[{"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-78":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},2317253,4531,"Chapter 78: Profits and Illusions: Old Dostoevsky (Combined)","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-78",78,"\u003Cp>Mikhail could understand Nekrasov’s arrival; after all, the anthology’s sales truly concerned their very survival—if it failed, Nekrasov might never again stand tall before Panayeva, and Mikhail himself might have to seriously consider swallowing his pride and living off others’ support.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Precisely because of this, unlike Mikhail’s infantile sleep, Nekrasov had been too agitated to sleep at all the night before publication; he tossed and turned for half the night, then simply gave up, got dressed, and headed out to observe the bookstore’s situation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Following Mikhail’s advice, Nekrasov had already approached the owners of Petersburg’s well-known bookstores and cafés—places steeped in cultural atmosphere—spent considerable money, and received satisfactory responses; now all that remained was to see how the anthology performed.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Nekrasov had thought he arrived absurdly early, yet he discovered someone else arrived at nearly the same time—and headed to the same bookstore.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>With mixed excitement and anxiety, Nekrasov picked a spot and began waiting, determined to see what would happen.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As time passed, Nekrasov’s agitation grew until he could no longer sit still—he leapt up on the spot and rushed straight to Mikhail.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>On the way, he happened upon Dostoevsky, muttering to himself as he held the anthology; after greeting him, Nekrasov noticed Dostoevsky too was visibly shaken by Mikhail’s new work, so he grabbed him and brought him along.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail, upon hearing the whole story: “.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Looks like I won’t be sleeping in today.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After Nekrasov arrived, he and Turgenev, along with old Dostoevsky, excitedly chattered for a long while, then all three turned to Mikhail and said:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Mikhail, read us your poem! Nothing else can lift the spirit like your verse!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail: “.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I’m still half-asleep—how am I supposed to recite for you?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Wait till I’ve washed up, then we’ll go out and talk.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seeing the three nearly hugging each other in his tiny room, Mikhail realized sleep was impossible; he invited them to take a walk afterward and have tea or coffee.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail didn’t make them wait long; soon, four men of markedly different appearances walked down the street.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The best-dressed, most dignified was old Turgenev; slightly less so was old Dostoevsky; next came Nekrasov; at the bottom of the clothing hierarchy, without doubt, was Mikhail, still wearing the same overcoat for three or four years.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yet somehow, this small group seemed to orbit around Mikhail.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The four men walked straight toward a famous Petersburg café.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In today’s Russia, nearly ninety-five percent of the land still lived in traditional agrarian ways; only in Petersburg and Moscow did life begin to catch up with the fashions of old France and England.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>One such fashion was the emergence of public spaces like cafés, where cultured or culturally curious people gathered to discuss art, philosophy, boast, and above all, debate politics.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, in Petersburg, such talk wasn’t as brazen as in revolutionary France; most occurred quietly in private salons.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even so, many educated youths or Russians deeply enamored with European culture were eager to linger here, whether to appear fashionable or for other reasons.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Normally, cafés buzzed with countless topics—but today, the conversation was strangely unified.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When Mikhail’s group arrived, the usually noisy café had fallen strangely quiet—only one voice loudly reading a novel echoed through the room.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Usually, reading novels aloud happened privately; in public, how could one be sure everyone would care for the same story?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But perhaps because the author named Mikhail had recently published works of exceptional concision and clarity, many were now willing to spend time reading or listening—and the novel being read now was unmistakably “The Coward,” newly appeared in the anthology.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When the story ended, the café erupted like boiling water; voices surged everywhere, many reaching Mikhail’s ears:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Why is he so timid when demanding what’s rightfully his? What’s yours, you must fight for! Constant surrender gets you nothing.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You make it sound too simple—can you always fight back? Someone or some system always binds your hands, leaving you paralyzed!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You mean—?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Hey! Petrov! Are you pretending ignorance?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Her constant ‘Merci’ drives me mad—unable to resist injustice, why then accept it so instinctively? Spiritual cowardice is deadlier than physical submission!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Mikhail listened intently, Turgenev beside him suddenly spoke: “Mikhail, if they recognize you, they’ll beg you to speak to everyone! Too bad you rarely appear at salons and gatherings—if you did, they’d know you instantly!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail: “.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Speak? What would I say? That Russia shouldn’t be this way?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even if elsewhere, do you really think the Tsar’s light doesn’t reach a café in his own backyard?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He waved off the matter, and the group ordered a few things to clear their heads; no need for Mikhail to recite poetry now—soon, passionate verse readings filled the café again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>While the novel provoked questions and reflection, this poem—vague in reference yet vast and alive—delivered a far fiercer emotional impact, stirring something inexplicably profound.