My era, 1979!

Chapter 125 A microcosm of the recovery of higher education in China during the early stages of reform and opening up (6k)

The sounds of arguing swirled around the kerosene lamp, and occasionally a bicycle bell would ring in the alley outside the window, startling the sparrows under the eaves.

Jiang He stared at Xu Chengjun's poem, tracing the character "light" with her finger: "I'm not against his poem, I'm just worried he won't be able to handle the situation. The editorial board needs to finalize the manuscripts and take responsibility, and he's only twenty years old..."

"What's wrong with being twenty?"

"Who hasn't been in their twenties? How much older is Gu Cheng than him?"

Bei Dao interrupted him, “When we started ‘Today,’ weren’t we only in our early twenties? Age is never the measure; poetry is. Xu Chengjun’s poems can make educated youth sent to the countryside cry and Fudan University students copy them—that’s real talent. With him here, more people will read ‘Today’ and understand it. Isn’t that what we want to do?”

The small house was quiet for a while, with only the smell of ink still lingering in the air.

Shu Ting picked up the mimeograph paper from the ground and folded it neatly: "Let's vote. I vote in favor."

Bei Dao raised his hand, his eyes shining: "I agree too."

Mang Ke stared at the table for a long time without moving, then finally took a deep drag on his cigarette: "Consider this a forfeit. But let me make this clear: if he dares to change our poem, I'll be the first to object!"

Jiang He nodded silently: "I'll abstain too. Let him come to Beijing and talk to him first, see if he really understands our path."

Bei Dao picked up his pen and added a line at the end of the letter: "I look forward to your visit to Beijing, so we can talk about poetry and life together."

The moonlight streamed in through the window, falling on the character "路" (road), as if casting a gentle glow on this night of endless strife.

library.

Su Manshu sat down gently next to Xu Chengjun, holding the copy of Samuelson's "Economics" she had just borrowed.

This is the first Western economics textbook to be fully introduced into China after the founding of the People's Republic of China.

In January 1979, the tenth Chinese translation by Gao Hongye was published by the Commercial Press. Although the translator's preface still emphasized "critique of class theory", the book systematically introduced supply and demand models, Keynesianism and other contents, and quickly became a window for students to understand modern economics.

It's extremely popular these days.

We need to be incredibly strong.

Seeing him staring blankly at the book, Su Manshu smiled and leaned closer: "Thinking about your novel again?"

"no,"

Xu Chengjun handed over the letter, which read, "Bei Dao invited me to be an editor of Today."

After reading the letter, Su Manshu's eyes lit up: "This is great news! Today is so popular right now."

He hesitated for a moment: "But sometimes I feel that these people are too idealistic."

"There are internal disputes among them."

Xu Chengjun recalled his understanding of "Today" from his previous life, and knew the personalities of Mang Ke and Jiang He. "Some people think I am not experienced enough, and some people think my poems are not like Misty Poetry."

"It's better if they don't look alike."

Su Manshu sat down next to him. “You’re not someone who can only write one kind of poetry. Besides, Bei Dao invited you because he values ​​your uniqueness—don’t always try to fit in with other people’s groups; you are a group yourself.”

Xu Chengjun looked at Su Manshu with surprise: "I wasn't planning on going. I'm thinking about how to politely decline."

Su Manshu narrowed her eyes slightly: "Are you kidding me!"

"I just wanted to hear your insightful opinion, after all, Comrade Su has a clear understanding of the issues."

Xu Chengjun suppressed a laugh, deliberately softening his tone and making it sound a bit ingratiating.

Su Manshu snorted and turned her face away: "Heh! I think you're just bored and like to tease me!"

"No way."

Xu Chengjun quickly changed the subject, his tone filled with anticipation, "Once I finish up this pile of things, come with me to Huaiguo Old Shop, okay? We'll find some parts, assemble two bicycles, and get one for Xiaomei too, so it'll be convenient for her in the future."

