New York, inside a certain bookstore.
I won't write the full name of the store, since it's located at 390 East Fordham Road in the Bronx, and honestly, the place is hard to describe. Let's just say the owner's temper is… peculiar.
"Mr. Cogito! Finally, I've been waiting for this poetry collection. Who knew I'd wait so long that even my cactus at home died," said Roberts. He'd only come along with a friend to check something, but this unexpected find put him in a great mood.
Standing next to him, Makebis didn't hold back at all. "Your garden's a graveyard for plants. Everything dies under your care, even flytraps."
"Don't say that. The truth hurts feelings. For the sake of our fragile friendship, I'm begging you, don't," Roberts replied as he eagerly flipped the book open.
Most of the books here had a display copy or two for readers to browse.
Both of these men had shown up earlier when the Village Voice Club was mentioned, but maybe readers didn't pay attention back then, since foreign names can be such a pain to remember. To help jog your memory, think of One Hundred Years of Solitude, a true Earth classic, or the parallel-world bestseller Continental Journeys Series.
Roberts was a world-famous American writer, someone who'd won every literary prize except the Nobel. Right now, he was studying the Chinese poet Huainan. Makebis William, on the other hand, was a Tony Award–winning playwright, currently working on a drama about life in the slums.
"Don't forget why we came here," Makebis reminded him.
"I almost did, if you hadn't reminded me," Roberts said. But his hands didn't stop flipping pages. "Just give me a moment, William. I've been waiting too long for this book. Please forgive my impatience."
Makebis rolled his eyes. A poetry collection wasn't a novel, it didn't have gripping plots. How could it be that fascinating? In his mind, Roberts was just bluffing again.
Roberts was notorious for his nonsense. Once, he heard a friend complain that he wished his wife would get along with his buddies, so he could drink with them in the day and fool around with her at night. Roberts turned that into a novel where the man became a "shapeshifter," male by day and female by night.
"I swear on my pen, I'm not lying. Huainan's imagination is mesmerizing. After finishing his last book, 巡回 (Touring), I even developed a strong interest in Chinese history," Roberts said, savoring every page.
Really that good? Makebis picked up another copy of Mr. Cogito.
["I don't understand how you can write an ode to the moon. It's fat and filthy, it picks its nose on the chimney, and its favorite hobby is crawling under beds to sniff shoes."]
"This Chinese poet's prose-poems are really something," he muttered after skimming. Still, "interesting" alone doesn't make someone a great poet.
Then he turned to As Long as It's Not an Angel, and that's when he felt the philosophy, a kind of thought that actually matched his own worldview.
That resonance drew him in.
He ended up reading twenty more pages in one go.
When he reached Interrogating the Angel and Report from Heaven, the words gave this half-believer goosebumps. He couldn't say if the imagination was extraordinary, but the thoughts were sharp, like a razor polished to a mirror shine, able to cut skin with the slightest slip.
"Workers of heaven walked out of the factories, violins tucked awkwardly under their wings…" he whispered.
Roberts, who'd been beaming moments ago, now looked grim too. If the last collection felt like imagination sprouting wings to soar, then Mr. Cogito was heavy and cutting, thought pressed down like lead.
"Go on then, only this way can you join the ranks of the dead. Your predecessors include Gilgamesh, Hector, Roland. They once guarded cities reduced to ash and the endless borders of empires. Go, be loyal…" His voice trembled. "Such tragic grandeur. Did the author suffer some catastrophe? Why did his tone shift so much?"
Roberts had been standing there for half an hour, completely absorbed in the mind of "Mr. I Think."
For context, Mr. Cogito comes from Descartes' famous line Cogito ergo sum—I think, therefore I am. The translation "Mr. I Think" would be closer in meaning.
"A masterpiece equal to Touring, though on a different level. It's harder to appreciate, but it matches European taste more," he said.
"I need to go back and read this carefully," Roberts added, stretching stiff arms and legs.
Even in the West, freeloaders who read without buying weren't rare. Since he wasn't blocking the aisles, the staff didn't bother him.
"Sorry for making you wait. I just couldn't stop once I started," he apologized.
Makebis looked as if his pet cat had fallen into a cesspit, climbed out, and run wild around the house. That was the level of his exasperation.
"Hearing you apologize is… unbelievable," he grumbled. Being ignored so long, he had every right to be annoyed.
"Let's check the drama section. Don't waste time," Roberts quickly changed the subject. "I'll prove to you that covers and titles matter more than content."
The reason they'd come was actually Roberts's idea: he'd told Makebis that his new play shouldn't be called Frigg's Loom, but The Billionaire Who Walked Away, then argued that covers and titles sell more than stories themselves.
Makebis disagreed, believing anyone who bought drama books had real literary taste and cared more about content.
They walked side by side to the drama shelves. The truth revealed itself: the best-seller was a Shakespeare collection, followed by Chicago Midnight, its cover featuring three female corpses in dark tones that created suspense.
Other top-selling dramas also had striking cover designs.
Makebis, despite being one of America's top playwrights, never sold much. The core reason? He preferred minimalist solid-color covers.
Roberts was right.
"No matter how cultured people are, humanity's craving for thrill never changes," Roberts concluded.
Makebis didn't reply. His mood dipped.
As they left the store, Roberts wondered if he should patch things up with a word of comfort. But then he thought it might be fun to write a short story: in the future, writers only assisted, while titles, covers, and marketing determined sales.
"Will Huainan's new book Mr. Cogito sell well?" Makebis asked, stumbling over the name.
That broke Roberts's train of thought. "Hmm?" He looked at his friend in surprise. "Why jump to that?"
Still, he answered seriously. "Huainan's already famous in both Asia and the West. Many generous types will happily buy his books just as decorations."
Makebis sneered faintly at the word "generous."
"I love generous people. Without them, the fragile print industry would collapse even faster. I love them the way I love my villa. Besides, the book's sharp ideas will delight critics. You'll see, Huainan's global reputation will soar with this one."
"Really?" Makebis grew curious about just how high it could soar.
Roberts's works always balanced literary depth with commercial appeal. If he judged something, readers could trust his call.
And he was right again.
The moment Mr. Cogito was released, it exploded!