Comparisons can drive people mad. Just how handsome was Chu Zhi, really?
"Another remake by Annam. As expected, it's the same old disappointing standard."
"Watching Jiu-yé as Professor Baek and Song Mingxi as the female lead, then looking at this Japanese's casting… are they seriously telling us these unattractive leads are the best they could find?"
"No one expects the Thai actor to look even a quarter as good as Jiu-yé, but what's with this cheap outfit? It looks like a ninety-nine yuan set from Taobao. An alien that's supposed to be mysterious now looks like some street vendor."
"The Vietnamese dub has this flavor that just gets in your head. I can't be the only one going deaf. I have to share this with 10,086 friends. Don't thank me. Call me Hell King."
"Jiu-yé's portrayal of Professor Baek is flawless. Jiu-yé speaks multiple languages, loves books, and is self-disciplined. He's basically Professor Baek in real life!"
"Stop comparing it to the original. That's bullying."
The Japanese version and the Thai drama version had already been released a year or two ago. Yet both were dragged back into the spotlight because of Annam's remake, beaten down again by comparison. This wave of mockery spread from China to other Asian countries.
YouTube even had three compilation videos comparing all the remakes to the original. They were hilarious enough to kill you with laughter.
"This is brutal." Chiba Haruhisa, who spent his days on YouTube, couldn't help cursing when he finished watching. "Which ugly fool thought he could copy Ragdoll?"
Oh. The ugly fool… was him.
Chiba Haruhisa was none other than the male lead in the Japanese remake of Love Me, Alien. He had played Professor Baek.
"I should have listened to Koguchi-san," Chiba Haruhisa thought bitterly, recalling the friend he had fallen out with, Koguchi Yoshihiro.
When he first accepted the role, Koguchi Yoshihiro had warned him sincerely: "As your friend, Chiba, I advise you not to take this part. Once you do, you'll inevitably be compared to Chu-san. That's a battle crueler than the Honno-ji Incident."
Chiba Haruhisa had been considered one of Japan's most handsome men, so he ignored the warning completely. Now, he felt maybe it was time to mend things with Koguchi Yoshihiro. After all, the man had only wanted the best for him.
The biggest awakening from this storm of ridicule came to Sofia, Netflix Asia's regional director. She finally understood why My Love from the Star had exploded across Asia. The core wasn't the script—it was Chu Zhi.
The Japanese version had nearly identical scripts, yet it bombed. Another big-budget project with a similar cast, Bubbles Beneath the Sky, also flopped. The variable was obvious. Chu Zhi was the key.
"If that's the case, we can recommend him for our upcoming epic production," Sofia decided. That production was a fantasy masterpiece, The Lord of the Rings. The role she had in mind was the Elven Prince, because that Chinese star's appearance truly did not seem human.
As has been mentioned before, this parallel world's cultural industry diverged from Earth's in the nineteenth century. Some works existed here, others never came to be.
Lu Xun existed. Death in Venice, Sherlock Holmes, and The Lord of the Rings existed. Hemingway, The Silence of the Lambs, and The Godfather did not.
And so, through Netflix's grand production, the current turned toward America.
At New York University's Tisch School of the Arts—one of the top three film schools in the United States—the day's spotlight was not on film but on literature. The small auditorium had been transformed into an award ceremony venue.
Ono Akio, dressed in a dark tuxedo with a black bow tie, had arrived in New York a day early. At this moment, he sat in a taxi bound for Americas Avenue. He was there to accept, on behalf of the poet Huainan, the "Most Surprising Poetry Award" from the National Book Critics Circle.
The president of Ronin Shuppansha Publishing had insisted Huainan must accept the award in person. Yet even after repeated emails, Huainan refused to appear publicly.
Huainan was the publishing house's star author, having repeatedly broken sales records. He was also the poet Ono Akio personally admired most. Well, the last part hardly mattered—chief editor Echizen wouldn't dare offend him regardless.
Huainan had always been a low-key figure. Even after three years of cooperation, the publishing house had only learned his true nationality two days ago.
