In response to the public outcry wishing to hear the confidential encounters of such a profound literary debate, here is all I am at liberty to share with you to not violate the privacy of such greatness in our modern world. I have ripped the flyleaf out of the great literary work I’m reading and scribbled down the astounding realizations that have come off the teeth of such eminence. I feel like if Chelsea was sitting down at a cafe and Taylor Swift walked in, this is the greatest thing to ever witness. 

There I was… just sitting at the 5th View restaurant in Waterstone’s Piccadilly, trying to once again get through Ulysses, and I saw an angry Virginia Woolfe walk in followed by a laughing Kazuo Ishiguro and a confused James Joyce. 

She angrily turns around to both of them and says, “Yes, I’m aware that writing precisely and accurately about one’s life is difficult, yet it’s a struggle worth enduring! Life portrays awkwardness, why should the writing not imitate that? What is wrong with that?” she expresses, using her hands. 

“Understandably so, Ms. Woolfe, but shouldn’t the techniques of such writing follow the formal pathway that great literacy requires? Why attempt to write modern-day fiction with awkwardness, when the formality of writing requires preciseness among the absurdist?” Joyce declares with confidence. 

“I find that both of you don’t understand the concentration and full body emersion required to write a work of this greatness..” Ishiguro says, brushing them away. 

“Can I get a beer?” Joyce asks, “I can’t deal with this immaturity any longer.”

“Sir, this is a cafe,” the worker says, uninterested. Typical public high school student… what kind of individual is uninterested in a manner of this sort? 

“What kind of establishment is this…”

Woolfe shoots daggers at the two men, “How are you supposed to achieve a new sense of fiction in a modern world if you never take risks?’

“Risks? Oh, tell me about risks!” Joyce, aggravated, exclaims.

“All we do is take risks, no one wants to hear about what’s inevitable in the real world, so who’s going to step up and educate them? ME!” Ishiguro says. 

“Still focused on the external focus of what literature has historically represented. It’s about changing what’s within. What’s within oneself… No, I do not want to share such vulnerability with the world, yet it’s worth it for such a profound difference in the basis of literature entirely,” Woolfe says, still frustrated. 

Mind you, they’re still all standing in the middle of this cafe. How original and modernist is that? There’s nothing modernist if not three of the greatest literary figures standing in the middle of this cafe debating what is classified as modernism. Brilliant…

“And how do you suggest we do this that’s so different than originality, Ms. Woolfe?” Joyce asks with an eyebrow raised. 

“Focus on your interior, the awkwardness and true moments in life. That is originality. That is fiction,” She says, satisfied with her argument. Wow, what a mind. 

“I somewhat disagree with that Woolfe..” Ishiguro begins. 

“Oh do tell,” she says, annoyed again. 

“All of us are connected through the value we seek in life. Whether that be from a job, a lover, or a child, when we are on the brink of death we must ask ourselves what value we have given to the world for the duration of our lifetime. Each day of our lives is just a piece of what we look back on at the end. That is modern fiction,” Ishiguro says. Again, what a mind. I can’t even begin to grasp the full intentions of this man’s words in a literal sense. It’s astonishing. In Remains of the Day, Ishiguro illustrates such symbolism in the way he portrays time passing. I mean I can only remember when Stevens uses the symbol of hands to see time passing and people getting older. One of the first things you can notice about someone’s aging is their hands, coldness, wrinkles, veins. Hands are the tools of life, the roughness of one’s hands determines the work they’ve put into their life, stated Ishiguro. Looking back at life, many factors determine the value and work you’ve put in to make this life yours. 

“Oh enough of this… fiction is what you make it. It’s not real for a reason. You can add a disconnected stream of consciousness, absurdist drama, mythical parallelism, paralysis.. there’s freedom! That is modernist fiction… The ability to decide that you want to write something so far stretched out that it might not make total sense the first time. It’s fiction!” Joyce says, still looking around for the nearest pub. 

I remain watching in awe, scribbling down keynotes as fast as I can. What a moment in time this is…

“Can we just agree to disagree and understand that we’re all successful modernist writers in different ways?” Woolfe asks, checking her watch seeing as if she has somewhere to be and this entire conversation has been an inconvenience to her. 

“Yes please,” Joyce says already walking out the door. 

Before I can even get a chance to speak to any of them or simply ask for a picture, they’ve vanished in the streets of London, just like one’s memory of such greatness… almost too great to grasp.