[{"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-88":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},2317263,4531,"Chapter 88: Turgenev","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-88",88,"\u003Cp>After finally seeing off another young writer, Mikhail, who had been smiling serenely in his chair, suddenly slumped back, staring blankly at the spacious ceiling as he questioned the meaning of life.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>These past few days had truly worn him out to the bone.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Originally, during the founding of the magazine, Mikhail had merely played the role of investor and encourager: securing funding through large loans to ensure the publisher’s finances stayed stable, and discussing major editorial issues with Nekrasov and others, while also boosting everyone’s morale to keep moving forward.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Neither task was particularly complex; if anything, Nekrasov and Belinsky bore the heaviest workload—Nekrasov handled all financial affairs and miscellaneous duties, including securing the relatively decent office building they now occupied, which he had rented cheaply after extensive inquiries.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As for Belinsky, he single-handedly assembled the editorial team for *The Contemporary*. In those days, finding editors was no easy feat—intellectuals willing to work for a magazine were scarce to begin with, and given *The Contemporary*’s clearly progressive and radical leanings, the pool of eligible candidates was even smaller.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fortunately, Belinsky had an extensive network, and even when he couldn’t find people immediately, he simply acted as if he were three or four men himself…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail did have a few candidates in mind for editors, but timing never aligned with their availability.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Among them, the legendary Chernyshevsky, who had been exiled for a total of twenty-one years, wouldn’t enter the History and Literature Department of Saint Petersburg University until next year.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Two other young critics who would profoundly influence Russian intellectual circles around the same time—Pisarev and Dobrolyubov—were currently enjoying their relatively carefree childhoods.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>To be honest, if these three ever gathered together and started a battle, the magazine would be crushed under iron fists…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In short, professional matters should be left to professionals; Mikhail had only ever intended to be an ordinary shareholder of the magazine. But whether because he talked too much or because he was an encouraging personality, rumors spread that *The Contemporary* had been founded entirely by Mikhail, and that Nekrasov and Belinsky were merely his employees. Mikhail could only mutter, “This is absurd.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yet Nekrasov and Belinsky seemed to find nothing wrong with this claim, repeatedly acknowledging it in public, expressing deep admiration for Mikhail’s decisiveness and exceptional vision.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail: “…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Dammit, I’ve been governing by mere presence…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As these rumors grew more widespread, more writers, poets, and publishers from other magazines began seeking to meet Mikhail.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After all, with *The Contemporary*’s momentum clearly improving, anyone hoping for future exchanges, collaborations, or other opportunities knew they had to make an impression on the magazine’s most influential figure.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Now that things had reached this point, Mikhail had no choice but to step forward.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If the magazine wished to develop healthily, it inevitably had to interact with writers, poets, critics, and others—and in their eyes, if Mikhail consistently refused to meet them, it would be seen as *The Contemporary* looking down on them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Thus, Mikhail quickly bought himself a decent set of clothes, sat down in the office Nekrasov had reserved for him, and began receiving one by one the writers and other influential figures from Saint Petersburg’s cultural circles.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though he had been poor for so long that he found his new role deeply uncomfortable, the series of events earlier had already trained him well.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even if his heart was nervous and uneasy, his face showed no sign of it—he maintained composure before these so-called influential figures, conversed with them about the state of Saint Petersburg’s publishing industry, discussed how they should interact and collaborate, and reached certain mutual understandings on standard industry practices…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It sounded impressive, but Mikhail insisted: I’m just bluffing—I really don’t understand any of this…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fortunately, it was just casual talk, and because of his reputation, others held preconceived notions of him, so as the conversation flowed, some couldn’t help exclaiming: “Mr. Mikhail, your insight is profound!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>That sounded awfully ominous…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As for the young poets and writers, they tended to be nervous around Mikhail, for in their eyes he was already an authority figure who had founded his own magazine.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>There was nothing to say here—just treat them politely. Mikhail himself was young, so he would never adopt the haughty airs of some old-timer; he had no interest whatsoever in manipulating others, even though some people clearly enjoyed doing so.