Forty-eight hours later, Ono Akio was still reeling.
The award organizers required three pieces of information from every recipient: gender, nationality, and verified sales records.
Many Western writers used pen names, so real names weren't mandatory.
When Ono Akio asked in an email, the reply came: "Chinese. My nationality is Chinese."
He had long suspected Huainan might be Chinese. After all, "Huainan" was the name of a place in China, and also the title held by the historical King of Huainan. Yet a Chinese friend, Gao Shi, had once investigated and told him otherwise: "Most likely not Chinese, but an Asian deeply versed in Chinese culture. None of Huainan's collections—I Am a Willful Child, The Great Riddle, and so on—can be traced in any Chinese publishing record."
"Oh no, I forgot the most important thing." Ono Akio suddenly remembered. He had never told Gao Shi about this discovery. The past two days had been too hectic—packing clothes, buying a US SIM card, exchanging dollars. He hadn't had a spare moment.
Without delay, he called his Chinese friend Gao Shi.
The time difference was twelve hours. At 3 p.m. in New York, it was 3 a.m. in China.
The first time, the call was hung up immediately.
The second time… "Damn it!"
Jolted awake in the middle of the night, Gao Shi fought down his irritation when he saw who was calling. "The world is beautiful, yet I'm this irritable. That's no good. Your mother, this is really no good at all."
Gao Shi was a freelance writer and a popular online commentator. As a hardcore cultural critic, he often helped verify questions about Japanese culture. Ono Akio was one of his go-to sources for information.
"Gao-san, you were wrong. Truly wrong."
"?"
Gao Shi blinked, confused by the sudden statement.
"There really isn't a Chinese poet named Huainan?"
Still this question? If such a poet existed in China, and had won so many foreign awards, Gao Shi would have blasted the news on Weibo ages ago.
This was what Ono woke him up for? Gao Shi's fists clenched tighter on his blanket.
"No. I've asked several publishing friends, and none of them has ever heard of such a person in China. You know my line of work, Ono. My sources are reliable."
As he said this, Gao Shi suddenly connected it back to Ono's cryptic words. Could it be…
On the other end, Ono Akio confirmed: "Huainan told me himself. He said he is Chinese, truly Chinese."
"…"
Gao Shi fell silent for several seconds. His fist slowly loosened its grip on the blanket. He asked, "He told you he's Chinese? But didn't he reveal his real identity?"
"Huainan just won another award, the National Book Critics Circle's Most Surprising Poet Award. The organizers needed his information, so he had to confirm his nationality. That much he told me, but nothing about his identity."
So he had won abroad again—and was really Chinese. Gao Shi was stunned. Why wasn't such a monumental achievement publicized back home?
The Yomiuri Literary Prize, the Costa Award, the National Book Critics Circle Award. A true heavyweight. Not to mention the collections: Stray Birds, I Am a Willful Child, The Great Riddle, Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night, and After a Long Silence. Together they had sold over two million copies worldwide (680,000 in Japan alone). In the digital age, he was one of the most successful poets alive.
"And yet he refuses to attend award ceremonies? Does he care nothing for fame or fortune? In the twenty-first century, a poet this pure still exists?" Gao Shi couldn't help but sigh.
Pure. Yes. Ono Akio felt that was the perfect word.
And as Huainan's editor, guiding such a pure poet, Ono felt he too must be pure. When he accepted the award on Huainan's behalf, he needed to appear calm and unruffled. The dignity of it could not be lost.
"All right, I've arrived. Gao-san, let's talk later." Ono Akikuma prepared to hang up.
"Wait, Ono. If you can, take some photos at the venue." Gao Shi, with his fifty thousand followers, couldn't pass up the chance for an exclusive scoop. Poetry might not be the hottest topic, but a Chinese poet winning abroad certainly was.
"Photos? For what?" Ono asked while paying the taxi driver in cash outside the Tisch School gates.
Sitting up in bed, Gao Shi explained smoothly: "Huainan's poetry has been published in French, Japanese, and English editions. All of them were self-translated. He must be a linguistic expert."
