Surviving as a Plagiarist in Another World

The night sky in this world was beautiful.

Even the sweet melody of the nocturne could not flow as clearly as the milky-colored galaxy flowing through the indigo night sky.

The paintings that described a starry night were nothing more than crude imitations of the starlight that had been created billions of years ago in the universe.

The night sky that the old bards sang so much about.

In 21st century South Korea, it was an old symbol that could not even be found in the highest mountains or the deepest countryside.

The most beautiful work of art drawn by the sky could be seen every night in this world just by looking up.

And.

I was the type of person who was more captivated by replicas than the genuine article.

I, ‘Ed Frieden,’ was the kind of person who found a more profound beauty in the lines describing such a night sky than in the starlight embroidered on the indigo canopy of the prairie.

“……”

Even though I was that way, I couldn’t help but be captivated by the scene before me.

Isolette, wearing thin pajamas, supporting her chin with her hands, resting her elbows on her knees. The faintly glowing pale yellow moonlight on her white skin. Her way of speaking.

It was because of her appearance that old memories came rushing back.

Unlike me, who loved English literature, my former lover, who preferred Japanese literature and Japanese subculture… my junior, used to look at me like that when she was concentrating on her books, resting her chin on her hand.

That’s why I froze for a moment.

I wondered if I was still dreaming.

“I know you love literature, Ed… but isn’t it proper to face the other person when you talk?”

“…Ah, sorry. I was rude.”

Fortunately, such confusion did not last long.

Isolette scolded me in her usual blend of old-fashioned and fresh tone.

“Heh, it’s okay. I’ve known you were like that for a long time…”

“That’s not exactly a compliment.”

“Did you want a compliment?”

“Mm.”

I hesitated for a moment before answering.

“No.”

“Heh, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed…”

Isolette smiled bashfully as she looked at me. I instinctively tried to turn my gaze back to the book, but I barely managed to suppress my desires and looked at Isolette instead.

If someone insulted me in front of my eyes, I would normally just nod and go along with it.

When someone passionately loves one thing, they tend to be indifferent to other things. Because I loved literature more than my own life, I was a little indifferent to myself.

“Doesn’t it make you angry, senior?!”

“Why?”

“Well, you had originally promised to advertise the book ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ on the Saturday banner, right? But now you’re suddenly removing it to promote an essay by celebrities who’ve never written a book before—.”

“I like essays too. Reading stories about celebrities is fun, right? If the self-publishing market becomes more active, the diversity of the market will grow.”

“…Ugh, senior, you really seem crazy.”

“You’ve got some nerve talking to your senior like that—.”

“I’m serious. You really… do you know how strange you are?”

“…Well, I guess it’s because I’ve been reading books in my room since I was young.”

So, I probably didn’t realize my health was deteriorating and died from overwork.

Hmm.

If I thought about it more, my mouth would turn bitter, so I stopped.

“So, what brings you to the balcony at this hour?”

“To see the stars.”

“Stars?”

“Among all those stars, I think one of them might have my rose.”

“……”

I almost asked, “But it seems like you’re looking at my face instead of the stars,” but I stopped, thinking that it might come across as overly self-conscious.

Instead, I brought up the topic of books as usual.

“‘The Little Prince,’ huh?”

“I guess I prefer fairy tales the most. In that sense, ‘Metamorphosis’ was pretty good.”

“Mm?”

“It’s a fable, right? A person turning into an insect… It creates an absurd situation and simplifies the problem in a classic fairy tale way. The wolf named ‘the world’ opens its dark mouth in the forest… and the protagonist is just afraid of everything and feels exaggerated guilt… I really liked that feeling. I guess I have a thing for cruel fairy tales.”

“Heh.”

She was, to my knowledge, the most talented critic I knew.

That’s why she must have found profound beauty in ‘Metamorphosis,’ a novel beloved by critics.

While I gained my perspective on works through background knowledge, papers, and research, she could grasp it simply through insight.

Sometimes, I would feel jealous of that talent.

I was the type of person who loved ‘reading.’ When I saw the brilliant talents of authors, I would simply admire them and cheer them on, but that kind of transparent insight that could read a work—it was something I could only envy to the point of my teeth aching.

