American literary giant: 1974

"Lynn," Scorsese began, his voice carrying a hint of Sicilian heat.

"Mr. Scorsese."

Scorsese didn't extend his hand to shake hands, nor did he offer any further pleasantries. He simply stepped aside to let the door open and gestured for him to enter.

The suite was spacious. The living room contained a sofa, two armchairs, and a coffee table. Two cups of coffee were already laid out on the coffee table, and something was placed beside them—

Lynn recognized him at a glance.

The proofread manuscript of "The Silence of the Lambs".

Moreover, the edges of the proof were folded several times, and the margins were covered with handwritten annotations.

This man not only looked, but looked very carefully.

Lynn's heart started racing again.

"sit."

The two took their seats.

Scorsese didn't waste any words. He picked up his coffee, took a sip, and stared straight at Lynn.

Are you a taxi driver?

"Yes, I drive a car during the day."

Scorsese raised an eyebrow: "Okay."

Then he picked up the proof from the coffee table and turned to a page. Lynn glanced at it; the marginal notes were written in blue ballpoint pen, the handwriting as dense as ants, and there were several circles drawn on them.

"I read your 'The Silence of the Lambs.' Twice." Scorsese spoke quickly, with the rhythm unique to Italian New Yorkers, one sentence after another, like a machine gun.

"Thompson also told me you wrote a piece called 'Guts.' I got a copy and read it too. I also heard about the Armenian guy who threw up on the E line subway; damn it, it's all over the East Village."

Lynn felt a surge of smug satisfaction. It seemed that the influence of "Guts" was greater than he had imagined, even reaching the film industry.

"But I'm not here to talk to you about 'The Silence of the Lambs'."

Scorsese put the proof back on the coffee table.

"It's not for 'Intestines' either."

"I'm looking for you because you drive a taxi."

That was exactly what Lynn was waiting for. He secretly rejoiced that he hadn't decided to resign.

Scorsese leaned forward, his hands clasped together and hanging between his knees, his eyes fixed on Lynn:

"I'm working on a film. It's about a New York taxi driver, suffering from anxiety and insomnia, working the night shift. He looks at the city—streets full of prostitutes, pimps, politicians, garbage rotting in the sewers—and he feels the city is sick."

"Then he decided to become the cleaner himself."

Taxi Driver.

Lynn pinched her knee with her fingernail.

He already knew it was this. But hearing it from Scorsese himself was another matter entirely.

The darkest, loneliest, and angrier howl in American film history.

But Lynn showed no emotion on his face. He remained calm and expressionless as he looked at Martin Scorsese.

"Do you have a screenwriter?" Lynn asked unhurriedly.

"Yes, Paul Schrader, he wrote a first draft." Scorsese shook his head and tapped two fingers next to his temple.

"Do you know Schrader?" Scorsese asked.

Lynn knew who Paul Schrader was. He was Martin Scorsese's go-to screenwriter, and almost all of Scorsese's films that made him famous in Hollywood were scripted by him.

Lynn nodded: "I know him."

"His writing is intense, like fucking gasoline. But he has a problem—"

Lynn added casually, "He's not a taxi driver."

Scorsese's eyes lit up.

He stared at Lynn, as if re-examining the person in front of him.

How did you know what I was going to say?

Lynn smiled, thinking: Of course, I've watched *Taxi Driver* three times in my past life, watched the behind-the-scenes documentary twice, and read no fewer than twenty analytical articles by film critics. Is Schrader's script good? Of course it is. But its biggest problem is that it's too literary; it's not a driver's perspective or a realistic depiction of life.

But of course he couldn't say that.

“Because I’m a taxi driver,” Lynn said. “I know a screenwriter who sits in an office all day can’t describe what Manhattan smells like at 3 a.m. He can’t describe how the smell of stale whiskey gets into your nostrils from the back of a drunk’s head when he gets into the back seat. He can’t describe how noisy the meter is in an empty car late at night. Of course, he may know more about America than I do, but he has absolutely no idea what taxi drivers drink, eat, sleep, or what their passengers talk about.”

