[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia":3,"chapter-my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-6":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","My Life as a Literary Giant in Russia",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2317181,4531,"Chapter 6: Contemporary Russian Literature","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-6",6,"\u003Cp>Thanks to the few rubles he’d earned a few days ago, Mikhail’s diet had seen a major upgrade—he’d successfully evolved from boiling water to pig feed…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, the diet of ordinary Russians during this period was generally poor.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If one was unlucky enough to be born a serf, they might go their entire life eating meat only a few times, surviving mostly on grain they grew themselves; even if they labored tirelessly in the fields, pouring tons of sweat into this insatiable land, food shortages remained common.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Who knows why it was this way—or rather, who cares? After all, this group was easiest to control.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For other classes, you had to tear out their bones to make them crawl to you; but for this group, even if you raised a club, they’d still thank you for it!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In today’s Russian literary circles, there are two radically different portrayals of serfs and commoners in literature.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>One group, represented by Pushkin, depicts peasants and ordinary people as exceptionally simple, kind, and pure—but such praise is merely a delusional fantasy of noble lords about their rural estates.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The other group, represented by Gogol, exposes the absurdity, darkness, selfishness, and narrow-mindedness of the serfs.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But this exposure isn’t truly a critique of the group itself; rather, it uses these figures to reflect the spiritual oppression and devastation inflicted by the serfdom system.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I mention all this because, in recent days, Mikhail has spent much time walking the streets and alleys of St. Petersburg, observing people’s lives and browsing bookstores to see what contemporary writers were writing, all to better understand Russia’s current landscape and literary trends.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>What he saw made him laugh.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After all, Pushkin and Gogol, mentioned above, were relatively progressive poets and writers of this era.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But many other writers’ works were truly hollow, dull, and boring.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After all, writing was a relatively luxurious hobby; mostly only wealthy, idle nobles could afford to engage in it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>There were virtually no civilian writers.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Thus, in bookstores, aside from a few surviving ancient texts, most books were either about nobles’ trivial romantic affairs or hymns to nobles and heroes; commoners and serfs were mentioned rarely, and when they were, they were rarely portrayed positively—often depicted as stupid, absurd, and comical.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This absurdity and comedy wasn’t Gogol’s style; it was simply nobles looking down on the lower classes with condescension and amusement.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In comparison, the yellow story collections and gossip pamphlets aimed at the urban populace were far more interesting.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>One can only say that every era is flooded with literary trash, and the works that survive and become famous—those very texts in Mikhail’s mind—would be enough to land him on the gallows in this era…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Just thinking about it made Mikhail’s neck itch…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After all, he wasn’t a noble-born Pushkin, Turgenev, or Tolstoy; the Tsar might hesitate to touch them out of face, but someone like Mikhail—a common nobody—could be crushed with a flick of the finger.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, even nobles who dabbled too heavily in political critique risked losing their heads.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But even though his neck itched, he still had to write.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As for food, compared to serfs who ate sour rye bread and other grains year after year, urban residents had slightly more varied diets: rye bread, pickled fish, cheap sausages, and occasional street snacks.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As for the middle class and noble lords, Mikhail couldn’t even imagine what they ate.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail’s current standard of living hovered somewhere between that of ordinary residents and serfs.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A bit of rye bread mixed with sawdust and full of bran, some leftover vegetable broth, and if he was lucky, a cup of tea with barely a few leaves in it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Eating was hard; living conditions were no better.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The space was barely six paces long—he couldn’t even pace back and forth; one turn of his hips and he hit the wall.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The last time the three of them talked, they’d practically been hugging each other.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The wallpaper was yellowed and covered in dust, peeling off everywhere; the ceiling was too low—Mikhail dared not stretch too far.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As for sleeping, there was just a heavy, bulky sofa; when no one was around, it was Mikhail’s bed; when visitors came, it became their seating.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When Mikhail wanted to sleep, he’d just lay a sheet over it, lie down, and cover himself with his worn-out student coat; his head rested on a small pillow.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It might seem bearable, but if he slept in the wrong position, back and waist pain were common.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And yet, in this environment, Mikhail finally completed his work—he’d written a new short story.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The rest could wait; right now, he desperately needed payment to improve his life, and above all, to handle matters at home.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail had reread the family letter twice these past days; combined with his memories, he clearly understood: his sister felt no affection for the clerk—he’d simply pursued her relentlessly, and under the pressure of their family’s situation, the seventeen-year-old girl had finally made her decision.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The reply had already been sent, but more than that, she needed to see tangible results and returns; otherwise, it was all just empty talk.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So after finishing the story, Mikhail did a final check, then spent a few kopecks to find the maid Nastasya and ask her to mail it for him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Having written through the night, Mikhail was barely holding on—the damn Russian language was far harder to write than he’d imagined.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Plus, he couldn’t even find the post office, so he had no choice but to let Nastasya handle it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“What’s this, Mikhail?” The maid Nastasya, not wearing her uniform, took his manuscript and lifted it up in astonishment, examining it closely:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“A love letter to your little sweetheart? So thick—if she’s the meanest, cruelest girl from our village, she might even shed a tear from your sincerity.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“It’s a short story, Nastasya.” Mikhail knew she couldn’t read, so he patiently explained: “Make sure it doesn’t get damaged—it’s very important to me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Half-drowsy, he only realized afterward that something felt off.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Telling this gossiping maid was no different than telling everyone else in the apartment.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“A short story? Oh God, no wonder you’re a university student.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail wasn’t sure if her tone carried mockery, but clearly, she was excited.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Nastasya, make sure no one else finds out about this.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Since he was writing such things, Mikhail thought it best to stay low-key—he added again: “It’s just a small experiment.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Don’t worry, Mikhail.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The old maid Nastasya, her eyes gleaming green, assured him:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Everyone in Arkhangelsk Volzogre Village knows my lips are tighter than a widow’s door.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail: “.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>What the hell was she mumbling?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>What village?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>(End of chapter)\u003C\u002Fp>",1118,"2026-06-20T14:41:53.633Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","beda2048a5c47ed25951ba9687c676d88df85c188fd835b0b7d7cc4b78348a53","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-7","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-5",105,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-cover.jpg"]