Isolette, oblivious to my feelings, continued talking.

“I could never write a novel like that. I tried to find symbols in the Bible, master the craft of making sentences sound convincing, and simplify the story… but I just couldn’t. I really loved the writer Homer… I was jealous.”

“Mm. I think you’re quite a talented writer, Isolette.”

“It makes me really happy that the transcendental one says so… but I know my own talent.”

“……”

Of course, I didn’t know.

For the most part, I just felt that novels were enjoyable when I read them, whether they were commercial fiction or participatory literature.

So, Isolette’s judgment would likely be more accurate than mine.

If I used the power of the transcendental, I might catch a glimpse of the “possibilities” her literature could have… but that was ultimately the ‘outside’ possibilities of a work. Possibilities concerning evaluation, reaction, and influence.

“…So, how was this novel? ‘The Old Man and the Sea.’”

“‘The Old Man and the Sea’? Hmm, well, I agree with the critics who say it uses too obvious symbolism and quite contrived messages… but I think it chose the most effective way to move people’s hearts. The sentences, full of dynamic verbs and nouns that are both quick and powerful… they were written in a way that made it easier for readers to follow, right? Out of all the novels you’ve written, Ed, excluding the commercial fiction written under the name ‘Herodotus,’ I thought ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ was the most universal form of literature. Heh. Am I right?”

“I cried the first time I read it.”

“Mm?”

“The weary old man, the bond with the marlin, the message that people shouldn’t become islands… even the sharks devouring the marlin… Well, the joy and sorrow created by the work itself really drew me in. Honestly, I don’t really get the symbolism and all that, but there are just some works that, when you read them, you can feel it. Ah, this novel is moving my heart right now…”

“…….”

The giant marlin was a purpose that the old fisherman valued as much as his own life.

It was the livelihood that sustained the old man’s existence, the powerful fate that drove his life, the nemesis he had to fight and overcome, and the pride of a lifetime devoted to fishing.

I, too, had such a marlin. A marlin called literature.

My profession was a translator, and I always called myself a ‘translation author,’ taking great pride in that line of work.

Even when I struggled with tough assignments, the act of translating itself would bring me joy, making me lose myself in the process.

I staked my life on literature. Literally.

I even died while translating, so I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say so.

And then.

Just like the marlin being torn apart by sharks.

So, too, was literature.

Korean literature was dying. No one in Korea sought out ‘great works’ anymore.

Instead, they sought ‘works that matched their political leanings,’ ‘essays written by their favorite celebrities,’ or ‘self-help books penned by famous social media influencers’—these had become the standards for choosing books.

The purity of literature had been devoured by the sharks of politics.

The popularity of literature had been devoured by the sharks of social media.

The universality of literature had been devoured by the sharks of self-help.

What remained were the bones and the head of the marlin.

A sense of pride that an old fisherman, who had spent his entire life fishing, could share at a bar in exchange for a drink.

That was all that was left.

Having clung to such scraps and endured until my death, others might look at me and think I had been foolish.

“I read The Old Man and the Sea… and cried a lot, laughed a lot. No, not just The Old Man and the Sea… but also when I read Don Quixote, The Sorrows of Young Werther, and The Little Prince… I felt the same way.”

“…….”

“And so, I wanted to share that with others.”

And.

That small sense of pride was the reason I became a translator.

It was a morsel of pride I bet my life and soul on, my 18-foot-long marlin to boast about for a lifetime.

It was my life.

[“Perhaps I should never have become a fisherman.”]

[He thought.]

[“But that was the very reason I was born into this world.”]

.

.

.

“…The book that moved me the most was the fairy tale you, Ed, wrote for me when I was a child.”

“…….”

“Not because of the beauty of the fairy tale, nor because of the mermaid’s love….”

“…….”

“But because of your kindness, Ed, in wanting to gift me a book that even someone as young as I was could enjoy.

I think that’s why I came to love books….”

“…….”

As a translator who worked solely out of passion, I failed to take care of myself and ended up dying in ruin.

And then, I was reborn, doing the same work.

Reading literature, translating it, spreading it, and moving people’s hearts through literature.

[“But man is not made for defeat.”]

[He said.]

[“A man can be destroyed but not defeated.”]

I was not defeated.

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