The night sky of this world was breathtaking.

Even the sweet melodies of lullabies couldn’t flow as clearly as the milky way draped across the indigo night sky.  Paintings depicting starry nights were just crude copies of the starlight that the universe had created billions of years ago.

The very night sky that legendary bards sang about so passionately. In 21st century South Korea, you couldn’t find this ancient symbol even atop the highest mountains or in the deepest countryside.

In this world, the most beautiful  artwork the heavens had ever created was on display every night, just waiting for someone to look up.

And,

I was the kind of person who was more taken with imitations than the real thing.

I was the kind of person who found more beauty in the words describing a night sky than in the stars twinkling above in an indigo canvas.

“You’re finally looking this way.”
“…….”

Despite my usual self, I couldn’t help but be spellbound by the scene in front of me.

There was Isolette in her thin nightgown, propping her chin up with her hand in a delicate pose. The soft yellow moonlight shimmered off her pale skin. The way she spoke.

Her mannerisms stirred memories from the past.

Unlike me, who adored English literature, my old flame was all about Japanese literature and subculture. Whenever she caught me absorbed in a book, she’d tilt her chin just like that to steal a glimpse.

I froze for a moment.

Am I still dreaming?

“Ed, I know you love literature, but… isn’t it polite to face the person you’re talking to?”
“…Oh, sorry. I was rude.”

Fortunately, I was confused for only a moment longer.

Isolette scolded me with her distinctive blend of nostalgia and youth.

“Hehe, it’s okay. I always knew you were that kind of person….”
“That’s not exactly a glowing review.”

“Did you want a positive review?”
“Umm.”

I pondered for a moment before responding.

“No.”
“Hehe, you’re nothing if not consistent in that regard….”

Isolette looked at me, a smile dancing on her lips. I instinctively glanced at my book, fighting the urge to stare at her.

If someone were to throw insults at me, I’d just nod along and toss some back.

Anyone who loves something with a passion often becomes a little numb to what’s not that thing. I was a bit neglectful of myself because I loved literature more than my own life.

– “Aren’t you even mad?!”
– “Why would I be?”

– “Because your translation of ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ was supposed to be featured on the Saturday banner, but now they’re just promoting essays by celebs who’ve never written anything!”
– “I like essays! And reading about celebrities is fun! If the self-publishing market picks up, that just means more flavors for everyone.”

– “…Ugh, you really are a piece of work, aren’t you?”
– “You should hear the things I say about you!”

– “This isn’t a joke, I’m serious. You really… are kind of weird, you know?”
– “…Well, I guess hiding out in my little reading nook since childhood might have something to do with it.”

So yeah, I probably ended up working myself to death without realizing how bad my health was getting.

Hmm.

If I keep thinking about it, I’m going to sour my mood, so let’s change the subject.

“So, what brings you to the balcony at this hour?”
“Just looking at the stars.”

“Stars?”
“I feel like my rose might be among those countless stars.”

“…….”

I almost quipped, “Well, it seems you’re just gazing at my face rather than the stars,” but it felt a bit too self-absorbed, so I dropped it.

Instead, as per our usual routine, I brought up books.

“The Little Prince.”

“I think fairy tales are my favorite, that’s why I found ‘Metamorphosis’ quite delightful too.”
“Hmm?”

“It’s a fable, right? A guy turns into a bug… It’s a classic tale that creates absurd scenarios and simplifies problems. You’ve got the big bad wolf, who’s essentially the world, gaping darkly in the woods… while the protagonist is just out here freaking out and feeling exaggerated guilt… I really dig that vibe. I guess I also have a thing for gruesome fairy tales.”

“Wow.”

She was the most talented critic I knew. That’s probably why she could find profound beauty even in something I saw as a struggle.

While I piled on background knowledge and research, she could distill the essence of a work just through sheer insight.

Sometimes, that talent made me green with envy.

I’ve always been a passionate reader. When I witness the glimmering brilliance of authors, all I could do was cheer them on in awe, but that sheer insight—being able to read a work with such clarity—left me bitter with envy.

