Chapter 91: The Dynamite Boy Nobel

As for literary prizes, their history is actually quite recent; the world’s first literary award was the French Academy Literary Prize, established in 1912 and awarded by the French Academy with sponsorship from the Lemaître-Lalivière Foundation.

But as times changed and developed, literary prizes sprouted everywhere, partly to uncover outstanding but unknown writers and grant them the recognition and material support they deserved.

Not all great writers are immediately known or accepted by the public, and no one can possibly read through the vast ocean of published books to judge them one by one—so from this perspective, literary prizes serve as a form of curated selection and recommendation.

They ensure outstanding works receive proper attention and honor, and in a meaningful way, protect literary diversity, preventing obscure works from minor languages or small nations from being ignored forever.

In this regard, the Nobel Prize for Literature is a prime example; despite the overwhelming controversy surrounding it, with more and more people calling it a self-indulgent joke, it still possesses one decent quality: its global character.

Among past laureates, one always sees obscure writers from tiny nations and their works appearing in the public eye—if the Nobel Prize had never awarded them, these writers and their works would likely never have been seen by anyone else.

In short, at its core, it is merely another form of curated selection; obsessing over it or dismissing it entirely is both misguided.

Moreover, the Nobel Prize for Literature has missed far too many great writers; to name just one, the first recipient in 1901 was the French writer Sully Prudhomme—who defeated whom?

That was Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy, characterized by traits like “suffering from appearance anxiety,” “top-tier heir,” “playboy,” “lover of drink, gambling, and debauchery,” and later “midlife crisis,” “Russia’s mirror,” and so on.

One can only say the matching mechanism was truly bizarre, yet that French writer actually won.

Missing a writer of Tolstoy’s caliber proves nothing but that the Nobel Prize jury of that era was utterly incompetent.

On the other hand, literary prizes have also created massive resource monopolies and insider corruption—this is true worldwide; the Nobel’s flaws are obvious, while the Lu Xun Prize and Mao Dun Prize face heavy controversy, and France’s Goncourt Prize has been harshly criticized by its own critics as having become a tool for publishers to profit.

Returning to the present, in this era, literary prizes are still a fresh concept, so when Mikhail said it, most people present looked at him in surprise.

Fortunately, though novel, the idea was easy to grasp, so after his initial shock, Belinsky asked curiously:

“It sounds feasible, but why did you come up with this idea, Mikhail?”

“On one hand, it’s an incentive—I hope to see more outstanding works in our magazine.”

Here, Mikhail paused deliberately and cast a deep glance at the young Dostoevsky.

That single glance made the young Dostoevsky’s heart race wildly—and Mikhail’s next words accelerated his heartbeat even further:

“We’ll select the winner at year’s end; the prize money is tentatively set at five hundred rubles—if the magazine thrives, the amount may increase.”

Five hundred rubles!

Upon hearing this figure, old Dostoevsky froze in place.

Though he had recently become famous, with invitations and admirers pouring in, his lack of recent writing and poor spending habits left him in constant financial hardship, often surviving on barley tea and stale bread.

If I could win this prize, I, Dostoevsky, might just gamble boldly like Mikhail and finally live a life worthy of admiration.

The classic fantasy sequence began again.

As Dostoevsky daydreamed, someone nearby joked: “Mikhail, you’re just trying to award yourself the prize, aren’t you? Who else could win it if you keep writing for the magazine?”

“Other writers will win it too.”

Mikhail first laughed and waved his hand, then continued: “But I won’t participate in the judging—send us your best works as soon as you have them.”

“It sounds like a fine idea—if this money helps talented writers suffering under poverty, that would be perfect.”

After a moment’s thought, Belinsky nodded in approval: “This is a noble proposal! I fully support it. I believe it will be a groundbreaking initiative, pushing our sluggish literary world forward!”

While Belinsky considered the prize mainly for its benefit to writers, Nekrasov, after serious reflection, felt he truly understood Mikhail’s intention.

On one hand, it would attract more outstanding works and expand the magazine’s influence; on the other, if every Russian writer someday came to regard this prize as their highest honor, what status would our magazine hold?

Mikhail would be remembered by every Russian writer!

If this prize extended beyond Russia…

Nekrasov had just reached this thought when Mikhail continued smiling: “For now, the prize is limited to our magazine, but after a while, we might consider expanding it across all of Russia. If it grows well, extending further isn’t impossible—even extending beyond literature itself.”

Hearing this, most present assumed it was just a somewhat plausible fantasy—how could a small prize possibly grow so vast?

Literary prizes were understandable, but extending beyond literature seemed odd—what was Mikhail’s purpose?

Others dropped the thought, but Nekrasov lingered on it for a long time. At first, it was merely interesting, but somehow, the more he thought, the more he trembled—until only one phrase from Mikhail echoed in his mind:

“For our shared cause!”

What cause was that?

Nekrasov fell silent for a long while, then couldn’t help but cast another deep glance at Mikhail.

Mikhail, sensing Nekrasov’s gaze: “?”

Why does Nekrasov look at me with such a complicated expression? Is there something wrong with the literary prize?

Frankly, Mikhail himself hadn’t thought that far—after all, everything must start with the present; distant goals are merely daydreams.

Of course, if pressed, Mikhail believed those daydreams could one day become reality—after all, when he grew old, he could always leave a will.

By the way, Alfred Bernhard Nobel’s family, though Swedish, moved to St. Petersburg in 1838.

Nobel’s father, Immanuel Nobel, was an inventor; for developing home heating boilers, designing a wooden-wheel manufacturing machine, creating large forging hammers, and upgrading factory equipment, Tsar Nicholas I awarded him a rare honor in 1853.

As for Nobel himself, besides his passion for invention, he long cherished literature—he wrote poetry in youth, plays, and novels in old age, but many of his works were condemned as “seditious and blasphemous” and destroyed after his death.

Though his adult life was consumed by technical inventions and business, leaving him little free time, his love for literature remained as steadfast as his love for science. Literature and science were Nobel’s two spiritual pillars.

So the question arises: if young Alfred Nobel, the dynamite boy, were in St. Petersburg today, he might well have seen Mikhail’s works—and then Mikhail should…

The more he thought, the more unsettling it became.

As Mikhail struggled to maintain composure while recalling, Belinsky asked what seemed a crucial question: “So, Mikhail, what will you name this literary prize? The Mikhail Prize? The Raskolnikov Prize? Both sound quite good.”

“I won’t attach anyone’s name—it belongs to all of us. Anyone might earn this honor, and anyone’s life might be touched by it.”

Waking from thought, seeing everyone’s eyes fixed on him, Mikhail unconsciously gestured, then solemnly named the prize:

“What about ‘The People’? It sounds odd at first, but I believe people will grow accustomed to it. And when it no longer belongs to all of us, it will be time to abolish it.”

Though some found the name unpoetic and lacking in refined depth, since it came from Mikhail, they exchanged glances and burst into playful applause:

“Then let us toast the birth of ‘The People’ Literary Prize today, Mikhail—perhaps you should treat us all to drinks.”

“Next time, for sure.”

Amid the applause, Mikhail waved his hand with a smile, then couldn’t help turning his gaze to the card table:

“Now, let’s play some cards.”

Belinsky, who had just been clapping enthusiastically: “?”

(End of chapter)