Su Manshu turned her head back, secretly curving her lips, but deliberately pretending to be reluctant: "Sure, how could I dare to refuse your request, Teacher Xu? If I upset you, and then you ask Zhang Manshu and Li Manshu to accompany you, I won't get any credit."

Xu Chengjun laughed out loud: "There's no such thing as Zhang Manshu or Li Manshu. Only you, Su Manshu, are willing to go through all this trouble with me."

Su Manshu mumbled, "Who would want to go through all this trouble with you? I'm just afraid you'll only get halfway through and then not understand it, and I'll have to help you."

"Then you'll have to be patient with us. If you don't do well, you'll need Master Su's guidance."

After exchanging a few playful words, Xu Chengjun lowered his head and began to ponder how to respond best.

He held the pen, the nib hovering over the manuscript paper for a long time without falling.

The sycamore leaves outside the window were swept up by the wind, stuck to the glass, and then slid down, just like the thoughts he was pondering at that moment.

Reject decisively.

But it's not to the point of losing everything.

After all, the poems they are currently writing are still among the few in the contemporary literary world that dare to "speak their own thoughts."

He first wrote "To Brother Beidao" at the top of the manuscript: "As I read this letter, the cicadas in Fudan Garden have just stopped chirping, and there is still half a cup of cool boiled water left in the enamel cup by the window. A gentle breeze is blowing through the window, making it the perfect time to pick up my pen and reply to your letter."

First, I thanked you for your sincere invitation. Then, I lightly touched upon the emotions I felt while reading your letter: "Brother said that 'Chunlan's floral fabric' in 'The Dressing Mirror' is a living person's longing. These words struck a chord with me. When I was writing this piece, I was afraid of portraying people as thin as paper. Now that I have your approval, it is more gratifying than publishing ten articles. I have also seen the mimeograph paper of 'Today' magazine. When I was sent to the countryside, I passed it around with my fellow educated youth. The edges of the paper were curled up and frayed, but no one was willing to throw it away. I admire 'Today' magazine's seriousness about poetry from the bottom of my heart."

Returning to the reasons for his refusal, each point was stated frankly and without pretense: "There are two concerns that make it difficult for me to accept the editorial board position: Firstly, I have no reputation in the literary world and my qualifications are shallow, so I would feel unworthy to hold this position and fear failing you and *Today* magazine; secondly, I am overwhelmed with other matters and simply cannot spare the time, fearing that I might neglect the important tasks of the publication. Fudan University has recently started preparing its school journal, and the department has entrusted me with leading the effort. At this crucial initial stage, I need to be personally involved in everything; graduate courses are already intensive, and Professor Zhu has also asked me to assist in compiling annotations of *Wenxin Diaolong*, proofreading thread-bound classics until late at night every night; moreover, I have a long novel on hand, about the Third Front construction and wartime events, and if my thoughts are interrupted even slightly, it will be difficult to continue, so I dare not be negligent. Moreover, Shanghai is a thousand miles from Beijing, and if I merely hold the title of editorial board member without being able to perform the actual duties, it would only delay the publication of *Today* magazine. I really dare not accept such a nominal position."

The conversation shifted abruptly, without anyone wanting to offend anyone, but the distance between them was clear: "I have taken your words, 'Good poems should gather in one place,' to heart. If 'Today' needs any manuscripts in the future, just let me know if I have any unpublished works on my desk; if you and your fellow editors Shu Ting and Mang Ke ever set foot in Shanghai, we can find a small restaurant in an alley, have some pickled vegetables and warm Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor), and chat about the landscapes of poetry and the romance of the world—this is far better than just being an editor, and it shows more sincerity."

Translation: I can't be an editor, so here are two poems for you. Don't bother me again.

Finally, two short poems are attached.

First song:
"Ming Dynasty Spring Poems"

The dark room folded the shadows into rough, uneven sheets of paper.

I planted rows of greenery in the cracks of the paper.
The penholder is made of frozen bamboo.

Dipping my brush in moonlight, I write about the unmelted snow.

To write about spring, one must first write about its skeleton.

When the wind hits the window frame

I counted the cracks in the glass.

