American literary giant: 1974

Norman Pratt.

Tenured Professor of English at Columbia University. Contributing writer for *The Paris Review*. A 1969 Pulitzer Prize finalist. One of the most scathing and incisive critics in New York's serious literary circles during the 1970s.

He wrote a two-thousand-word article, which was published in The New York Times.

The title consists of only four characters: "A disgrace to literature".

Lynn was revising the script on the second floor of the car dealership when she received a newspaper clipping sent by Rhea via express mail. On the envelope was a line written in pen:

"Don't smash the typewriter after you finish reading it; that Olivetti is worth more than you."

He sat at the tattered table, the Manhattan skyline outside the window tinged with a dirty orange by the evening glow, while old Porter downstairs snored.

He unfolded the clippings and read the first paragraph.

"I have always believed that the greatest threat facing American literature is not censorship, not commercialization, not even the rise of television—but a more egregious form of degradation: the encroachment of popular literature on the territory of serious literature."

"When publishing editors start judging a book's value by whether it can be made into a movie, literature is already half dead."

Lynn raised an eyebrow.

"The latest example is a so-called thriller called *The Silence of the Lambs*. The author is a Chinese-American taxi driver named Lynn—note that I use the word 'so-called' not out of contempt, but out of bewilderment. Because I simply cannot tell whether this book is a novel or a Hollywood script proposal carefully disguised as one."

"Each chapter is a movie scene. Every line of dialogue is tailor-made for Hollywood actors. It's written like an editor, with a suspense every three pages and a twist every ten pages. Is this a novel? Is this literature? This is a Hollywood script production line."

Lynn bit her lip.

He had to admit that Pratt's observations were extremely sharp—The Silence of the Lambs did indeed have a cinematic narrative structure, because it was, and it was indeed made into a film on another timeline and won an Oscar.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not literature.

He continued reading.

"What's even more worrying is that a publisher like Random House, which has published works by Saul Bellow and John Updike, would use its editor-in-chief privilege to give such a book the green light. I don't mean to question Mr. Bill Thompson's professional judgment, but business acumen and literary judgment are two completely different abilities."

"It takes skill to pan for gold from sand, and it takes another skill to sell brass as gold. Mr. Thompson is good at the latter."

Pratt not only insulted him, but also took the opportunity to insult Thompson as well.

The last three paragraphs are the most ruthless.

Popular literature—whether horror, suspense, science fiction, or romance—is essentially an entertainment product. Its purpose is not to reveal the complexity of the human condition, but to provide a cheap emotional thrill: fear, suspense, and pleasure. It's like candy; it's sweet, but it has no nutritional value, and eating too much of it will cause cavities.

"I do not deny Mr. Lynn's narrative talent. A person who can write a character like Hannibal Lecter could have written something memorable if he had devoted the same energy and talent to real literary creation instead of wasting it on thrillers that please the masses."

"But he chose the shortcut. And the publishing industry system rewards that choice. That's the real 'shame on literature.'"

After reading it, Lynn gently placed the clipping on the table and sat there for a long time.

He wasn't angry.

No, he was angry. But not because he'd been insulted. He'd been insulted far too many times—the drunken cop had insulted him, the receptionist at Random House had insulted him with silence, Thompson had mocked him.

He was angry about Pratt's last words.

"He could have written something that will be remembered."

This statement is even harder to swallow than all the previous harsh words combined.

This was the only sentence in the entire article that truly angered Lynn.

Because he knew he hadn't made the wrong choice.

He went down to the first floor.

"Old Potter."

"What the hell is wrong with you now?" Old Potter was chewing on a sandwich.

Have you read today's *New York Times*?

"I fucking watch the horse racing section, what do you think?"

"Tell me, what if your car dealership's writer gets insulted?"

Old Porter stopped.

"Swear? What did you swear at?"

"They said I should write serious literature, not horror novels."

Old Porter started chewing again.

"Did the person who wrote that article ever ride in your taxi?"

"no."

"What does his fart have to do with you? Just drive your car."

"I have to go home today," Lynn said.

"Why go home?"

"I have something to take care of."

Old Porter was silent for a moment, his cloudy eyes looking at Lynn, as if he understood what Lynn was going to do.

"If you're not going home to write something to criticize that person, then I disagree."

"Old Potter, you guessed it, I have to get my revenge."

"Hmph, remember to include the dealership's name so people know that Manhattan Crown Auto Dealership isn't to be trifled with."

He wants to write an article.

It's not a novel, not a script, not a short story. It's a response.

A proper, signed response printed in the newspaper.

He rolled a white sheet of typing paper into the roller, hovered his fingers above the keyboard, and thought for about ten minutes.

Then the finger fell down.

Title: "The Door to Literature—To Professor Norman Pratt"

He wrote for two hours straight. He only stopped to drink a glass of water and smoke two cigarettes.

After he finished writing it, he read it from beginning to end, changed more than a dozen words, and then read it again. Then he took the paper out of the typewriter, folded it, and put it in an envelope.

Lynn picked up the phone and called Leia: "Feed?"

"This week's New York Review of Books is a bestseller."

"I know the more it sells, the better."

"Huh?"

"Because I just wrote a response for Norman Pratt."

Leia on the other end of the phone became anxious: "A response? Good heavens, Lynn, do you even know who Norman Pratt is?"

I don't care who he is.

"Lynn, listen to this. You're just a fledgling writer, but Pratt is a bellwether in the literary world. You've messed with him. Do you know what the consequences will be?"

"You can make a decision after you've read my response letter."

......

Three days later, after reading it, Leia immediately contacted a publication for him; the Village Voice weekly was preparing to publish the article.

The New York Review of Books would never give a new author a page to refute their own contributors, but The Village Voice, an independent weekly newspaper in Greenwich Village that is never afraid to offend anyone, would be happy to publish a literary war of words.