The na Herodotus, though not as famous as Hor, was still a highly influential na.
He had plagiarized several of the most popular novels in comrcial fiction history, such as The Count of Monte Cristo and Sherlock Hols.
If he were not famous, that would indeed be strange.
Naturally, among the avid readers present, there were many fans of Herodotus.
“Heeek. H-Herodotus, the author, read my novel…!”
“From today, I beco a follower of Herodotus!”
Anyway, there was a bit of excitent and confusion.
But in the end, I was able to achieve the purpose of reading the novels written by the authors of this book club.
Although the authors seed to expect feedback, since I wasn’t a real author but rely a plagiarist, I could only offer them so encouragent.
Fortunately, that was enough to make the authors happy and pleased.
Of course, not all the authors were this over the top.
“Gaeron…? Didn’t you say that compared to Hor, Herodotus is nothing more than a re speck at his feet…?”
“If we are talking about the feet of a god, isn’t it natural for them to be higher than a human’s crown?”
“What?”
This book club was fundantally a ‘Horism’ group, a club that followed the writer Hor.
Readers who excessively worship one author tend to belittle the influence of others. For instance, they would claim, “Since Hor is so great, Herodotus really isn’t anything special.”
Of course, they didn’t say such things blatantly in front of , but there were several readers who seed visibly uncomfortable.
Amidst this atmosphere.
Isolette suddenly spoke up, as if an idea had co to her.
“Wait a minute, Ed, if you’re Herodotus, then… are you close with Hor?”
“Huh?”
“I’ve heard that the two of you were so close you even wrote recomndations for each other and ran a charity foundation together… So that ans you et and talk with Hor often, right?”
“Isn’t that right?”
“Wow… You’re friends with Hor…?”
And then.
That was the turning point.
The ‘Hor extremists’, who had been uncomfortable, suddenly brightened up and changed their attitude.
They even beca more enthusiastic than Herodotus’ own fans.
“What kind of person is Hor? He’s surely very kind, noble, dignified, gracious, serious, sincere, and devout, right?”
“Please! Tell us about the savior, Hor!”
Thus.
After being tornted by fanatics all day, I returned to the Kapeter mansion.
I was, of course, accompanied by Isolette, who was also staying at the mansion.
Isolette, who had been silently observing during the book club eting, finally spoke up as we were walking back.
“I thought you, Ed, would beco a fairy tale writer. I never imagined you’d beco… such a comrcial writer. Well, to be honest, back in those days, there wasn’t even anything like serialized novels in magazines, was there? Of course, that’s natural, but sohow it feels strange….”
“Really?”
“Actually, I once thought that maybe you were Hor himself─. Haha, considering your age, that’s absurd, but in my mories, you were the greatest writer…. And now, you’ve truly beco a great writer. The greatest comrcial novelist, Herodotus.”
“Hm.”
“Still, don’t get the wrong idea, okay? Right now, I’m a fan of Hor. Herodotus is third.”
Third?
Did that an there was another author, aside from Hor, that she liked more than ‘Herodotus,’ the creator of The Count of Monte Cristo and Sherlock Hols?
That was an interesting remark.
“Who’s second?”
“A writer who recently erged in the Harren Kingdom─ Sophocles. I read one of his books written in Harren’s language, and, well, his imagination was terrifying…. I ended up completely engrossed.”
“Ah.”
“You’ve read it too, haven’t you? Haha.”
Suddenly, my interest waned.
Of course. Isolette, who possessed a critic’s sharp eye, could clearly see the cultural value of works like Les Misérables and 1984.
Compared to the novels I painstakingly localized for this world as ‘Hor,’ it wasn’t surprising that she preferred the works I had brought over nearly unchanged from my original world, such as those attributed to ‘Sophocles.’
For , who had been hoping for the existence of another talented writer, this was a letdown.
“…….”
At monts like this, it felt sowhat…
Disheartening.
Of course, I had resolved not to dwell on it too much, but the truth was, the influence of ‘my’ literature—no, Earth’s literature—on this world’s literary scene was overwhelmingly vast.
To advance the field of literature, I had plagiarized countless novels from my previous life, but as a result, there were likely many ‘authors’ overshadowed by my na.
Even though I sought out and read lesser-known novels as if mining for treasures…
Not all readers did the sa.
Even if I created a foundation to support thousands of writers, the sustenance of an author wasn’t bread, but the attention of readers.
