The Last Bastion of Bitterness

The tiny bell above the café door jingled as Milo Samaras stepped inside. His long white hair framed a gaunt face that had once commanded attention but now drew mostly curious glances or, at best, polite indifference. Dressed in flowing garments that could loosely be described as inspired by a sari, Milo deliberately projected an air of intellectual mystique. Yet, to most onlookers, his attempt to exude sophistication only highlighted his eccentricity, his theatrical presence falling short of the gravitas he so desperately sought. 

Today, Milo carried his usual arsenal: a worn notebook, a leather-bound copy of Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, and a stack of rejection letters from publishers that he kept folded in his coat pocket. He also brought along a fountain pen, an antique inlaid with brass that he never used but placed prominently on the table. Beside it, he set a stack of self-published pamphlets with dramatic titles like The Crisis of Modern Thought and The Death of Intellectual Courage, each bearing his name in oversized, bold letters. These pamphlets included long-winded critiques of contemporary culture and glowing praise of his own perceived genius. He always arranged them in a careful fan shape, as if to invite the curious to peruse his work. Milo added a half-finished manuscript titled The Last Bastion of Truth, prominently placed on top of the pile as though it were his magnum opus, despite containing only a dozen pages. Finally, he positioned a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses he didn’t actually need, letting them rest atop his notebook at an angle that suggested mid-thought brilliance. His destination, as always, was a corner table by the window, where he would arrange his props for maximum visibility. The café regulars were accustomed to his presence, his theatrical sighs, and his muttered critiques of society. Few dared to approach him; Milo liked to think it was out of reverence. In truth, it was mostly discomfort. 

As he lowered himself into the chair, a headline from the newspaper rack caught his eye: Local Writer Wins Prestigious Literary Prize. He froze, his stomach knotting. Milo grabbed the paper, his hands trembling slightly, and scanned the article. The name of the winner—Nina Treven—stared back at him, accompanied by a photo of her holding a gilded plaque, smiling with that maddening air of quiet humility. 

Nina. Nina bloody Treven. Milo’s teeth clenched as the memories surged. Years ago, they’d been part of the same writers’ circle. Nina, with her delicate prose and annoyingly gracious demeanour, had been the star of the group. Milo had always believed himself the superior intellect, his ideas grander, his writing more profound. Yet it was Nina who had risen to prominence, while his manuscripts languished unread. 

“They only chose her because she’s…safe,” Milo muttered to himself. “Mainstream drivel disguised as art. And I’m the real visionary.” 

One of the staff glanced in his direction. Milo caught the look and glared back. “Do you need something?” he snapped. 

The worker raised an eyebrow and returned to steaming milk. 

Milo turned his attention back to the article. As he read about Nina’s upcoming book signing at a local bookstore, a wave of jealousy boiled over. He imagined the crowd that would gather for her—all those sycophants fawning over her clichéd metaphors. It was unbearable. 

A laugh broke his spiralling thoughts. Across the room, a young man with a laptop was being interviewed by a journalist. Milo recognized him: Luka, a twenty-something upstart who’d recently published a collection of short stories. The journalist was nodding enthusiastically, her pen racing across her notebook. 

Milo’s jaw tightened. Luka. Another fraud. His stories—little vignettes about modern love and urban ennui—were shallow, derivative. Yet here he was, being celebrated. Milo couldn’t resist. 

He rose from his seat, notebook in hand, and approached the pair. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” he began, his voice dripping with condescension. “Are you discussing literature? I happen to be a writer myself. Perhaps I could offer some…insight.” 

Luka and the journalist exchanged a glance. “Oh,” Luka said, his tone polite but wary. “We were just talking about my new collection.” 

“Yes, I’ve read it,” Milo lied. “Charming, in its own way. Though I’d argue it lacks the philosophical depth of true literature. Have you studied Nietzsche? His insights on eternal recurrence and the Übermensch provide the kind of profundity that contemporary works sorely lack.” He held up his copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra as if brandishing a weapon. 

The journalist blinked. Luka’s expression hardened. “I’m more interested in writing about contemporary issues,” he said. “Not 19th-century philosophy.” 

Milo smirked. “Ah, but without a foundation in the classics, how can one hope to contribute anything meaningful? Writing without philosophy is like…like a symphony without a conductor.” 

“Right,” Luka said, his patience clearly waning. “Well, we’re kind of in the middle of something, so…” 

“Middle of what? Promoting mediocrity?” Milo snapped, his tone sharp. “Let me guess, your ‘contemporary issues’ boil down to navel-gazing, romantic platitudes wrapped in banal prose?” 

Luka’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me,” Milo said, his voice rising. Heads turned toward the commotion. “You’re just another name in a long line of hacks, and yet here you are, soaking up praise while true intellectuals are overlooked. It’s an insult to literature!” 

The journalist opened her mouth to interject, but Milo barrelled on. “What’s next? Are they going to hand you awards for tweeting haikus? Perhaps you should take a moment to read something with actual depth. Nietzsche, for instance, or perhaps even Kierkegaard—though I doubt you’d understand.” 

Luka stood, his face flushed. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t just barge in here and insult me because you’re bitter about your own failures.” 

“My failures?” Milo laughed, a dry, humourless sound. “I’ve dedicated my life to the pursuit of truth, to uncovering the rot at the heart of this so-called literary world. Meanwhile, you’re out here peddling clichés to people too ignorant to know better!” 

“Maybe they don’t read your work because it’s unreadable,” Luka shot back, his voice steady but cutting. “Maybe the problem isn’t the world—it’s you.” 

The café was silent. Milo’s face turned crimson. “How dare you—” he began, but Luka cut him off. 

“No, how dare you,” Luka said, stepping closer. “You come in here, waving your Nietzsche around like it makes you superior, but all you do is tear people down. Maybe you should try writing something people actually want to read instead of blaming everyone else for your obscurity.” 

The words hit Milo like a slap. His hands trembled, his breath shallow. Without another word, he grabbed his notebook and stormed out of the café, the door slamming shut behind him. The murmurs of conversation that followed were like knives in his back. 

Outside, the winter air bit at his face. As he trudged down the street, he passed a bookstore. In the window, Nina Treven’s face smiled out at him from the cover of her new book. The display was adorned with fairy lights and a sign announcing her upcoming signing. 

Milo paused, staring at the display. He imagined stepping into the store, confronting her, demanding she acknowledge his superiority. But he knew it wouldn’t happen. He’d only embarrass himself further. 

By the time he reached his apartment, his anger had settled into a familiar, simmering resentment. He dropped his coat on the floor, poured himself a glass of cheap wine, and sat at his cluttered desk. The rejection letters spilt out of his pocket as he reached for his laptop. 

Opening a blank document, Milo began to type, his fingers pounding the keys with righteous fury. “The Decline of Modern Literature: A Polemic,” he titled it. The words poured out, a torrent of bitterness and blame. Somewhere deep down, he knew no one would read it. But it didn’t matter. It was all he had left. 

In the corner of the room, his unopened manuscript gathered dust.