"And then?" Ono still didn't catch the implication.
"I want to report on this—about a Chinese poet who just won internationally, with exclusive photos. As his editor, it would be best if you accepted an interview."
"But Huainan doesn't want exposure…" Ono hesitated. He didn't want to betray his author.
"Ono, you misunderstand. If Huainan doesn't want exposure, he'll never appear in public. That's his choice. But recognition in his home country is another matter. A man of such achievements should be known in China. Fame and revealing his private self are not the same thing."
That argument left Ono speechless. Finally, he agreed.
Having secured the agreement, Gao Shi hung up and immediately began combing the internet for every shred of information about Huainan. If he was going to break the story, he needed substance.
After a thorough search, Gao Shi finally uncovered a clue. In one of China's top three poetry journals, Stars, there had once been a poem by this very Huainan.
If...Author: Huainan
If the bell tolls
Please use feathers
To bury me
In the silent night
I will weave a pair of great wings
And above the homeland I long for
I will keep on flying
The poem was written quite well. Gao Shi was not skilled in appreciating poetry, but even he could sense its beauty.
"Is this Huainan the same Huainan I've heard of?" Gao Shi muttered as he continued digging. Once he had a lead, things became easier. Soon enough, he found his way to the Chinese Poetry Network.
It was just a small poem published on the internet.
Gao Shi's expression shifted. If he remembered correctly, Huainan had once released a small poetry collection called Collection of Flying Birds.
~ "Two flowers bloom, each to a different corner of the world. Let us now turn to the other side of the ocean." ~
Ono Akio gathered all his courage to step into the auditorium of New York University's Tisch School of the Arts. Yet the further he walked, the more it felt as if the bones had been pulled from his spine. His confidence shriveled with every step.
Why did the award ceremony have to be held at New York University, of all places? But this was one of America's most prestigious institutions. Coupled with the fact that the American Book Reviewers Association Award was among the most authoritative literary prizes in the country, the weight of both made Ono Akio's nerves crumble.
His English was already thickly accented, and now he barely dared to speak it aloud. Thankfully, his eyesight was sharp enough to follow the signs, and he eventually found his way to the small auditorium.
Upon entering, he noticed students in black suits fussing with the red carpet. Volunteers, no doubt. Unfortunately, their outfits matched his own a little too well.
The staff serving the banquet were dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and black bow ties. To avoid awkwardness, most guests wore white bow ties instead. Ono Akio, however, had chosen black, which left him painfully out of place.
His palms were damp as he pressed them together. His legs trembled faintly. After glancing around the room, he finally chose a corner seat and sat down.
By four o'clock sharp, the award ceremony would begin. With more than half an hour still to go, the hall was already nearly full.
Around him sat one literary giant after another. Renowned authors with names carved into the very bedrock of literature.
As a Japanese, Ono Akio could not help the inferiority complex that rose whenever he faced America, as if it were etched into his bones.
"Even though Huainan was immensely talented," Ono Akio thought, "he probably had little influence here." After all, modern Chinese literature still carried less weight in the West compared to their own Japanese's works.
Just then, a white-haired man with curly locks approached and greeted him in English. "Hello, I'm Ross Hulke. Are you perhaps the Chinese poet Nanhuai?"
Ross Hulke. The name didn't immediately ring a bell for Ono Akio, who racked his mind but couldn't match it to a famous writer. Flustered, he still tried to compose himself, though his awkwardness showed through.
"Mr. Ross, no, I'm not. I'm Japanese. My name is Ono Akio," he said.
"Japanese? Then your pen name is…" Ross Hulke frowned.
Awkwardly, Ono Akio explained, "I am an editor with Ronin Publishing. I'm here to accept the award on behalf of Mr. Huainan."
Ross Hulke gave a small nod and asked no further questions.
In truth, Ross Hulke was not a mere guest. He was vice president of the Book Reviewers Association, a well-known American literary critic, and chief editor of the Chicago Tribune. As such, he was also a member of the judging panel.