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Perhaps because some had repeatedly been rebuffed or manipulated by other authorities, seeing Mikhail’s warmth and courtesy moved them deeply—they nearly grabbed his hands and burst into tears.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In fact, Turgenev’s eventual rise as literary patriarch was partly due to this—he was gentle, frequently invited others to meals, and was always eager to mentor newcomers; even when a young writer recited a draft he thought was terrible, Turgenev would patiently listen to the end and offer mild, thoughtful comments.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, in private, he would still complain about it to others.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But strictly speaking, Turgenev’s literary predictions about his contemporaries almost never came true.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For instance, he once predicted that a law student named Apukhin would achieve fame equal to Pushkin and Lermontov through his poetic talent.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It turned out to be nonsense.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And sometimes Turgenev was simply unreliable—for example, he once rushed excitedly to Nekrasov, claiming he’d heard a young man recite his debut work, so magnificent that he’d been compelled to lay down his pen, lest he appear inadequate before this genius.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He urged Nekrasov to obtain the manuscript immediately, insisting it would bring five hundred new subscribers to the magazine.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But when Nekrasov finally got it, he found the story filled with duchesses and countesses, overflowing with flowery language and obscure philosophical musings.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And now, Turgenev had more than once publicly declared:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Gentlemen! Just watch! Mikhail—dear Mikhail! He will be one of the greatest writers of our age! Without question! He will also achieve fame in poetry equal to Pushkin and Lermontov!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail: “.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seriously, don’t you dare overhype me to death.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Or are you trying to salvage your literary prophecy reputation, you bastard Turgenev?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>By the way, after finishing his novel under Belinsky’s pressure, Turgenev hurried off to the countryside to “reflect.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Reflect,” he called it—but he was almost certainly just fleeing Belinsky’s wrath.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Back to the matter at hand: Mikhail was courteous, but whether a manuscript got published still depended entirely on its quality.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had his own aesthetic judgment, too—his reading volume was substantial, and after months of diligent study, he could now easily judge basic literary merit.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The manuscripts sent to him were sometimes dull beyond belief, as if dug up from the last century; others were mediocre, neither good nor bad; still others were so aggressively polemical that Mikhail’s eyelids kept twitching.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But strong aggression didn’t mean strong literary merit—literary works were not propaganda slogans; when too much of a piece consisted of slogans, it ceased to be good literature.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Moreover, his meeting with this particularly aggressive young man left a deep impression on Mikhail.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The man showed no fear whatsoever, and blurted out: “I’ve emerged from your works! But perhaps that damned censorship system restrained you, preventing you from speaking freely. So I will write down everything I’ve felt from your writings.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mikhail: “.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Alright, you’ve got spirit.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But if you write like this, you’ll never pass censorship.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Still, Mikhail took the manuscript and planned to send it to Belinsky for review, to see if it had any chance of publication.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As always: professional matters belong to professionals. Mikhail never hastily judged any manuscript—he always consulted others, listened to their opinions—but in the end, everyone still looked to him for the final decision.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though Mikhail usually had a clear sense during discussions whether a manuscript could be published, when it came time to make the actual decision, he still felt deeply insecure.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ultimately, he still needed to keep adapting to his current role.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After resting for a while in the relatively comfortable office chair, Mikhail finally regained his composure. Next, he’d have to meet two more young writers. Thinking of how, after these meetings, he could take his mother and sister out for a meal, he smiled—and his gaze hardened instantly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Soon, a knock came again at the door.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>(End of Chapter)\u003C\u002Fp>",1370,"2026-06-20T14:41:53.633Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","9acc8ef3fdb0506e6534c4bf79c9b897ba360c2fd5ca25f2a99525abd3b20d4b","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-89","my-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-chapter-87",105,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-literary-giant-in-russia-cover.jpg"]