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Poetry, by nature, is the most condensed art, saturated with intense emotion; its long-standing status as the crown of literature means it strikes people more directly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This left Mikhail in the café feeling his head buzz—voices surged from all sides; an outsider might think a riot was about to break out.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Unlike Mikhail’s headache, the three others at the table watched the scene with faint envy; Nekrasov couldn’t help turning to Mikhail: “Listen, Mikhail—they’re all talking about you. If my poems ever received this treatment, I’d have no regrets.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Your poem ‘On the Road’ is already good enough.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Hearing Nekrasov’s words, Mikhail replied seriously: “I feel your courage and sincerity in it—it will be cited again and again.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Thank you, Mikhail.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Moved, Nekrasov suddenly asked: “By the way, may I ask—what does the sun in your poem represent? If it’s just a natural image, why emphasize it so repeatedly?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail offered no elaborate explanation; he simply pointed to his chest: “Everyone will have their own answer. What matters is grasping that moment of emotional eruption, feeling your true inner thoughts and hidden corners.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You’re right.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Nekrasov, in a daze, seemed to grasp something; he nodded thoughtfully: “I think I see a new technique in your poem—I might try using it myself.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Go ahead, Nikolai. Judging by our anthology’s sales, you’ll soon pay off your debts and have time to write poetry properly.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For a future great poet like Nekrasov, others’ artistic insights became nourishment, not interference; Mikhail wasn’t worried this poem would harm him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Upon hearing “pay off debts,” Dostoevsky, who had been shy, suddenly snapped awake and blurted:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Nikolai, Mikhail—how many copies did you print? Given the current momentum, I’d guess two thousand might sell out.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He knew the price wasn’t cheap; to see his own novel and others’ early, he’d rushed out to buy it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Had he not received over a hundred rubles in royalties from Nekrasov for “Poor Folk,” buying this book might have truly hurt his pocket.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yet even so, after repaying some debts and splurging on gifts, Dostoevsky suddenly realized his new royalties were nearly gone.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Back to the point: judging by the current sales of “The Petersburg Anthology,” Mikhail and Nekrasov’s gamble had almost certainly succeeded—three rubles per copy, two thousand copies meant six thousand rubles!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even after costs, profits would be substantial—nearly matching his inheritance!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wonderful—Mikhail’s gamble truly might pay off; so his words must be right.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seeing Dostoevsky’s face darken as he asked, Mikhail’s heart sank—he was about to deflect or play the victim—when Nekrasov, overexcited, blurted:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“More than that! We printed four or five thousand! And some, per Mikhail’s suggestion, are deluxe and commemorative editions—priced higher!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail: “.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Nekrasov just blacked out.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Mikhail’s vision darkened, young Dostoevsky stood frozen, as if struck by lightning.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Four or five thousand copies—even at current prices—meant fifteen thousand rubles!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Nearly ten times his inheritance!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And if Mikhail invested barely two thousand rubles, the return was two to three hundred percent!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At this thought, Mikhail’s words echoed again in Dostoevsky’s ears:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“To invest everything is itself a kind of wisdom.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If Mikhail can do this, then I, Dostoevsky, can too.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fantasy—young Dostoevsky began fantasizing again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Dostoevsky sank into fantasy, Turgenev asked curiously:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“By the way, what’s a deluxe edition? I heard from bookstore clerks it hasn’t even gone on sale yet—sounds impressive.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“For these editions, we used superior paper, finer illustrations, and the best covers and packaging. They’ll be offered exclusively to families with deep artistic taste and good breeding—they’ll surely be interested.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Oh?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Turgenev’s interest sparked: “Then I must buy one. What’s the price?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Mikhail says at least ten rubles.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Nekrasov glanced uncertainly at Mikhail before adding: “And if sales are strong, the price may rise further.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Hmm?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Turgenev paused, then laughed easily: “Not expensive at all—even higher wouldn’t bother me. I’ll buy one for sure.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail, watching Turgenev boast: “.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>You’re saying it’s cheap now—when did your living allowance arrive? I heard you’re borrowing everywhere again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Send me fifty rubles and prove your worth.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail shook his head in disbelief, but from Turgenev’s reaction, he realized: for a nobleman with means, such money was nothing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In short: deluxe editions were definitely worth it—prices could rise further. After all, who enjoys cutting the grass more than cutting the nobles’?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Mikhail reconsidered pricing, Dostoevsky beside him trembled again upon hearing the price.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His gaze toward Mikhail grew hotter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sorry for the wait—tomorrow’s still six thousand words, likely at the same time. Thank you for your support.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>(End of chapter)\u003C\u002Fp>",1569,"2026-06-20T14:41:53.633Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","b14624695ad7c5be7aec4ac37c9ff9f229acb44af0eb375d98b113bb6742b898","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-79","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-77",105,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-cover.jpg"]