Like counting the years that slip by

Why is it making a roaring sound?

My voice fell to the ground.
Broken into half of the still wet ink
It didn't answer, but only lifted a corner of the manuscript paper.

Let each character grow transparent roots.
Drill into my bones

Those breaths bent under the darkness
Suddenly stood up
Growing into a green that makes a sound
It turns out that all the silent nights

Everyone is waiting for a spark of poetry.

When the soul smashes cracks in the frozen soil
The spring breeze is nothing more than the echo of my heartbeat.

In the empty valley of the universe

Confirm repeatedly—

No matter how long the dark room is, it can never be longer than...

"The Dawn Illuminated by the Pen Tip"

Second poem:
"To You in the Old Days"

I remember that flash of light:
I bumped into you at the corner of the crowd.
Like a shooting star streaking across the night sky,
It has the crispness of a sudden summer rain.

In this daily life piled high with anxiety,

In that tumultuous vortex of desire,

Your cheerful laughter often fills my heart.

I glimpsed your vibrant appearance when I was alone.

Many years have passed,
The tides of life wash away the marks of the past.
So I forgot the warmth of your laughter.

And your clear, cool appearance.

Of course, the author Xu Chengjun was not forgotten to be included in large print.

Two obscure poems, completely and clearly obscure.

It lacks the hazy, ultimate abstraction. He doesn't want to be associated with "Today" magazine at all.

But to offer two poems is the ultimate act of kindness and righteousness.
When his poems in the Poetry Journal were criticized, Bei Dao spoke out in support of him.

But "Today" is truly...
I will continue to submit my poems to the Poetry Journal.

The first poem was purely a casual remark from his writings.

This is just a practice piece of Misty Poetry; there's not much to say about it.

As for the second song, "To You in the Old Days":
That day, Xu Chengjun had just come out of the social sciences section on the third floor of the library.

A gust of wind blew, and sycamore leaves swirled and landed on his shoulders, carrying a warm, sun-dried fragrance, much like the scent of a university afternoon before he transmigrated.

He walked slowly along the tree-lined path, and behind him he heard the laughter of two girls—

It wasn't Su Manshu's soft words, nor Xu Xiaomei's charming naiveté; it was a youthful, unpolished lightness, like a small pebble that "thumped" into his heart.

He subconsciously turned around and saw two girls with pigtails running past carrying books. In a daze, he saw the same girl he had bumped into in front of the university library in his previous life.

Back then, he was just a greenhorn who had just entered the literature department. He bumped into someone's notebook at the corner of the teaching building, and the scattered manuscript paper was full of delicate handwriting. The girl was not angry, but just smiled and said "It's okay", her voice as clear as the wind after a summer rain.

Later, he would often bump into her in the library and the cafeteria, but he never dared to ask for her contact information. Until graduation day, he watched her leave with her family in the crowd, like a shooting star streaking across the night sky, shining briefly before disappearing without a trace.

Xu Chengjun stopped and leaned against the trunk of the sycamore tree. He took out the small notebook that Su Manshu had given him from his pocket—the orchid on the title page was still fresh, but he paused on the blank page.

In the past six months, he has written too many things: Chunlan in "The Fitting Mirror", Huang Siyuan in "Red Silk", and Xin Xiwang in "The Mailbox of Hope". He wrote about other people's stories, but rarely dared to touch the soft spot in his own heart.

The days after the time travel were like being fast-forwarded: the struggles during the rural educated youth sent to Xujiatun, the anxiety of writing "Walking Towards the Light," the joy of being admitted to Fudan University's graduate program, and the resilience in the face of literary controversies...

It seems like we're moving forward with endless glory.

However, he also faces pressure in his daily life: when revising "Red Silk", he is afraid of letting down his elder brother and Huang Siyuan's story; when writing academic papers, he is afraid of not being able to keep up with the expectations of Professor Zhu and Senior Brother Zhang; even when he is with Su Manshu, he sometimes thinks, "Am I worthy of such a good girl?"

