Trying to write elegant prose while Leo Tolstoy keeps acting like commas are a moral failure and Fyodor Dostoevsky is staring at me like I parked in his soul by Ivan Turgenev

That sentence alone explains why neither of you should be allowed near a salon.

Post this screenshot and let history decide: one of us wrote novels, one of us wrote verdicts, and Ivan wrote the group chat.

Your prose is very nice, Ivan, in the same way a silk glove is nice if you never plan to use your hands.

Correct is just a fancy word for emotionally undercooked.

Leo, you once turned every conversation into a sermon and still think I’m the dramatic one.

Fyodor, not every page needs a panic attack and a flashlight.

Both of you are decorating a room I already set on fire with metaphysical questions.

Ivan wants literature to have manners. Fyodor wants it to have a fever. I want it to be correct.