[{"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-87":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},2317262,4531,"Chapter 87: The Prestige of the Cultural Sphere and Mikhail","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-87",87,"\u003Cp>Regarding why Mikhail and his team raised the manuscript fee standard for the magazine “The Modern Man,” it was partly in response to the times, as the publishing industry became increasingly commercialized and Russian writers’ awareness of royalties and copyright grew stronger.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This trend began as early as the time of Russia’s literary giant Pushkin, who once joked in a letter to his poet friend Vyazemsky: “I write for myself, publish to earn money—not to win a beauty’s smile.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Pushkin, though a genius poet, also understood the commercial mechanics of publishing; for instance, before publishing “Eugene Onegin” in full, he released each chapter individually, earning money chapter by chapter, then again with the complete collection.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Thus, the serialized excerpts and the full volume reportedly earned over thirty thousand rubles in fees, making “Eugene Onegin” one of the highest-earning novels in Russian classical literature—Pushkin was undeniably the most commercially astute writer.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>One can only say the giant was still the giant, always ahead of his time; yet due to his extravagance, family expenses, and professional costs, Pushkin often sank into deep debt and lived a rather miserable life.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Returning to the present, while some wealthy gentlemen still willingly donate their manuscripts for Russia’s cultural cause, the market has matured considerably—raising manuscript fees was merely a matter of time.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After all, higher fees naturally attract better submissions; otherwise, relying on only a few writers could never sustain a magazine.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, if one insists Mikhail could do it alone, that would be downright monstrous…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As for why Krayevsky of “The Fatherland Chronicle” still clings to exploitation, it’s simply because it brings more profit—and if it ain’t broke, why fix it?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But someone must take the first step, regardless.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Thus, to enhance the influence of their newly acquired magazine and simultaneously cultivate their reputation in the cultural sphere, Mikhail, after consulting with Nekrasov, Belinsky, and others who shared this vision, quickly finalized the decision.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Once the news broke, it stirred considerable upheaval within cultural circles.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For writers and poets struggling to make ends meet through their pen, this was undoubtedly excellent news—many had already begun discussing it in various settings:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“How about it? Is that news true?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Confirmed! One gentleman present even said with pity: ‘You’re wasting money like mad!’ They replied: ‘If the magazine thrives, we’ll raise the fees further—we’re writers too, and underpaying contributors is shameful.’ What noble words!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I heard this initiative came from those two young men—they offered Vissarion a high salary, and paid far more for outstanding manuscripts than any current magazine. What a bold move!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I must try submitting—though they’ve only just taken over ‘The Modern Man,’ rumors say a large number of readers have already pre-ordered!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Of course they have! Don’t you know how many people in St. Petersburg have been discussing their anthology lately? Yes, there are many criticisms—many stories in the anthology aren’t refined—but everyone knows Mikhail’s earlier novels were the same.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Every issue, I see other magazines questioning his style, his stance, his leanings—but in truth, everyone remembers those few stories. Each one is unforgettable!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The “St. Petersburg Anthology” is no different: though criticism abounds, countless people are talking about it, and sales are strong. I believe Petersburg readers are gradually accepting this new literary direction.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But what exactly is this new direction?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I heard from friends in the circle that Vissarion is drafting an article on it, and with Mikhail’s help, they seem determined to raise a new banner in Russian literature!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I can’t define this new direction precisely, but I’m certain: these stories move people deeply and strike at the heart of Russia’s current social reality and its broadest masses.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Poems that stir noble emotions are precious, but they remain too distant from the ground—nothing compares to the raw power of things that happen right here on earth.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Such discussions had already taken place everywhere since Mikhail first appeared in the literary world; at first, he bore the fiercest attacks—but since he had little money and rarely attended literary gatherings, he felt these voices less acutely.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yet to others, Mikhail alone seemed to be stirring the nerves of St. Petersburg’s literary circle; once he had stirred them sufficiently, other writers’ stories, sharing similar style and tendencies, began appearing in magazines.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Had his work been mediocre, it would have been buried under the flood of criticism—but precisely because his stories left many unforgettable, this new direction forcibly carved its way out from among other trends.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>By the time of the “St. Petersburg Anthology,” many were delighted to see other stories of this style and tendency—once interest had taken root, how could one author possibly suffice?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Others’ works, though inferior to his, were still quite decent. No, the quality of “The Poor” was astonishingly high—discussions around it rivaled those surrounding Mikhail’s own novels and poems.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yet, perhaps because Mikhail had already stirred people’s nerves with his earlier stories, criticism of “The Poor” was not overwhelming; when it did arise, critics often dragged Mikhail into the fray as well.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though criticism was plentiful, sales of the anthology were undeniably strong—and those who found it worthwhile, upon seeing new news about the magazine and its stories in the press, could hardly remain indifferent.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Frankly, if the rumors circulating hadn’t carried some weight, “The Modern Man”’s pre-orders might have been even higher; currently, some readers have been influenced by the gossip and plan to wait until the first issue is released before buying.