Chapter 18: An Astonishing Leap

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As Puzo spoke, he couldn’t help but reread the novel once more. The more he read, the more captivating it seemed.

Puzo felt that before writing The Gentleman, Enni saw the world like a frog at the bottom of a well gazing at the moon; after writing The Gentleman, Enni saw it like a mayfly glimpsing the vast sky.

He felt that the literary quality, the sense of the era, and the humanistic concern carried in Enni’s novels were things he could never reach in his lifetime.

“Especially the ending of this novel,” he said after another look, “it’s even more ingenious—bringing together the concerns of two fathers for Annu in a single funeral. It doesn’t offer a black-and-white answer, allowing readers the freedom to choose their stance.”

“This kind of uncritical writing style and plot design is truly clever.”

Puzo found himself unable to stop: “Especially those lines—‘Wasting talent is the greatest tragedy in life,’ ‘It’s easy to shoot someone; the real tough men are those who rise early and toil hard every day to make a living’... deeply philosophical and moving.”

“My God, how did you come to such insights? You’re even two years younger than me.”

Enni smiled modestly and said, “Writing novels is writing fiction; not every story can come from real experience. So a writer needs a sensitive heart, which means... drawing inspiration from the pain of others.”

Puzo immediately had a revelation but couldn’t help joking, “If I had your sensitivity, given the amount of suffering I’ve endured, I’d have become a literary master ages ago!”

“Your gift lies in popular literature; there’s no need to compare yourself with me.”

“Besides, I believe that a certain amount of hardship gives a writer inspiration—as Hemingway said, ‘A writer’s growth requires an unhappy childhood.’ But excessive suffering only destroys a person.”

As Enni spoke, he couldn’t help but recall Hemingway’s tragic end, taking his own life with a shotgun at home, much like his own “iceberg theory”—the meaning behind the words far exceeds the words themselves, just as the visible tip of an iceberg accounts for only one-eighth of its entirety. The pain behind a writer’s words far surpasses the words themselves.

Even if one has not endured suffering personally, the “sensitivity” that grants a writer inspiration is itself a form of pain—like someone severely allergic to pollen bending over flowers to collect nectar.

Though this was not a discussion about writing technique, Puzo found Enni’s words profoundly enlightening.

Enni was two years younger but far more insightful.

At the same time, influenced by Enni’s novel, Puzo quietly nurtured the idea of writing a novel centered on the Italian Mafia...

Returning to the topic.

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Puzo said with some concern, “Your novel is excellent, but as you said, it doesn’t quite fit the submission style of Black Mask. Shouldn’t you consider submitting it elsewhere? I think it suits mainstream literary journals quite well.”

Enni shook his head, somewhat helplessly: “The problem is, those prestigious literary journals won’t accept a newcomer’s manuscript.”

Although his usual approach was to submit from top-tier journals down to lower-tier ones without prejudice.

But for top-tier journals like The Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, and The New Yorker, the chance of accepting a newcomer’s submission was exceedingly slim.

Of course, he could copy the manuscript and submit it both to Black Mask and one of those top journals simultaneously. After all, only top-tier journals prohibit simultaneous submissions; most literary magazines do not.

But here’s the catch—top journals like The Atlantic Monthly, The New Yorker, and Harper’s have very long review cycles, often three to six months.

And he wasn’t Hemingway, William Faulkner, or Helen Keller—those famous writers had editors who provided them with “fast-track reviews.”

Considering the cost-effectiveness, it was better to submit to Black Mask first.

After all, his Bronx Story followed a warm, sentimental path but was essentially urban realism with some risqué scenes. If he were an editor, he would approve it.

With that in mind, Enni decided to submit to Black Mask first.

After their conversation, Puzo, still working part-time, finished reading Enni’s story and had to ride his bicycle to make deliveries.

But there was no rule against seeking help with deliveries.

Enni, having nothing better to do, decided to accompany Puzo on the delivery run.

Later, when Puzo wanted to give Enni half of his pay, Enni declined and openly revealed that he had received $600 from submitting to Amazing Stories.

Puzo stared, exclaiming, “He’s really showing off in front of the master!”

After letting it go for the time being, Puzo made a mental note that once he got published, he would definitely treat Enni to a night out... perhaps to a nightclub or some other risqué venue?

He couldn’t believe Enni’s vivid depictions of erotic scenes were also “drawn from others’ experiences”!

Naturally, Enni had no idea that in Puzo’s mind, he had already become an old lecher.

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After returning the bakery’s bicycle and switching to his own, Puzo rode with Enni to Isaac Asimov’s candy shop.

The three had been in seclusion, creating their works, with only Asimov frequently keeping in touch—this guy was a pure workaholic, staying up all night after plotting the story and finishing his novel in just three days.

Then he kept pestering Enni and Puzo like a tax collector chasing payment.

Asimov’s novel was called The Death Dealer, a story set during World War I involving espionage and murder.

One had to admit, Asimov was a scholar of history and the classics. In an era when information could only be obtained through reading, he crafted the historical backdrop of The Death Dealer with the precision of a biographer, effortlessly incorporating expertise from various disciplines.

It was as if he had grown up in that era himself. Anyone who read the novel would never imagine the author was only a twenty-year-old youth.

However, this time Asimov stuck to his usual style and did not aim for Black Mask. Instead, he planned to submit to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

The three exchanged their novels.

The small room instantly transformed into a “chapel”—only “God” and various words of praise could be heard.

Yet, they all gave honest evaluations of each other’s novels; there was no commercial flattery.

Besides being shocked by Puzo’s evident talent for popular fiction, Asimov was even more stunned by Enni’s Bronx Story.

That was because Puzo had not yet read Dawn of Knowledge, or he wouldn’t think much better of it than Asimov did.

My God... who would have thought that an author’s previous work was a grand, tragic science fiction epic, and the next one would leap to a realistic, critical novel of social realism...

What a tremendous leap!

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