Writers were those who, even if they burned like fire and turned to ash, could never settle for being moonlight that rely reflected the sun’s rays. A writer had to beco a fla on their own.
Otherwise─ well.
That was precisely how the literary world of Korea in my previous life had been.
Up until the early 2000s, people protested against the governnt’s “artist support policies” with slogans like, “Artists are not beggars! Don’t treat writers as if they’re disadvantaged neighbors.”
There were those who said, “Even if I earn only 300,000 won a month, as long as I am a writer, I can hold my head high.”
But by the 2010s, when the governnt scaled back its artist support policies and created blacklists, they fiercely opposed it, saying, “This is an act of annihilating the soul of artists.”
And by the 2020s… Hmm….
I wasn’t sure. After all, I wasn’t a writer.
For soone who wasn’t a writer to speak of ‘the soul of writers’ would be absurd, wouldn’t it?
That’s why I had resolved not to think too deeply about it.
But at monts like this, I couldn’t help but feel a little stifled.
Perhaps the unease had shown on my face, as Lady Isolette tilted her head quizzically.
“Ed, what’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”
“Ah, no. Just had so thoughts.”
“Haha. I see.”
“…….”
I remained silent without adding anything.
Isolette also did not press for an answer and quietly walked beside .
Once again, silence brushed against our cheeks for a long while.
This ti, it was Isolette who spoke first.
“Co to think of it, I rember when I was a child. I used to beg my mother to read The Little rmaid that you gave as a gift, until I fell asleep….”
“Really?”
“At that ti, I thought it was too forced that the rmaid turned into an air spirit in the ending. It would have been a beautiful story even if it had ended with her turning into bubbles… Heh, wasn’t it a bit too much of a happy ending? But, since it’s a fairy tale, I guess it couldn’t be helped?”
“I see…”
It didn’t seem like Andersen was the type of fairy tale writer who pursued happy endings.
Well, hmm.
I wasn’t sure. The standard for a happy ending might be different for everyone.
In The Red Shoes, the protagonist repents and goes to heaven, in The Snow Queen, the protagonist returns ho with a friend, and in The Ugly Duckling, the ugly duckling realizes it is a swan. Of course, there are also fairy tales that end with an unpleasant conclusion.
But if we think about how fairy tales before the modern era were “lacking in dreams and hope”…
It seed that Andersen’s fairy tales, at least in his own way, had endings that pursued a “happy ending.”
“Ah, Ed. A shooting star just fell. Could it be a teor shower?”
“…Yeah. They say when stars fall, it ans soone is dying…”
“Heh, you believed in such superstitions? In that case, it would seem like there wouldn’t be enough stars falling all day.”
“That’s true.”
“But, superstitions aren’t so bad. The superstition I know about falling stars is this.”
“Hmm?”
“If you see a shooting star with a loved one, it ans the two of you will definitely be together.”
“That’s such a clichéd and romantic superstition…”
I said with a slight distaste.
Isolette answered with a playful smile.
“Isn’t it better because it’s childish?”
“Well, I guess you’re right. Superstitions should have that kind of charm.”
“So, Ed.”
“Hmm?”
“If the worries you’re having now are worries of a writer… how about going back to the ti when things were a bit childish and writing a fairy tale?”
“A fairy tale?”
I had already organized Andersen’s Fairy Tale Collection for the soon-to-be-born niece.
But Isolette wouldn’t know that.
“I’m still waiting for the new fairy tale that you’ll write, Ed.”
“……”
That coincidence felt like so kind of “magic.”
The magic of literature, where the work and the reader are connected.
The word “fate” was too romantic.
It was too clearly a real thing in this world to be called a coincidence.
So people call it the “power of literature,” and others call it the “soul of literature.”
It is that kind of magic.
“Ed, ever since you gave The Little rmaid as a gift, I’ve been reading it every night before falling asleep, up until today.”
“For more than ten years…?”
“Do you think that’s childish?”
“…No.”
And.
That magic was what kept clinging to literature for decades, from my past life to now.
If literature was sothing I couldn’t let go of, even after dying and coming back to life…
“Childish is good.”
“Haha, isn’t it?”
A dozen or so years.
Yes.
It was just the right amount of childlike wonder to be good.
.
.
.
[She saw a star fall, leaving behind a bright trail of fire like a tail.]
[“Soone is dying.”]
[The little match girl thought.]
[This was because her now-deceased grandmother had told her that when a star fell, a soul was ascending to heaven.]
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