Chapter 43: The whole of Northwestern Europe is in chaos!

Land mourned for Wilde, but it didn't cause the expected uproar.

Common folks were only concerned about whether the novel was interesting or not; as for who Wilde was, they couldn't care less.

Apologies, it's just not their focus.

But for novelists and literary critics, it was a different story. There were both admirers and detractors, with varying opinions.

Knud Hamson was the first to raise the banner of "bashing Land". He fired shots at Land in a review in a certain magazine: "While 'And Then There Were None' is well-written, its essence is as twisted as Mr. Wilde's. One wonders if this Chinese novelist has planted roots in the wrong place and sprouted a poisonous weed."

His words were quite sharp. In both Chinese and English contexts, "roots" and "planting roots" are puns, showing his proficiency in multiple languages.

And it wasn't just Hamson; nearly all conservative writers opened fire on Land. Some even suggested that Land should delete the eulogy when the book was reprinted, or it would tarnish the reputation of the Royal Publishing House.

This angered the liberals. Since Wilde's works could be performed at the Royal Theatre, it meant they passed muster both artistically and politically. Why shouldn't people be allowed to publicly mourn him?

Shaw stepped forward and fiercely rebutted in the Manchester Guardian, launching into a spirited counterattack. It seemed as if he and Wilde had never had any disputes.

Moreover, this old chap was adept at satire. He could scold people without using dirty words, making his attacks far more effective than those of ordinary writers. He was practically a one-man army, spraying everyone with verbal blood.

Writers are not to be trifled with. Words are their weapons, ink their blades, and pens their swords. Both sides used various newspapers and magazines as their battleground, engaging in fierce battles.

It was obvious that the focus was no longer on Wilde, but on freedom versus conservatism, with the rhetoric escalating.

Future literary scholars would surely be baffled by this period of history. First, Hamson cursed Land, then Shaw cursed Hamson. After that, things took a magical turn: William Butler Yeats ranted at Shaw, and from faraway France, Romain Rolland, being righteous, stepped in to help scold Yeats, who promptly fired back.

These people—Hamson was Norwegian, Shaw Irish, Yeats Irish, Rolland French—geographically speaking, you could say:

The whole of Northwestern Europe is in chaos!

Then, out of nowhere, a young lad not even twenty years old named Stefan Zweig jumped in. He fearlessly criticized the old timers one by one, saying Shaw's gradualism was "safe rebellion," that Rolland "writes novels in music," that Yeats's symbolism and mystical poetry were "typical feudal desires," and that Tagore's translation skills were "extremely poor."

As a result, everyone turned their guns on Zweig, furious at this young upstart for attacking the old guard.

In just three or four days, literary giants were taking turns to criticize each other, sparking what seemed like a cultural movement.

...

Fleet Street, Manchester Guardian office, editorial room.

Slap!

Land put down the newspaper, trying hard to stifle a laugh. He didn't expect Zweig to be so bold when he was young, scolding people without any regard for their seniority.

Shaw said with some irritation, "I bet this Zweig fellow is French."

Land was surprised. "Huh? Why do you think so?"

Shaw pointed to the newspaper. "Look at how he criticized Monsieur Rolland—'writes novels in music.' That doesn't seem like criticism at all."

"Haha!"

Land finally couldn't help but laugh. "So, you're guessing Zweig is a fellow countryman of Rolland's?"

Shaw snorted and glanced at the newspaper. "Do I need to?!"

Roland's novels were characterized as "writing novels in music" because he was not only a philosopher, writer, and social activist, but also a music critic. That critique was indeed complimentary.

Unfortunately, Zweig wasn't French; he was Austrian. Shaw guessed wrong.

Land said, "Doesn't this have nothing to do with geography? You and Yeats aren't both Irish?"

Shaw clicked his tongue. "Hmph... I'm not like that chap Yeats. I support new drama, he likes the grandiose style of romanticism. Our leanings are quite different, and we've had our fair share of debates."

Land suddenly realized. No wonder Yeats, who had nothing to do with him, came out to spar with Shaw. It turned out they had long-standing conflicts.

Land comforted him, "Alright, alright, don't be angry. Let's talk about Zweig. He even didn't spare Tagore. It's clear he's a young man thinking too much, not knowing his place."

Shaw said, "He's just picking on Tagore because he can't fight back from India."

With that, Shaw glanced at Land. "But aren't you a young man yourself?"

Land couldn't help but laugh. "In spirit, I'm an old man."

Shaw almost rolled his eyes.

Just then, the door of the editorial room was pushed open, and Scott hurried in. "Mr. Land, Mr. Shaw, are you here?"

Land nodded immediately. "The headmaster wants to submit an article again, and I'm accompanying him."

Scott understood. "For the book review section? Great! Let me see it! Maybe we can recreate the literary debates between Dostoevsky and Turgenev."

Dostoevsky and Turgenev couldn't stand each other, engaging in a long-lasting war of words that lasted thirty years. But it wasn't just vulgar name-calling; as prominent figures, they used magazines, newspapers, and even their own published books to satirize each other.

But at the same time, they wrote classics like "The Devils" and "Crime and Punishment." That's why Scott said it was a "scene."

As Scott read the draft, Shaw felt a bit guilty and said to Land, "It's a pity that because of these dirty things, people are overlooking the poem you wrote. Alas..."

Land waved his hand. "Mr. Shaw, this isn't because of you; there's no need for self-blame."

Shaw responded with a shallow "hmm" and asked, "By the way, what's the name of that poem?"

"Black Night Gave Me Black Eyes, But I Use Them To Seek Light."

It's a modern poem called "A Generation" by Gu Cheng.

Land pondered for a moment, feeling that the name didn't need to be changed, and said, "A Generation."

Shaw's eyes lit up. "Good! What a 'A Generation'! There couldn't be a more suitable name! And..."

He sighed quietly.

"Zweig said I support gradual reform, calling it 'safe rebellion,' and I don't think he's entirely wrong. In an era where progressivism is seen as eternal truth, conservatism itself is a kind of rebellion against the mainstream."

Land was speechless, not expecting Shaw to steer the conversation back like this.

He said, "You're truly a thinker, sir."

Shaw laughed heartily. "Don't think I don't hear your sarcasm. But I still have to thank you. It was after reading your 'A Generation' that I had this realization."

As they chatted, Scott suddenly clapped his hands.

"Great! Mr. Shaw is indeed amazing! This article is exceptionally well-written."

Seeing Scott's eyes shining, Land knew:

The stew in Northwestern Europe would continue.