who wrote stories of deprivation and suffering gained wealth and fame.

Once he had obtained the things he had long desired, he realized too late that the most precious treasures had all been left behind in the past.

All that remained was emptiness.

Tormented by that emptiness, he finally stood up.

And he picked up his pen.

Then where should his literature head?

In the first place, what is literature?

Thus, this unexplainable anguish surfaced as a text bombing saying, “What is literature?”

So even when he met and talked with Park Chang-woon, he couldn’t reveal the truth, and could only engage in lofty, abstract discussions.

But Park Chang-woon, a man who teaches as a hobby.

His main job is literature.

The eyes of the old master, who had studied literature all his life, sharply pierced through the young boy’s heart.

“Are you saying it seems like there is no progress in your literature?”

“That’s not it…”

Moon In, too, had reached a level where he could look into hearts as a novelist. So he realized that the words ‘that’s not it’ he spoke were born from a self-protective instinct.

“No, I think that’s right. No, it is right.”

There is no progress in his literature.

Literature that takes pain as its driving force, but there is no more pain.

So he collapsed.

Although he stood up again thanks to the warm encouragement received on the beach of an island, he couldn’t figure out where to go.

Finally, the awakened soul asked,

“Where should my literature head?”

Then the master replied,

“How should I know that?”

“……”

The boy, with the blanket draped over his shoulders, glared at Park Chang-woon.

Seeing a madman who is serious about literature glare with emotion, it felt a bit chilling.

So Park Chang-woon didn’t drag it out and revealed his core thoughts.

“To me, literature is ‘war.’”

“……”

“What kind of war? A war against the new military regime, a war against North Korea, a war against Japan, a war against labor conditions, a war against poverty, a war against the IMF, a war against the world. In that context, literature was not art but a weapon. The pen is mightier than the sword. Therefore, those who hold the pen must step up and fight. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“……”

“To you kids, it’s just stories of old geezers in textbooks, but that’s how it was in our time. Ah. You kids can’t even say things like this now, right? ‘Political topics are blocked.'”

Park Chang-woon chuckled, mentioning the phrase commonly seen on internet communities as a joke.

A novelist from the older generation who mastered the latest trends, he immediately brought up a phrase synonymous with old people.

“In my days… literature had power. Not the cultural power but political power. The opposition political agenda was usually led by student activists demonstrating in universities, and they were all college students, right? They were the new intellectuals. And among those who read books, writers were highly regarded.”

“……”

“And in political struggles, novels and poetry were very effective weapons. The soft power of culture was stronger than politicians blabbering ‘do this, do that.’ So, literary figures didn’t have explicit power, but they held power by being close to those in power.”

Clap, Park Chang-woon clapped his hands.

And like a teacher, he posed a quiz.

“Alright, here’s a question. The democratization movement that the literary world shouted for was successful. But what now?”

“……”

“You don’t know, do you? We didn’t know either. That’s why the Korean literary world collapsed.”

The old soldier who had been on the front line of the struggle recalled the moment right after the war ended.

“Until yesterday, we were all comrades, but once it succeeded, paths diverged. Some searched for a new enemy, some said let’s focus on art now and withdrew from politics, some said Roh Tae-woo is okay and defected… yes, I’m talking about that bastard Seo Woon-pil.”

“……”

“Meanwhile, politicians no longer needed literature, so they cut ties, and we, trying to act like before, were sneered at… that’s how it ended.”

There was a brief silence.

The silence was broken by a question from the junior.

“What was your answer, teacher?”

Then Park Chang-woon spoke with self-deprecation.

“Me? I was just… a bat. I wandered because I didn’t know the answer. So, I tried everything. I looked for new enemies, tried to focus purely on art, even wrote poetry despite being a novelist, and talked a bit with the people I’d fought my whole life like Woon-pil that bastard…”

“……”

“I even dipped my toes into politics for a bit, which was crazy, and I don’t know why I did that. Anyway, after wandering aimlessly, I ended up following Hak-jun around and learning a lot. There’s nothing much to it!”

He didn’t mention that he had aged without finding any answers, worrying only about the future of the literary world, until Moon In appeared.

Yongnam people have a genetic syndrome where their whole body cringes when they talk about sentimental topics.

So, Park Chang-woon moved on to the next story.

“Why am I telling you this? It’s because I can’t teach you literature. That’s right, I don’t think it’s possible to teach someone how to write.”

Moon In, who had been quietly listening for a long time, had to ask this question.

“What do you mean you can’t teach?”

“It’s a bit funny for a school teacher to say this, but passing on literature to someone? I see this as an impossible task.”

If Chairman Baek Yi-hyun heard this, he would scold him for not resigning immediately.

But Park Chang-woon had his reasons.

“I realized this while teaching literature in the past… First of all, people who do literature have no manners. Agreed? I, agree.”

“I don’t agree.”

“See? No manners. Talking back to an elder…”

“……!”

Park Chang-woon, having quickly proven his theory, continued speaking.

“So I thought about why this is. At first, I figured today’s kids must be rude, but then I realized I was rude too. Conclusion, people who do literature have no manners! Why? Because they want to talk about themselves so much that they write about it!”

Park Chang-woon’s argument was as follows:

“So, you need a somewhat bloated ego to do literature. Literature is essentially about expressing the inner world through language and print. But that inner world is the human ego, and since everyone is different, how can you pass your ego onto someone else?”

This was directly opposed to the philosophy of Gu Hak-jun that Moon In knew.

Interestingly, Park Chang-woon mentioned this right away.

“Of course, Hak-jun thinks differently. You can ask Professor Gu about that and learn from him.”

Moon In already knew this. So, he just nodded quietly.

Soon, Park Chang-woon smiled contentedly and wrapped up his story.

“So, no one can tell you where your literature should go. All I can do is show you what my literature was, giving you one more example to reference. That’s all. If you’re a novelist, you have to manage your literature yourself. Since it’s the literature you chose, you have to endure it with grit and determination, don’t you think?”

Moon In asked.

“…So you’re saying there’s no particularly helpful advice, right?”

Park Chang-woon nodded cheerfully.

“Yep!”

And then he returned to Korea.

That was Park Chang-woon.

*****

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