Isolette, blissfully unaware of my inner turmoil, continued.

“I could never write something like that. I can find symbols in the Bible; I can learn the tricks of making sentences sound good; I can simplify stories… but I just can’t get it right. I loved Homer so much… I felt a jealousy towards him.”

“Honestly, I think you’re quite a gifted writer, Isolette.”

“Being praised by a literary transcendentalist is nice, but deep down, I know my own talent.”
“…….”

Of course, I had no idea.

When I read most novels, they just seem entertaining to me, whether they’re commercial or literary.

So her judgment was likely way more accurate than mine.

With my transcendent abilities, I could only perceive the ‘potential’ within her literature… which ultimately existed outside of the work itself. Potential for critique, response, influence—those sorts of things.

“…What did you think of ‘The Old Man and the Sea’?”
“‘The Old Man and the Sea’? Hmm, well, I have to agree with the critics that it flaunts its symbolism a bit too obviously and has a rather contrived message. But maybe that’s simply the most effective method to move people. It has a lively pace and focuses heavily on dynamic verbs and nouns… all so readers can enjoy it, right? Among all the novels you’ve written, aside from those commercial works under ‘Herodotus’, I’d go as far as to say ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ is the most universal. Hehe, am I right?”

“I cried the first time I read it.”
“Really?”

“Absolutely! The old man growing tired, the bond he has with his rival, the marlin, the message that no one can be an island, the sharks tearing into the marlin… It was just, well, swept away by the joy and sadness it conjured. I’ll admit I’m not quite sure about the symbols, but sometimes you read something that just resonates with you. Oh, this novel is touching my heart right now….”

“…….”

That massive marlin was something an old fisherman values as dearly as his very life.

It was the old man’s livelihood, the relentless destiny driving his life, the foe he needed to fight and conquer, and the pride he’d locked away after a life spent fishing.

I had my own marlin too. It was literature as my marlin.

As a translator, I’d always regarded myself as a ‘translation artist’—carrying that badge of pride. I’d wrestled with tough projects but found such joy in translating that I could lose myself entirely. I poured my life into literature. I risked my life. So when I say I almost died from translating, I’m not really exaggerating!

And then,
Just like that marlin plagued by sharks,
So it goes with literature.

Korean literature was fading. Nobody in Korea read for “good works” anymore. It was all about “works that matched your political views,” “essays by your favorite stars,” “self-help books written by social media influencers”—those became the new yardsticks for choosing literature.

The purity of literature was gobbled up by the political shark. The popularity of literature was devoured by social media sharks. The universality of literature was snatched by self-help sharks.

The bones and heads of my metaphorical marlin.

The kind of pride that a lifelong fisherman can share at a bar for the cost of a drink.

That was all that remained.

Clinging desperately to such things, I died, and maybe if someone saw me in that state, they might shake their head at my foolishness.

“Reading ‘The Old Man and the Sea’… has made me cry and laugh so much. And not just ‘The Old Man and the Sea’… I’ve read ‘Don Quixote,’ ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther,’ and ‘The Little Prince’…”

“…….”

“And that’s why I wanted to show it to others.”

And,
That pitiful pride is exactly why I chose to be a translator.

A mere but precious dime I staked my life upon.

A marlin worthy of bragging about for a lifetime.

It was my life.

[“Maybe I shouldn’t have been a fisherman.”]
[He thought].
[“But perhaps that was the very reason I was born into this world.”]
.
.
.
“…The book that moved me the most, Ed, was the story you wrote for me when I was a child.”
“…….”

“Not because of the fairy tale’s beauty or the love of the Little Mermaid…”
“…….”

“I think it was because you wanted to give me a book that I could truly enjoy as a child… that’s how I fell in love with books…”
“…….”

As a translator, driven solely by passion, I broke down without ever reflecting on myself.

Then, I was reborn and returned to what I loved to do.

Read literature, translate it, share it, and touch hearts with it.

[“Yet, people were not created to be defeated.”]
[He declared].
[“Even if destruction comes, they shall not be defeated.”]

And I am not defeated.