Scorsese leaned forward again, and his eyes changed.

"This is it." Scorsese stood up, walked to the window, and put his hands in his pockets.

Outside the window, the Park Avenue skyline stretched out, and the spire of the Empire State Building pierced the thin afternoon clouds.

"I need you to help me revise the script." He turned around. "No, to be precise—"

Scorsese turned around and stared sharply at Lynn:

"I want you to write a new script. Take Paul Schrader's stuff back and read it. See if he agrees that I'll revise the script even if it costs me money. Add your own elements, the things you see, hear, and smell every day in a taxi. Make the audience feel like they're sitting in the driver's seat of that car when they sit in the movie theater."

"No problem, it's as easy for me as writing in a diary."

Scorsese nodded. "Good lad. The future of Hollywood isn't about lighting, sets, and hiring actors who fit American tastes. What do you think it is?"

"reality."

Lynn uttered those two words softly.

Martin Scorsese didn't speak, but Lynn could feel the fervent light in his eyes.

"You and I are thinking the same thing," Scorsese added. "I need a usable script by May. Filming needs to start in the middle of the year."

May.

Lynn quickly calculated in his mind.

It's early March now.

There are only two months left until May.

In those two months, two things happened: First, I submitted a script for *Taxi Driver* to Scorsese. Second, *The Silence of the Lambs* was released.

He couldn't memorize the entire script for "Taxi Driver," but he remembered its general structure, key scenes, and most classic lines. His task wasn't to write from scratch, but to build upon Schrader's work, incorporating his own real-life taxi driving experience to elevate "Taxi Driver" to Hollywood's top level.

He can do this job.

"And the payment?" Lynn asked.

Scorsese smiled.

The young Chinese taxi driver wasn't intimidated by the name "Martin Scorsese"; the first thing he asked was for money.

interesting.

"Co-writer. Don't worry, I'll handle Paul Schrader's side. I'll arrange a meeting between you two later. As for the specific compensation, I'll have my producer and your agent discuss it."

Co-writers.

His name—LIN EN—will appear in the opening credits of Taxi Driver.

He is ranked alongside Martin Scorsese.

He is ranked alongside Paul Schrader.

Printed on posters.

It appeared on the big screen at the 1976 Cannes Film Festival.

Lynn took a deep breath.

"I can."

"it is good."

Scorsese didn't shake hands, didn't hug. Like an eagle reaching a pre-hunt agreement, he nodded, and that was it.

He picked up his coffee cup again, leaned against the window, and adopted a slightly more relaxed tone:

"Talk to me."

"What are you going to talk about?"

"Tell me about your taxi. What does Manhattan look like from behind your steering wheel at two in the morning?"

Lynn thought for a moment.

That's a very good question. It's something he experiences every day.

"At two in the morning, the string of green numbers on the meter is the only light on the entire street. You can't see the faces of the people in the back seat, you can only smell their scents: bourbon, cheap perfume, rainwater, and body odor."

He paused for a moment.

"There's another taste, blood. The taste of blood."

Scorsese's coffee cup stopped at his lips.

"Once I picked up a guy. When he got in the car, I thought he'd been in a fight; his hands were covered in blood. Then I saw in the rearview mirror—the blood was coming from his wrists. He'd cut himself."

"How did you do that?"

"Take him to the entrance of the emergency room at Bellevue Hospital. He gets out of the car. He doesn't pay."

"Then what?"

"Then I took a rag and wiped the blood off the back seat, and continued driving."

Scorsese's eyes lit up.

Stephen King had this look in his eyes when he read his manuscript in a taxi, and Freeman had this look after he finished reading "Guts" and vomited.

A creator's eyes light up when they find what they want.

"This is it." Scorsese slammed the coffee cup down on the coffee table.

"That's the fucking stuff. Write it all in."