Chapter 52: A Novel with a Cinematic Quality

"If this image makes you uncomfortable... gentlemen, perhaps it is the reality that needs to be changed, rather than the mirror."

Edward Weeks recited this final sentence over and over again, deeply moved.

Before reading this piece, he had wondered what kind of approach Enny would use to write his response.

Yet, beyond all expectations... true greatness lies in simplicity.

Throughout the entire article, Enny did not bog himself down in any literary devices; instead, he used a bloody, razor-sharp reality to ruthlessly tear apart the whitewashed words.

Rather than calling this a response to The Saturday Evening Post, it would be more accurate to describe it as a realist masterpiece responding to society and to the era.

"...The hostility and fear in my story are not my inventions. I merely picked up a few ignored newspapers written full of anger."

"...For literature to remain gentle and courteous in the face of such a world is in itself the most profound hypocrisy."

"...My novel will not offer comforting answers. It simply holds up a mirror, reflecting the deep-street shadows of this country and the grittiest underbelly of this era."

These concise, powerful sentences surged within his heart.

At this moment, Edward Weeks had only one feeling—The Post had done a marvelous job.

Had it not been for that piece of criticism, Enny's article would never have been born.

At the same time, another feeling arose within Edward Weeks—The Post was unworthy of this article.

It was like using a cannon to shoot a mosquito; a mere slap of the hand would have sufficed, yet they had wasted an entire volley of shells!

Without hesitation, Edward Weeks made up his mind. "It seems the editorial department will need to work overtime tonight. Because of this article of yours, I've decided to issue an extra special edition this month."

"A temporary special edition?" Enny asked in surprise.

For a time-honored magazine like The Atlantic Monthly, a temporary special issue was a momentous decision.

This was because it concerned not only sales, but also the overall operations of The Atlantic Monthly.

If the content of a hastily compiled special issue was poor and sales slumped, it would only damage the authority of The Atlantic Monthly in the hearts of the American public, branding it as a magazine that had begun churning out shoddy work merely for profit.

Enny voiced these concerns of his.

Edward Weeks adjusted his glasses, completely unconcerned. "The key to responding to The Post is timeliness, so we cannot wait. Besides, an article from you with such a sharp edge will surely capture the attention of many American people.

Compared to a brilliant and profound novel, wouldn't the American public perhaps be much more willing to watch a mutual mudslinging match between two major periodicals?"

Enny burst into laughter.

Well then, just like the stifling atmosphere of later generations, everyone simply wanted to see "rivers of blood"!

Since Edward Weeks had decided to publish a special edition, it was obviously out of the question to feature only "Testimony from the Dust".

Thinking of this, Enny hurriedly asked, "Mr. Weeks, are you short on manuscripts?"

"What, have you written something else? Let me take a look. The manuscript fee can be paid to you along with 'Testimony from the Dust'."

"No, it's my friend Puzo. He has a newly finished manuscript. I've read it, and it is exceptionally well-written—very much in line with The Atlantic Monthly's style of pursuing 'innovative spirit and artistic depth'."

Enny thought to himself that with the original writing style of "The Last Christmas", it was certainly overflowing with innovative spirit.

"Since you put it that way, I simply must take a look. If it's good enough, I won't even need to scramble for submissions for the special edition," Edward Weeks said.

"Great! I'll have my friend copy the manuscript out cleanly as soon as possible."

Having settled this matter, Edward Weeks brought up the manuscript fee for "Testimony from the Dust".

It was ultimately set at five hundred dollars.

For an article of merely around a thousand words, this was unquestionably a high price!

As a rule, only established writers could command this level of remuneration.

Yet Edward Weeks felt that Enny's article was entirely worth the price.

Enny, naturally, gladly accepted.

...

The next morning, early.

Enny and Puzo rode their bicycles together and arrived downstairs at the Houghton Mifflin publishing company.

The two locked up their bicycles and prepared to head upstairs.

Puzo gripped the cleanly copied manuscript in his hand, feeling rather nervous, his palms slick with sweat.

...After all, the person they were about to meet was the editor-in-chief of The Atlantic Monthly.

"There's nothing to be nervous about, it'll definitely be fine."

Enny comforted him, not forgetting to add a particularly crucial piece of advice: "Don't be frightened by Mr. Weeks's expression when he reads; he was born with a long face!"

—Mr. Weeks, currently sipping his tea, suddenly sneezed for no apparent reason.

When the two walked into the editorial department and entered the editor-in-chief's office to see Edward Weeks, he was busy wiping the desk with a handkerchief.

"So sorry, you two, I sneezed and spilled my black tea. Please find a seat anywhere you like."

Edward Weeks spoke apologetically, speeding up his wiping. Once finished, he poured a cup of hot tea for both Enny and Puzo.

After some pleasantries, Puzo wasn't quite as nervous anymore and handed the manuscript over to Edward Weeks for review.

This piece, "The Last Christmas", was quite long, and it took Edward Weeks a full half-hour to finish reading it.

Furthermore, because the novel adopted a multi-line narrative structure—involving the interwoven perspectives of a bar of soap, Bacon, three criminals, a police officer, and Larry, with clues linking back to other chapters buried within each character's section—Edward Weeks would frequently finish reading a chapter, only to realize upon reaching the next that hidden, identical elements were at play, prompting him to flip back and reread the previous section.

This "immersive puzzle-solving" reading experience completely mesmerized Edward Weeks, causing him to lose all track of time.

It wasn't until the final paragraph, the very last line, and the ultimate word of the story fell that Edward Weeks glanced down at his watch and was startled to realize that half an hour had already passed.

Setting down the thick stack of manuscript pages, Edward Weeks, wearing his characteristically gloomy expression, picked up his black tea and took a sip to quench his thirst.

Although Enny had told him not to be influenced by the editor's facial expression, Puzo grew extremely nervous as he watched Edward Weeks's deadpan seriousness.

"Mr. Mario Puzo," Edward Weeks said, setting down his teacup, "I have never seen a structure like the one in this novel before, but there is no denying... it is exceptionally well-written!"

Puzo froze for a moment, the boulder in his chest finally dropping as a wave of joy welled up within him.

Edward Weeks leaned back into his leather armchair, folding his hands across his stomach with a faint smile, still savoring the passages where the plot threads converged.

[...Amidst the wind and snow of a Manhattan night, precisely a single snowflake chanced to land upon Jennie's lowered eyelashes and her withered, yellow hair. Jennie kept her head down, the brilliant gemstone reflected in her clear gaze, and gave a soft smile. She knew that from now on, no one would ever send her gifts again; this was her last Christmas.]

He remained immersed in the lingering, powerful tension of the story, feeling as though he had just finished watching a crime film that combined suspense, thrills, a battle of human nature, and warmth.

"This novel is flawless in both innovation and artistic depth, and it even uses words and narrative to forge a texture comparable to cinema. I will certainly publish it in The Atlantic Monthly!"