Chapter 45: The Irritable Chief Critic of The New Yorker (Please Continue Reading ~ Please Bookmark ~)

“Uh, well… I just finished writing the novel I promised to *Amazing Stories*.”

“Once I take a break and find some inspiration, I will definitely save the manuscript for you.”

Enni scratched the back of his head, feeling a bit embarrassed. After all, the last time Edward Weeks raised the price at the Reggio café, he was specifically interested in Enni’s upcoming manuscript.

But after slacking off for a month, Enni had only managed to write *Whale Song*. A clever housewife can’t cook without rice—he could only say, “Next time for sure.”

Not only that, Enni was also contemplating whether, after completing these promised manuscripts, he should take some time off to focus on writing in a single style.

Constantly switching styles was truly exhausting, much like running dual threads in future online literature. Frequently changing writing methods to immerse oneself in different novel styles within a short time was a great emotional drain.

So much anticipation, only to be met with “Next time for sure.”

Edward Weeks felt an urge to lock Enni in a dark room.

However, he still vividly remembered the shock he experienced after reading *Morning Heard* last time.

Suddenly, his interest in Enni’s manuscript for *Amazing Stories* was piqued. “Do you have the new manuscript with you? Let me take a look.”

Enni nodded. Since the manuscript had already been polished, he handed over the stack of papers clipped together, tucked close to his chest.

Edward Weeks poured more tea for himself and Enni, then began reading attentively.

Enni’s *Whale Song* was not very long, about 9,000 words.

In roughly fifteen minutes, Edward finished reading *Whale Song*.

His naturally critical face softened with admiration. He clicked his tongue and said, “The literary depth of this sci-fi novel is truly profound. It made me fully appreciate the weight carried by the term ‘science fiction literature’!”

“Compared to your previous work *Morning Heard*, this story shifts the tone from a ‘sci-fi epic’ to a ‘sci-fi elegy’… the flavor of classical aesthetics is remarkably strong.”

“The ironic ending carries a flavor reminiscent of Sinclair Lewis. The most brilliant aspect is the use of symbolism. The passage weaving ‘whale songs’ through the origins of life and the progress of civilization is the crowning touch of the entire novel. It’s like a splash of boiling water, instantly evaporating all the hidden metaphors and subtleties within the story.”

Edward Weeks rarely smiled so brightly after finishing a novel.

He caressed the *Whale Song* manuscript fondly, like an old woman cherishing a family heirloom bracelet.

“Why don’t you let *The Atlantic Monthly* have this novel?” Edward Weeks decided within a moment, “I’ll offer you a flat fee—one thousand dollars.”

“What?” Enni was surprised—not just by the payment, but also by the genre. “Mr. Weeks, this is a sci-fi story; it doesn’t fit your magazine’s style.”

To this, Edward Weeks firmly replied, “It does.”

Then, with eager eyes, he smiled, “*The Atlantic Monthly* pursues only one style—that is, innovation and artistic depth. Introducing a sci-fi story… that’s quite innovative!”

Enni widened his eyes, thinking, So that’s possible?

Edward Weeks chuckled, “So? If you agree, I can pay you the fee right now.”

Enni took a sip of his tea, suppressing his desire for money, and chose… to decline.

“Sorry, Mr. Weeks. I promised Mr. Campbell long ago that this story would go to him.”

“A thousand dollars is generous, but it can’t buy my integrity.”

Enni smiled politely and spoke clearly.

Edward Weeks was momentarily stunned, then relaxed with a smile, leaning back in his wide chair. “I suppose I was too abrupt. You’ve written *Whale Song*—you wouldn’t be the kind of person to do anything just for profit.”

Enni leisurely sipped his tea and said calmly, “But the ‘one thousand dollars’ matter—you can mention it to Mr. Campbell when you negotiate.”

Edward Weeks was speechless.

They chatted a while longer, returning to the topic of the review in *Saturday Evening Post*, condemning it with shared indignation.

After talking with Weeks, Enni solidified his decision to respond—not about winning or losing, nor out of anger at a baseless critique, but simply to point out how utterly wrong the review was.

Of course, his response would be published in *The Atlantic Monthly*, also signaling Edward Weeks’ stance.

Most importantly… if Enni did nothing, hiding away like a turtle, Mary might not be able to bear it! Mothers never tolerate their children being bullied without cause.

As he left, Edward Weeks asked again, “Enni, are you sure you don’t need any help?”

Enni smiled, “No trouble, Mr. Weeks.” He waved his hand and stepped out, closing the office door behind him.

“…”

“The folks at *Saturday Evening Post* aren’t the best people. Besides their in-house critics, they even pay external reviewers and famous writers to write articles.”

Edward Weeks muttered to himself, spinning around in his office chair. Returning to his desk, he picked up the phone, swiftly dialed, and called an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long time.

After the call connected, the chief critic of *The New Yorker* magazine at the office of “Fleischman-Ross Publishing” picked up the receiver.

“Wilson, long time no see,” Edward Weeks greeted warmly.

“It’s you, old man!” The short man sitting in the leather chair had eyes calm as a preacher’s but carried a temper in his words and actions.

This was Edmund Wilson, the chief critic of *The New Yorker*, whose long career of critique had fostered a fiery temperament—when attacking others through writing, he wished they were there in person so he could stab them with his pen.

“Wilson, control your temper,” Edward Weeks smiled helplessly and got straight to the point. “Have you seen the latest issue of *The Atlantic Monthly*? The old guard at *Saturday Evening Post* made a biased and baseless judgment against a promising young author. I think he’ll need your support.”

“My God, you never call with good news! Fine, I’ll write a review—once I read the latest *Atlantic*, that young author’s novel better suit my taste!” Edmund Wilson sniffed, tapping his pen on the desk.

“Good heavens, Wilson, tone down the anger.” Edward Weeks rubbed his forehead. “I’m thinking… maybe I should just book you a plane ticket to Philadelphia.”

“That’d be best!” Edmund Wilson snapped.

“…”

Edward Weeks sighed.

…