Though his role was limited to reviewing poetry, Ross Hulke had been deeply impressed by Chu Zhi's work. Seeing the only Asian face in the room, he had assumed it was the poet himself.
"So, the editor came in his place. Huainan still had not shown up in person."
Ross Hulke adored Huainan's collections, from Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night to the award-winning After the Long Silence. Yet Huainan was a complete enigma. So secretive, in fact, that not a single trace of his personal information could be uncovered.
It was only because of his position on the judging panel that Ross Hulke had even learned the poet's true nationality.
Chinese.
But when he had asked multiple Chinese friends, none had ever heard of this poet.
"The mysterious Chinese writer," Ross Hulke murmured to himself. "Each collection written with a completely different style. If not for the fact that every one of them is outstanding, I would have suspected it was the work of a team."
Because if it were a team, it would mean three or four poetic geniuses working together under one pen name. That was even harder to believe than a single man producing them all.
"Not even attending to receive such an award in person. Chinese poets certainly have lofty pride." Ross Hulke did not say this with contempt. To those whose talent he could recognize, he was always generous.
Meanwhile, Ono Akio kept sneaking glances around with the corner of his eyes. Many of the faces he recognized.
There was Belle Lee Miller, born in Chicago, Illinois, a renowned biographer hailed as the greatest biographical writer of the twenty-first century. His works were so influential they had even made it into Japanese school textbooks.
There was Griffith Martin, the San Francisco-born author with over four decades of writing behind him. He had published twenty-one novels, more than four hundred short stories, and two screenplays.
And others as well: Thomas John, Francis Mizner, and more. Writers Ono Akio had only ever seen mentioned in news articles were now sitting just rows away.
His heart pounded with excitement, but then he thought back to how stiff and awkward he had acted earlier. Had his nervousness been too obvious? Should he be initiating conversations with these literary titans, or was it safer to sit quietly in his corner?
His thoughts raced, but his body sat frozen, like an ice sculpture.
A few people did approach him, but the moment they heard he was Japanese and a publishing editor rather than the poet himself, they politely withdrew.
"What a pity the Chinese poet did not come. His absence dims this hall by more than a little."
"Yes, a shame. I adore his poetry."
"Nanhuai is far too mysterious. I admire that, but I would have loved to invite him to my salon."
Head bowed, Ono Akio caught the murmured conversations. His spoken English was clumsy, but his listening was fine. From what he could gather, the editors and writers were all praising Huainan.
When he lifted his head, he heard Griffith Martin remark, "That Nanhuai is Chinese is hardly surprising. His Great Puzzle carried the concise clarity of Tang poetry, its imagery precise yet strange."
Francis Mizner added, "What moves me most is Nanhuai's versatility. He has taken European lyricism, expressionism, and impressionism to their peak. And he did it alone."
The praises passed from mouth to mouth. Since the poet himself was absent, the absent man became the center of attention.
"So this was the esteem Huainan's poetry commanded in America." Ono Akio finally understood. If the work was brilliant enough, attending the ceremony or not hardly mattered.
At last, the ceremony began.
The American Book Reviewers Award announced its winners directly, without the fuss of nominees. There was little suspense.
The presenter for the "Most Surprising Poet of the Year" award was none other than Vice President of the Association, Chicago Tribune's chief editor, Ross Hulke.
"Nanhuai's poetry contains more shifting images than the faces of capitalists," he declared. "His verse celebrates and embraces the primal instincts of life itself. His poems surge with vitality. He is, without question, an outstanding poet."
He handed over the certificate and an envelope containing a check for fifty thousand dollars.
"I only wish the man himself could be here. Please, sir, convey to him my words: his poetry is magnificent. May there be more to come." Ross Hulke pressed the items into Ono Akio's hands, unable to resist speaking once more.
===
"飞鸟集" (Collection of Flying Birds) — Stray Birds by Rabindranath Tagore
"不要温和地走进那个良夜" (Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night) — reference to Dylan Thomas's famous poem.