Meanwhile, across from Duncan Bookstore in Edinburgh, the middle-aged man in the old leather jacket finally moved from the back of the line to the front of the counter.
Watching Duncan apologize to customers for selling out of books, the man in the old leather jacket seemed a little troubled. "Hey, are they all sold out?"
Duncan subconsciously looked up at him, paused for a moment, and said, "Mr. McEwan?"
Ian McEwan nodded politely, though he looked somewhat disappointed.
"You're here to buy this too?" Duncan's tone carried a hint of surprise that he tried to suppress but couldn't quite manage.
"Yes, this book is quite famous lately." Ian nodded, then shook his head regretfully, "Unfortunately, it seems I'm too late."
Duncan hesitated for a moment, then gritted his teeth and said, "Please wait a moment."
"Ah?"
Duncan turned and walked deeper into the bookstore, and when he came out, he was holding a copy of " Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Part 1)".
"This is a copy I kept for myself. If you need it, this book should meet your requirements."
"This... isn't that a bit inappropriate?" Ian hesitated.
"What's wrong with that?" Duncan waved his hand, then said a little embarrassedly, "But... I hope you can give me an autograph."
With a hopeful look on his face, he pulled a photograph and a pen from his pocket.
Ian chuckled, took the pen, and signed his name on the photo.
He then took the book and offered to pay for it, but Duncan firmly refused.
"No need to pay, your signature is the best payment for the book."
Ian wanted to say something more, but a new customer was coming to the counter looking for Duncan.
He politely stepped aside to make way for the counter, nodded to Duncan, and then turned and walked out of the bookstore.
The streets of Edinburgh were bathed in a warm golden light by the setting sun, the cobblestones still retaining the warmth of the day. Ian tucked his book under his arm and walked west along Princes Street.
As he passed by a coffee shop, a young man sitting in the outdoor seating area recognized him and immediately stood up. "Mr. McEwan!"
Ian stopped and turned his head.
"You also went to buy ' Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets '?" The young man pointed to the book under his arm, his tone revealing undisguised surprise.
Two companions sitting next to him also turned around to look at Ian.
"Ah, yes." Ian smiled. "This book is quite famous lately."
The young man hesitated for a moment, seemingly unsure how to respond.
His two companions exchanged glances, and one of them mustered the courage to ask, "So what do you think of it? I mean, as literature."
Ian didn't answer immediately. He shifted the book under his other arm and thought for a moment, "I haven't started reading it yet, so I can't comment on its contents."
"But," he paused, "From the perspective of someone working in the literary field, the fact that it has managed to get so many people lining up to buy, read, and discuss it is already quite remarkable."
The young man paused for a moment, then asked, "Do you think those who criticize it have a point?"
"Criticism and praise are both normal," Ian said gently. "When a book comes out, different people will have different opinions, and that's part of literature."
"What truly matters is not who is right, but whether the book itself can stand the test of time."
Another companion chimed in, "But Martin Amis said it's just a children's book."
" Martin is a very talented writer," Ian said, without any hint of aggression. "The way he wrote * The Time's Arrow * is something many people simply cannot do."
"But the value of a work is never determined by a single writer or critic."
He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "One thing I've learned after writing novels for so many years is that you can't decide for your readers what they should like."
"You can only write your own things, and then let them choose."
The young man nodded, his expression serious. "So, do you think Harry Potter can have a place in literary history?"
Ian chuckled softly. "I can't answer that question either."
"What remains are often things that no one expected to remain at the time. When Dickens wrote * Oliver Twist *, no one thought it would become a classic."
"So my answer is, I don't know. But I do know one thing: any phenomenon that gets so many people back to reading should not be underestimated."
There was a few seconds of silence at the entrance of the coffee shop. The young man and his two companions exchanged glances, as if processing what he had just said.
"Thank you, Mr. McEwan," the young man finally said.
Ian nodded to him, then turned and continued walking along Princes Street.
He lived not too far from the city center, in an old-fashioned three-story apartment building. There was an old sycamore tree downstairs, its canopy rustling in the evening breeze.
He took out his key and opened one of the dark red wooden doors, the hinges making a low creaking sound.
He placed the book on the small table in the Entrance Hall and bent down to change into a pair of old slippers.
The kettle in the kitchen was still warm. He poured himself a glass of water, carried the glass to the living room, and sat down on the dark gray fabric sofa.
The room was quiet, with only the old-fashioned wall clock ticking away.
He placed the cup on the coffee table next to the sofa and picked up the book from the table.
He glanced down at the cover for a few seconds—an old Ford car hovered crookedly in the night sky, its headlights illuminating a dark canopy of trees, while in the distance, the silhouette of Hogwarts Castle gleamed silver in the moonlight.
He flipped through the title page, his gaze sweeping over the publication information, before turning to the first chapter.
As he watched, he leaned back on the sofa, adjusting to a more comfortable position.
The light in the living room gradually softened from bright to gentle, and the sky outside the window changed from deep blue to complete inky black.
The old-fashioned wall clock ticked countless times on the wall, the sound of its pendulum swinging evenly and continuously filtered out by Ian's ears like white noise.
When he turned to the end of Chapter Nine, his finger paused for a moment on the edge of the page.
Then he turned to the next page, which was blank.
Part 1, complete.
Ian stared at the three words for a few seconds, a rare hint of annoyance creeping over him.
He closed his eyes to calm himself down, then opened them with a faint smile on his lips.
"... It's stuck here."
He placed the book on the coffee table, picked up the now-cold glass of water, took a sip, and gazed at the streetlights illuminating the view outside the window. He muttered to himself:
"... I'm actually starting to look forward to the next part."
(The next chapter is still under review; I don't know if it will be approved...)