Silence hung over the table.
Geumhong and Jihoon, between Peter Han and me, looked at us in surprise, glancing nervously.
A writer and a translator talking about the "Nobel Prize in Literature" — it must have sounded out of place to them.
Korea and the Nobel Prize in Literature are so distant.
"Is it not okay to aim for the Nobel Prize?"
I think Peter Han was a bit surprised by my answer.
However, he pretended not to be and casually poked at the olives on the table with his fork.
"…That’s right. There’s no reason not to aim for it."
"…."
"Koreans are funny in a way," Peter Han suddenly remarked, speaking with a rather serious expression.
"I've lived in many places — the U.S., Europe, the Middle East… now Korea. But I’ve never encountered a people with such a strong desire for success as Koreans. They’re never satisfied with anything and work tirelessly until they die."
Peter Han said this with a hint of sympathy.
I agreed with him and nodded.
"That’s true."
"But strangely, it's not the case in the literary world. Writers live in constant shrinkage. They’re always mindful of their senior colleagues or the publishing powers, even if they are one step away, and they’re deeply affected by the gaze of the global stage."
"It’s a structure where survival is difficult without that, Professor."
"Well, that's not my concern."
He smirked as he spoke.
"The point is, you're the first Korean writer I've seen who seriously dreams of the Nobel Prize in Literature."
I understood why he said that.
Art is heavily influenced by national power.
Just as it’s easier for artists from powerful countries to step onto the world stage.
In Korea… it's not that the national power is weak.
It’s just that the "power of language" is weak.
A writer who speaks English and one who speaks Korean — which one has the advantage on the global stage?
I spoke bluntly.
"That's right. Most Korean writers' goal is ‘survival’. The literary world is harsh, and it’s not easy to showcase one’s works abroad… so they often end up with such wishes."
"…."
"If I could live off writing alone, I wouldn’t ask for anything more."
But this statement… is also quite humorous.
"Living off writing alone... that's a basic environment that should be provided to a writer."
Wanting to live off writing alone sounds romantic, but if you think of it from an ordinary person’s perspective, it’s like saying, "I don’t care as long as I don’t starve to death."
I spoke clearly, making sure he understood.
"But I can’t live off writing alone."
"…."
"I want to succeed through my writing. Far more than now. As much as I can."
The three of them stared at me.
I spoke to them.
"For that, I need your help. To serialize a novel for a long time, I need critics who can give quick feedback and translators who can handle both rough and final translations. And they need to be consistent over a long period of time, with no clear end in sight."
This was both a suggestion and a request to them.
I asked them to prioritize helping me in the coming long period.
Otherwise… it would be hard for the serialization to succeed.
Honestly, I’m not worried about Geumhong and Jihoon.
Jihoon is my staunch ally, and Geumhong promised to help me from Japan.
The problem is… this temperamental professor.
If he were to translate my serialized novel,
He would have to dedicate a significant amount of time to this one work.
If the work doesn’t do well… it would be a loss for him.
We all waited for his answer.
And after a short while…
Finally, he spoke.
“…Alright.”
“…!”
“Let’s give it a try.”
“Can you really do that?”
“It’s better to translate one major work aiming for the Nobel Prize than dozens of mediocre works.”
He pierced an olive with his fork, chewed it carefully, and swallowed it with a gulp.
I finally felt a sense of relief.
Finding a new translator was already a task, and it was hard to find someone with Peter Han’s skill.
Furthermore, the collaboration between him and Geum-hong seemed to be going very well.
I secretly sighed in relief and said to them,
“Good. Then, let’s start soon.”
At the building of the Humanities Faculty at Korea University.
The reason I was trudging up the stairs now was to meet Professor Kim Jin-ha, the department head of the Korean Language and Literature department.
It had been nearly a year since I last saw him, back when I signed the contract for my special lectures in the second semester of last year.
The campus seemed quiet, probably because of finals season.
I stood in front of the department head’s office, straightened my posture, and tried to calm my nerves.
…I was getting a little nervous for no reason.
Knock, knock. I heard a familiar voice from inside.
― Come in.
Since I had made an appointment in advance, Professor Kim Jin-ha wasn’t surprised by my appearance. Instead, he greeted me warmly with a big smile.
“Ah, it’s been a while!”
He grabbed both my hands and shook them.
“I’ve been keeping a low profile, Professor.”
“The news of Lee Sang has been all over the cultural section of the papers. It’s really nice to see. Come, come, have a seat.”
We sat facing each other on the sofa.
One of the assistants brought us drip coffee and glanced at me.
Noticing this, Professor Kim Jin-ha chuckled and laughed.
“Our assistant is also a fan of yours. If you don’t mind, could you sign something for him?”
“Oh, of course. Just hand me any paper…”
“What?! Really? Wait just a moment!”
The assistant hurriedly ran back to his desk.
A few moments later, he came back with several books in hand.
They were all the books I had published in Korea up until now.
It seemed that his fan comment wasn’t just an empty one.
As I was signing the books, the assistant placed two cups of coffee on the table.
I couldn’t understand why his hands were shaking.
Professor Kim Jin-ha said to the assistant,
“Alright, now that the signature’s done, could you step out for a moment?”
