In an era of “traffic first” and “quick success,” we’ve learned to measure everything by “usefulness”: a book must have “takeaways,” a piece of writing must have “engagement,” even friendships must have “benefits.” Picking up Mario Vargas Llosa’s Letters to a Young Novelistfeels like sipping warm tea—no jolt, but a slow warmth spreading: “Slow down. Be sincere. The meaning of writing was never ‘usefulness’—it’s about ‘living fully.’”This book, addressed to a young novelist, holds a “life cure” for everyone. Llosa says, “Literary ambition is a desire for eternity”—not fame, but to let a story “live on” in time. He says, “Stories invent reality”—not to copy life, but to reveal “the emotions hidden beneath daily routine.” He says, “Writing requires reconciling with loneliness”—that moment alone, conversing with words, is when you’re closest to yourself.What touches most is his take on “the responsibility of words”: “Every word you write should make someone feel, ‘I’m not alone.’” In this “atomic age,” we fear being “unseen”—we filter selfies, weigh messages, even schedule crying. But writing (or any sincere expression) is how we “become seen”: even to a few, even with one sentence, it becomes an anchor for each other.Modern people always ask, “What’s the meaning of life?” Llosa answers with a book: Meaning lies in sincere creation, in connecting with others through words. Whether you’re a novelist or an ordinary office worker, as long as you document life with words and treat expression with love, you’re your own “young novelist.”