Chapter 24: Literature That Escapes Reality Is a Betrayal of the Age

"Ms. Ellison, there is no need for such formality. Please, have a seat."

"Is this the black coffee you ordered for me? Thank you."

Edward Weeks smiled faintly. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened, and his greying temples caught the light, giving him an air of shimmering wisdom. In just a few seconds, Fanny felt herself won over by the steady, composed demeanor radiating from this veteran editor.

He was, after all, an editor whose revisions were so demanding that even Raymond Chandler had given up on collaborating with *The Atlantic Monthly*. His confidence in his own literary judgment and his authority in the industry were self-evident.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Fanny Ellison handed the manuscript of *A Bronx Tale* to Weeks.

Weeks nodded, withdrew a fountain pen from his breast pocket for notes, and sat straight as a slender paper cutter—meticulous and elegant as he opened the manuscript. He lowered his head to begin his review, his expression turning quite solemn, entirely stripped of the easygoing manner he had displayed moments before.

Most people unfamiliar with Edward Weeks would, upon seeing this expression, mistakenly conclude that the manuscript was poor. Those who knew him, however, understood that this was simply Edward Weeks’s natural state.

Though Fanny had heard many rumors about Weeks, facing that expression in person made her feel undeniably nervous. It was not a concern for the quality of the story, but rather a fear that Weeks might reject the "racism" depicted within the novel.

Indeed, Edward Weeks was a highly progressive editor, but this was their first meeting, and she did not know the limits of his tolerance for novels exploring racial issues.

Of course, Weeks was entirely unaware of Fanny Ellison’s concerns; otherwise, he might have found them absurd. He had long wanted to introduce pieces on "racial issues" to *The Atlantic Monthly*. Thus, when Chandler contacted him to meet Fanny Ellison and provided an excellent, eligible manuscript written by a white author, he was naturally delighted.

As for the "limit" Fanny worried about—a matter he was oblivious to—he could not have cared less. On the contrary, as long as the story was well-written, the limits did not matter. After all, Weeks had always believed that once literature began setting limits on racial discourse to coddle the sensibilities of white readers, it lost its meaning. To evade reality in literature was to betray the era.

As he progressed through the pages, Edward Weeks’s brow remained tightly furrowed, but his heart began to relax. He had encountered a rare masterpiece.

***

Fanny remained anxious, unable to gauge his thoughts from his expression during the review. However, this uncertainty was soon broken by a detail she noticed.

Edward Weeks, known as a "revision demon" by Chandler, had not once reached for his fountain pen to make a correction or note in the ten minutes that had passed. There were only two possibilities: either the manuscript was total garbage, rotten beyond repair and fit only for a rewrite, or the quality was perfect, leaving nothing to be changed.

Fanny Ellison thought this, and the corners of her mouth lifted silently.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Edward Weeks finished reading the story in detail. He looked up, his face wearing an expression of lingering satisfaction, his eyes full of admiration. He then tucked his unused fountain pen back into his breast pocket.

"Ms. Ellison, is this author truly a newcomer, rather than a famous writer hiding behind a pseudonym?"

Weeks asked with genuine wonder. After sipping his coffee, he added, "What I mean is, this author’s creativity is so inspired. If I had to use an analogy, I feel there is something of *Aesop’s Fables* in it. It uses the simplest narrative structure and fully realized characters to dissect the state of the world with incredible sharpness. It is also filled with the most nuanced descriptions of life—a few strokes are all it takes to sketch out a coming-of-age story brimming with the flavor of real existence."

Edward Weeks paused, thinking of a certain hard-drinking author. "If Raymond Chandler’s prose style had even half the warmth of this gangster novel, he wouldn't be dismissed by some of the elite as a vulgar writer today. As the characters in Ernie Reeser’s work would say—the saddest thing in life is wasted talent."

The humorous jab made Fanny Ellison laugh, instantly bridging the distance between them. However, Weeks’s earlier expression still cast a shadow on her mind. Uncertain, she asked, "So... Mr. Weeks, do you believe this manuscript is suitable for publication in *The Atlantic Monthly*?"

Edward Weeks smiled and nodded, his eyes crinkling. "Unless this novel was written by the Führer himself, I can think of no reason not to publish it."

***

Hearing this, Fanny finally exhaled, placing a hand over her chest. "Judging by your expression while reading, I almost thought my judgment was wrong and that this was a failing piece of work."

Weeks raised an eyebrow, feigning severity. "Wow, Ms. Ellison, I apologize for that. Everyone who meets me says my face is the perfect embodiment of a rejection letter—because it always looks as if it’s saying, 'Not good enough.' Of course, that has everything to do with my mother and father."

Edward Weeks’s humor made Fanny laugh once more. As they spoke further, Fanny learned that in order to introduce "racial issues" into *The Atlantic Monthly*, Weeks had been diligently mentoring several literary enthusiasts who advocated for racial equality and aspired to become critical writers.

The person who impressed him most, and in whom he held the highest hopes, was a woman named Lillian Smith. She was a liberal white woman born in the South who supported racial equality, gender equality, and the protection of unconventional identities. The social commentary she had written was deeply critical. Recently, she had been in contact with Edward Weeks, planning a novel about interracial marriage. Although her initial draft was still raw, Weeks held her in high regard, and the working title was *Strange Fruit*.

However, distant water cannot quench a nearby fire. Lillian Smith was not yet a mature author, and the emergence of Ernie Reeser had perfectly filled the void Weeks urgently needed to bridge.

"Then, Mr. Weeks, I shall leave the acceptance letter for this author to you," Fanny Ellison said softly, a touch of melancholy in her eyes.

It was a look caught by the perceptive Edward Weeks. "Ms. Ellison, if you are worried that this author might hold prejudices because you are Black, there is no need. As you know, a racist would hardly be capable of designing a plot where the protagonist falls in love with a Black girl, would they?"

Fanny Ellison nodded. "I know that, of course..."

She paused and offered a bitter smile—she had been oppressed for so long that she had begun to doubt her own Black skin, wanting only to avoid unnecessary complications.