“Oh, yes. Understood.”
The assistant carefully put the books away and quietly left the office.
At last, it was just Professor Kim Jin-ha and me left in the office.
“So, Lee Sang, I’m curious—why did you suddenly want to meet with me…”
Seeing that he had even sent the assistant out, it seemed he took my request for a meeting quite seriously.
Well, it was indeed a serious matter.
“Well, I think I’ll have to leave the special lectures to someone else next semester.”
His eyes widened in surprise.
It was understandable.
The creative writing lectures were unlike any other class.
It was almost like I was inheriting Professor Jo In-chang’s position.
He probably didn’t expect me to say I would give it up.
“Why… you’ve been doing so well up until now. Why would you leave?”
“I’ve been doing the special lectures for a year and a half already. It wouldn’t be right to keep the spot when there are other lecturers who could take over.”
“If it’s because of that, don’t worry. The creative writing lectures are practically your trademark now. Many people take the class just to see Lee Sang, not because it’s a creative writing class.”
He tried to reassure me.
“And if you leave now… who will follow in your footsteps?”
I smiled faintly and said,
“When Professor Jo In-chang handed over the position to me, didn’t he have the same concerns?”
“Well…”
He seemed at a loss for words.
Seeing his face full of regret made me feel a bit guilty.
But still, some things were just unavoidable.
I wanted to pour all my energy into serializing the novel.
If I continued with the special lecture next semester, I would probably end up as a lecturer who just passes time aimlessly.
“You professors have a good eye for people, so you’ll recognize someone worthy of standing on the podium. I’m sure there are many students better than me.”
“Is there a particular reason you're quitting so suddenly?”
He asked half in resignation.
“For me, it’s not sudden. I’ve been preparing for this for quite some time… and now I’m about to start that work.”
“You need time, then. Are you starting a new project?”
“Yes. Something like that. And… it’s not just about physical time; I need the time to completely focus on that work.”
“Well, if you're saying that, then I won’t hold you back any longer…”
He fiddled with his chin with his fingers.
There was still a look on his face as if he wasn’t fully ready to let go.
“If you change your mind, please contact me anytime during the vacation.”
“…Yes, I will do that.”
I responded like that, but Professor Kim Jinha knew.
It would be hard to change my mind.
Before leaving the office,
He grabbed my hand again.
“Thank you for taking on the special lectures up until now.”
I suddenly thought back to the beginning of last year.
Professor Kim Jinha, the department head, and many other professors from Korea University.
They had opposed me taking the literature creation lectures.
Except for Professor Shim, who became my advisor.
It felt like just yesterday, but now, I was already about to step down from even the special lectures.
Time sure flies.
“Thank you for trusting me with this, Professor.”
Hye-kyung had met many people during her time as a teaching assistant.
She had seen countless lecturers who lived precarious lives.
When their classes were cut, they would always leave the school in loneliness.
Thinking about those backs, it felt lucky to be able to make such a clean exit.
Just like the famous line, leave while the applause is still ringing.
“Jihoon, the board is tilted down.”
“Ah… is it okay?”
“No, it’s a little high…”
“Agh! My arm hurts! Is it okay now?”
“Yeah. I think it’s almost done!”
The reason for this chaos starting on a Sunday morning:
We had ordered a huge whiteboard.
Since Geumhong happened to be visiting, we were installing a blackboard in the studio.
We had to move my desk from the wall to another side, and then secure the blackboard in place.
Getting it level was not easy.
After finally leveling it, I hammered in the nails to hang the board.
Though it may seem like it, I had worked as a construction worker, so nails were no problem.
After some noise and effort, the large, white board filled the wall.
The three of us took a step back and looked at it.
“…It looks great.”
“Looks good, hyung.”
“Yeah. The size is perfect. We can write a lot on it.”
The board looked pretty good.
It really felt like we were starting something serious.
The reason we installed the board was, of course, for the novel serialization.
Since the novel was going to be quite long… I needed to organize the complex content in one place.
For that, a whiteboard was perfect, rather than a notebook.
Ding—dong—
We heard the doorbell from outside.
“Ah, the chicken must be here.”
“I’ll go get it.”
The chicken I had ordered for dinner earlier had arrived.
As Jihoon went out, Geumhong followed him.
I was left alone in the studio, staring silently at the whiteboard.
An empty whiteboard.
On this huge board, I planned to only organize the content.
If I were writing a proper novel... I’d probably fill this entire board and still need more space.
Suddenly, a sense of hopelessness swept over me.
The blank page I faced when I first started writing a novel.
The fear I always felt in front of that blank page.
Tap.
I opened the cap of the whiteboard marker.
The sharp scent of a new marker filled the air.
I drew a long horizontal line near the top of the board.
The gliding sensation felt satisfying.
I stepped back and looked at the line.
It was straight and long enough.
“Hyung, eat the chicken first.”
Jihoon peeked into the studio through the door.
He looked at the line I had suddenly drawn on the board and asked,
“Eh? What’s this?”
I closed the cap of the marker.
Then, I placed it on the pen holder and said,
“It’s a life graph.”