Philosophical Letters: The Whipping Boy
Sue and I met with the CEO every Friday at 4:30 p.m. to discuss our readers’ literary tastes and brainstorm ways to resolve ongoing problems. The main issue was that I did not consider romance to be “literature,” and I argued that publishing this kind of writer was a waste of money. Sue glared at me with terrifying eyes; I could see her deep hatred for me. I tried to explain my point of view, but she didn’t listen to a single word I spoke in defense of my position. The CEO didn’t say a word; he remained petrified by the explosion of hatred radiating from every pore of her body—all because I had voiced an opinion that could have been debated or modified through discussion. At the end of the meeting, the CEO took me aside and told me that Sue had a traumatic history with a man her age. She had believed fervently in his love, but to him she was simply a conquest to show off to his friends. He had made a bet that he could get five girls into bed in a single evening. Sue discovered the trut...
