A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

March 29, Friday, London.

The rain in London is never a torrential downpour, but rather a fine, endless drizzle. Alan Carter listened to it for a while while lying in bed, and he felt that this rain was going to last a long time. He reached for his phone, squinted at it, and saw Liu Dong's name displayed on the screen.

Liu Dong sent two photos. The first was a book cover with a beige background and silhouettes of three people standing in a row. The book title was "Four Generations Under One Roof".

The second picture is of the bookstore's display stand. The book is placed in the most conspicuous position right at the entrance, next to a handwritten sign. The handwriting is not very clear, but you can recognize the three characters "Lin Shubai".

Liu Dong's message was only one sentence: "It's going on sale today. Do you want me to send you a copy?"

Allen sat up, propping the pillows against his back. It was March 29th, almost two weeks since he had found The Little Prince at the old bookstore on Charing Cross Road.

In the past two weeks, he read the Chinese version of "The Little Prince" and had Julia Green translate the first part. He read Julia's translation; it wasn't perfect, but the basic structure was there.

Allen got up, washed up, made a cup of coffee, sat down at his desk, and dialed Liu Dong's number. "Allen? Why are you calling now? What time is it in London?" Liu Dong's voice was chuckled, and there were voices in the background, sounding like they were in the office.

"I need your help with something at 6:30 this morning."

"you say."

"I need two books, one called *Charlotte's Web* and the other *Four Generations Under One Roof*, both written by Lin Shubai. Could you help me buy them and send them to London?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.

"Have you thought it through?"

"I have made up my mind. European readers need The Little Prince."

"Aren't you going to wait?"

"Waiting for what? Waiting for the rain to stop?" Allen glanced out the window; the rain was still falling. "I need to see these two books as soon as possible. 'The Little Prince' showed me this person's talent, and now I want to see more of his work to confirm where his boundaries lie, and to decide whether to invest in him as a person, or just in 'The Little Prince'."

He was telling the truth. He had seen too many authors write a good book and then never write a second one in their entire lives. So he needed to know what kind of person Lin Shubai was—the kind of person who puts the best story of his life into his first book, or the kind of person who gets better and better with each book and is always on the rise.

"Your logic is like investing in stocks."

"Literary brokerage is like investing in stocks, except that I'm not investing in a company, but in a person's imagination and talent. It's riskier and the returns are more uncertain."

Liu Dong paused for two seconds, then said, "I can send you the book, but I need to make something clear to you first."

"What is it?"

"Four Generations Under One Roof is not an easy book. I read part of it. It tells the story of an ordinary family struggling in the war after the fall of Beiping in 1937. It contains death, betrayal, hunger, despair, and many things related to the local customs and culture of Beiping. I don't mean to look down on you, but if I may be frank, you may find it a bit difficult to read."

Liu Dong's words actually had two layers of meaning. The first layer was on the surface: This book is not easy to read, so be prepared.

The second layer is subtle: you don't understand China, especially China in that era, so you might not be able to understand it. Allen didn't feel offended because he knew that Liu Dong wasn't questioning his ability, but stating a fact. For an Englishman to read a novel about the fall of Beiping is like asking a Chinese person to read a novel about Victorian London's East End—they can read it, but they won't get a sense of it.

But what Allen cares about isn't the "flavors"; he cares about the core of the story: war, family, hunger, choices. These are things that all humans share, and you can feel them without being familiar with local customs. But if the book is good enough, its essence will pierce through the flesh and skin of those details and stand straight out. That's the essence he's looking for.

"Dong, I understand what you mean. You're right. I may not understand those details, but if a book only works because of those things, then it's not a good work. A good work is one that can still move readers in a different language or country."

He paused for a moment, then picked up his coffee and took a sip.

"I don't need to read this book with Chinese eyes. I just need to use my own eyes. If this book makes me sit in my chair and not want to get up after reading the last page, that's enough."

Liu Dong chuckled, "Okay, I'll send it to you as soon as possible."

"Dong, there's one more thing."

"What is it?"

"Could you give me Lin Shubai's phone number?"

"Sure, but didn't you want to see more of his work?"

"Of course I'll read it, but the quality of those works won't affect my decision to bring 'The Little Prince' to England."

He decided to bring *The Little Prince* to England not because Lin Shubai was a "genius writer," nor because of the length of his list of works, but because of the book itself—the dark blue, slightly worn Chinese book he bought for five pounds in a secondhand bookstore—it deserved to be translated, deserved to be seen by more readers, regardless of what its author would write in the future, or how well he would write it. A book's value doesn't need another book to endorse it.

"No problem, I'll send the number to your phone."

"Thank you, Dong."

"You're welcome."

After hanging up the phone, Allen put it on the table. While on the phone, his attention was completely focused on the conversation, and the sound of the rain was automatically filtered out by his brain. Now that it was quiet, the fine, endless sound of the rain flooded his ears again.

After a while, the screen lit up. Liu Dong had already sent Lin Shubai's phone number, but he wouldn't call right away.

Those two books will determine how he should treat this sixteen-year-old boy. If Lin Shubai just happened to write a good book, then Allen will treat him like an ordinary newcomer—gentle, encouraging, and keeping his distance.

But if Lin Shu-bai's talent is proven in his other works, then he is not just "a boy who wrote a good book," but a true genius. People from all over the world always have different attitudes toward geniuses.

Allen opened his laptop and sent an email to Julia Green: "Julia, there's no need to rush the translation of *The Little Prince*. Quality is more important than speed. I'm still waiting for the other two books." He thought for a moment, then added, "When I finish reading the other two, I will know if he is a river or a sea."