A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

Chapter 127 Allen's Phone Call Part 2

At nine o'clock in the evening, Lin Shubai had just finished reading the sample copy of "The Astrological Murder Magic" when his phone rang.

The area code that popped up on the screen was 0044.

"Shubai, I've finished reading the manuscript." Allen's voice was filled with barely suppressed excitement. "Tell me, how exactly did you learn English?"

Lin Shubai closed the proofbook. "It's what the school taught us."

"Taught in school?" Allen almost shouted. "Schools can't teach this level of writing. The rhythm between sentences, the alternation of long and short sentences, and the dialogue—it's like it was written by a native speaker."

Lin Shubai didn't respond. He couldn't explain how he got it. He couldn't very well say, "Ted Chiang's original text was already in my head, and I just copied it."

"And that structure! You start with Neil's wife's death, then go back to Neil's disability, their meeting, her death, and then back to Neil's journey to find the light. The timeline isn't linear, but you never let the reader lose their way. God, you're a genius!"

Lin Shubai knew what Allen meant by "structure." Ted Chiang's original work was this kind of non-linear narrative—not to show off, but because the essence of the story is "a person trapped in the past, unable to get out." Neil's entire driving force comes from the fact that his wife has died, so his life is always shuttling back and forth between "after her death" and "before she was alive."

"I regret it."

"Regret what?"

"I regret having Julia translate 'The Little Prince.' If you could write 'The Little Prince' in English yourself, the quality of that text would be higher than any translation. A translation is always just a translation, while your English manuscript is the original. You have recreated it in another language."

Lin Shubai understood Allen's frustration—it was like buying a painting, only to find that the painter himself was in the store, but even if you asked someone else to make a copy, no matter how well the copy was done, it wouldn't capture the brushstrokes of the original.

"But we've already translated half of *The Little Prince*, so let's stop now—"

'

"No, stop now." Allen interrupted him. "Julia's work this time wasn't wasted. From now on, for any work that needs an English version, you can write the English manuscript directly and skip the translation process."

Lin Shubai was silent for two seconds. Behind Allen's words lay an even greater trust: he believed that Lin Shubai's English writing ability had reached a level that could be directly applied to the English-speaking market.

"Moreover," Allen's tone suddenly became lighter, "Julia's translation progress is much faster than we expected. She has already translated three-quarters of it. At this rate, the full manuscript will be available next month."

Lin Shubai was taken aback. He knew that translation was a slow and meticulous process, especially for works like "The Little Prince" that demanded a high level of textual quality. A single word might require a dozen or more versions to be tested, and a single sentence might take half an hour to ponder. He hadn't expected Julia to make such a fast progress.

"If everything goes well, you'll be able to see the final English version when you come to the UK this summer."

Aren't you worried? What if I see something and feel something's wrong?

"Then let's revise it. Julia has excellent professionalism. She won't feel offended just because a problem is pointed out. A good translator isn't afraid of revisions; what's scary is when the author doesn't care. If you read carefully and offer serious suggestions, she will respect you more."

Lin Shubai made a mental note of this.

"Back to the Bass Prize," Allen changed his tone, "your manuscript has a high chance of making the shortlist because it dares to tackle a topic that others wouldn't."

Lin Shubai knew what Allen was talking about: God, angels, heaven and hell—these topics are sensitive in Western culture. If he wrote too piously, it would sound like a sermon; if he wrote too frivolously, it would sound offensive. And the perspective he used was precisely one that Western readers hadn't seen much of before.

"If you make it to the shortlist, the judges will see your age and nationality—a sixteen-year-old Chinese student who wrote a novel about God and faith in English; the contrast itself is a topic of discussion."

"But if you make the shortlist, they will invite you to the awards ceremony in Bath, around the end of July, which is right when you're on summer vacation."

"So you want me to go to England this summer."

"Yes, we'll let you know the specific time later, but you need to prepare in advance. You can start processing your passport and visa now."

Lin Shubai considered the matter in his mind. The passport wasn't difficult to obtain, but the UK visa would take time, and since he was a minor, he would need his parents to accompany him or provide various supporting documents. He couldn't handle these things by himself; he would have to talk to Wang Xiulan.

"There's one more thing. In that piece you wrote, the part where Neil falls into hell at the end—'Hell isn't fire, it's a place where God isn't here'—how did you come up with that idea?"

Lin Shubai was a little unsure how to answer this question. He couldn't very well say that he was a believer, could he? He himself found the statement somewhat amusing. A sixteen-year-old Chinese student who had received atheistic education since childhood had written an English novel about angels, holy light, heaven, and hell.

"First of all, I am not a believer, but I have read a lot of books about faith, and I have noticed a very interesting phenomenon: many people believe in God not because they love God, but because they are afraid of hell. Their faith is driven by fear, not by love."

O

He paused, then poured out the thoughts that hadn't yet been voiced in his mind. "Neil is that kind of person. He chased the Holy Light his whole life, not to see God, but to see his wife. His faith from the beginning was a trade: I would exchange my faith for a ticket to Heaven, for a chance to reunite with Sarah. But God doesn't accept trades."

"Many Christians don't have this understanding."

"Maybe it's because I'm an observer, and you know, observers see things most clearly."

After hanging up the phone, he stood up and walked out of the room. In the living room, Wang Xiulan was folding clothes on the sofa.

Lin Shubai sat down on the sofa. "Mom, I need to apply for a passport."

"Passport? Why would I need a passport?"

"I might go abroad during the summer vacation."

"Where to?"

"In the UK, to attend a literary award ceremony, if I'm a finalist."

Wang Xiulan put down the half-folded clothes beside her, turned to him, and asked, "Are you going alone?"

"Alan will pick me up; he's in London."

Lin Jianguo shifted his gaze from the television, the remote control in his hand hovering in mid-air. He didn't understand English, had never been abroad, and his entire knowledge of "Britain" came from football matches and weather forecasts on TV. "Is it cold in Britain?"

"It shouldn't be cold in July."

Lin Jianguo nodded and didn't ask any more questions.