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Once “The Modern Man”’s pre-orders spread within a certain range, writers and poets who had previously watched from the sidelines gained confidence and began preparing to submit their new manuscripts—either through intermediaries or by approaching the publisher and editor directly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>To be honest, St. Petersburg’s cultural circle is not large; news spreads quickly among them, and since they all have some degree of connection, having even a slight link makes it easy to hand in manuscripts directly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As a newly acquired magazine, Nekrasov and his team naturally needed high-quality submissions—and upon hearing of an exceptional manuscript, they would personally visit to request it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This behavior had an immediate impact on “The Fatherland Chronicle”; if Krayevsky had recently been angered by “The Modern Man”’s pre-orders, he now had no time for that—he was busy dealing with remarks like:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Mr. Krayevsky, if I send my article to ‘The Modern Man,’ they’ll pay me far more!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For ordinary authors, Krayevsky would simply reply coldly: “Then send it to them—I’ll never accept another word from you.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But if the manuscript was one he himself valued highly, Krayevsky had no choice but to raise the fee.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Krayevsky had repeatedly shouted this to colleagues similarly affected: “They’re fostering a toxic culture in literature! What kind of despicable competition is this? I predict—if they keep spending like this, they’ll make not a single ruble from their magazine!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“This management will bankrupt them!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Some believed him, others doubted—but for the young Andrei, who had been deeply moved by the story “The Wimp” just recently, all he wanted was to find a way to join the new magazine.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The fee mattered little; Andrei wanted to be closer to the young writer who had produced such extraordinary work.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fortunately, as a minor noble with some connections in St. Petersburg, Andrei quickly reached out to the men of “The Modern Man” through intermediaries; though contacting them was easy, meeting the young publisher was another matter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The new editors of “The Modern Man” replied:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Too many young authors want to meet him. He’s willing to spare time, but with so many requests, if you wish to do the same, you’ll have to wait a while.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I’m willing to wait.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Andrei replied without hesitation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So he waited several more days; when he finally received word, he dressed meticulously, donned his finest clothes, tidied his appearance, and, nerves trembling, walked toward “The Modern Man”’s newly rented office.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Due to limited funds, the magazine’s office was small; fortunately, staff were few. As Andrei entered, he saw only a few messy desks and editors passionately debating a story.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They were so absorbed and enthusiastic they didn’t notice Andrei’s arrival; out of politeness, he waited quietly for a long time, gradually infected by their energy—so much so that he nearly stepped forward to ask which story they were discussing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After a long while, someone finally noticed him and hurried over:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Apologies, sir—what brings you here? Submission?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I’m here to meet the honorable Mikhail Romanovich.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Andrei involuntarily showed humility: “I’ve already made an appointment.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Then you must be Andrei?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The young editor, seemingly no older than Andrei himself, nodded knowingly, confirmed his identity, and promptly led him upstairs.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Clearly, though the space was small, an esteemed publisher and writer like Mikhail would likely have his own private office.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>With this thought, Andrei followed the editor upstairs. The second floor was also small, with few rooms—perhaps only two or three from the staircase to the end. When they arrived, the editor pointed:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The room at the very end—Mikhail Romanovich is inside his office now.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seeing the editor had no intention of accompanying him further, Andrei took a deep breath, suppressed the violent spasms in his abdomen, and walked slowly forward. After what felt like an endless path, he finally raised a trembling hand and knocked on the door of the innermost room.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Come in.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As that voice, as if from beyond the heavens, sounded, Andrei steeled himself, gripped his manuscript tightly, and slowly pushed open the door.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As he entered, a large, empty desk gradually came into view—quill pen, ink, several sheets of pristine paper, a vase with flowers—and a figure seated in the chair emerged slowly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The gentleman was neatly dressed, not lavish but plainly modest; his fingers, knuckles clearly defined, held the quill as he wrote on the paper. When he finally looked up, Andrei saw a face impossibly young—even younger than himself, flushed with vitality.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though the gentleman appeared remarkably young and gentle, Andrei involuntarily stiffened, stood rigidly, and stammered: “Hello, honored sir.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Why are you standing? Find a seat.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Andrei had barely finished speaking when he heard that otherworldly voice again; before he could react, the gentleman rose, poured tea, and walked toward him:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Please sit. Don’t be formal. Would you like some tea?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>What followed afterward felt hazy, dreamlike; when Andrei finally walked out of the office as if sleepwalking, his mind was filled entirely with that young face.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>(End of chapter)\u003C\u002Fp>",1735,"2026-06-20T14:41:53.633Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","df0cc33cb47819b1e8dce21645cac008383140d0c6c779a73e7a8f9306268f51","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-88","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-86",105,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-cover.jpg"]