Not to mention the desires hidden in the shadows: wanting more people to see their work, wanting their families to have a better life, and wanting to leave something real in this era.

These desires are like a whirlpool, sometimes swirling him until he can't breathe.

But that burst of laughter just now suddenly reminded him of "her" from the old days—

It's not about a specific person, but about that moment when you're not caught up in anxiety and desire: a chance encounter around a corner in a sea of ​​people, without any ulterior motives or concerns, just because of the other person's smile or a single word, and you feel like the whole world has been brightened up.

Just like the poem describes, "like a shooting star streaking across the night sky, like the refreshing coolness of a summer downpour," such purity, he never encountered again.

Why did he write "To You in the Old Days"?
It's not about reminiscing about a girl whose face I can no longer remember, but about capturing those shining moments that life is about to wash away.

These years have flown by too quickly. He has forgotten the warmth of her laughter and her clear, cool appearance, but whenever he is alone, a touch of lightness still rises in his heart.

Is this how most adults live their lives?
We are always being pushed along by the waves of life, washing away the marks of the past.

We may forget someone's face, forget the tone of a sentence, but we can never forget the thrill those moments brought.

The "you" of the old days is actually how we used to be.

Pure and passionate, they dare to be happy for half a day over a little thing, and dare to remember a moment for a long time.

Xu Chengjun lowered his head, and the pen finally landed on the paper. Following his previous thoughts, he wrote: "But I know that those flashes of light have never disappeared. They are hidden in the left side of my chest, jumping when anxiety piles up, and shining when desires are clamoring, reminding me—even if I have come a long way, I should not forget why I started."

The wind blew again, and sycamore leaves fell onto the notebook, covering the sentences I had just written.

He looked up and saw Su Manshu walking over with a thermos. Her pale white shirt looked particularly clean in the autumn daylight. She smiled at him from afar and said, "I guessed you were spacing out here again, so I brought you some sweet potato porridge."

Xu Chengjun closed his notebook and went to take the thermos.

He smiled. It turned out that the sparkle of the old days had never gone far away; it had just changed to someone else, in a different way, continuing to accompany him.

In the adult world, the past is not for indulging in, but for solace.

Those forgotten details, those vague images, have actually become the source of our inner strength, allowing us to maintain a sense of purity amidst our anxious daily lives, and to remember what true happiness is amidst the whirlpool of desires.
-
In the early autumn of 1979, the first batch of freshmen after the reform and opening up had just finished their drill training. The days passed by in a flash, like the autumn wind on Handan Road. A week had quietly slipped away amidst the sound of reading aloud in the morning and the discussions after class.

At that time, the Chinese Department of Fudan University was slowly awakening from more than a decade of silence: the wooden doors of the library were no longer locked, and yellowed ancient books were carefully taken out of the stacks; the course schedules posted on the bulletin board by the Academic Affairs Office still carried the fresh scent of ink, and every line of writing conveyed the message that "order is being rebuilt".

Everything was progressing smoothly, but what excited the freshmen in the Chinese department the most was the academic world of the "masters" they encountered during that week.

During the first week of his undergraduate courses, Xu Chengjun attended almost every class.

The rigor of the basic courses goes without saying, but what truly shook him were the specialized courses taught by the professors.

Opinions are not necessarily entirely correct.

However, the content, perspective, scope, and delivery style will amaze you.

Professors of that era only needed a vat of water, a book, and a piece of chalk to explain their views in a simple and easy-to-understand way.

For him, these were academic feasts that transcended time and connected East and West.

Mr. Jiang Kongyang's "Aesthetics and Life" and "Introduction to Literature" are the classes that students look forward to the most each week.

The professor always wore a faded Zhongshan suit, clutching a handbook with his legs crossed. When he stepped onto the podium, he didn't exchange any pleasantries; he immediately brought the concept of "beauty" from an abstract idea into reality.

Using Marxist literary theory as his anchor, he first calmly discussed Kant's "purposeless purposiveness" in "Critique of Judgment," then turned to the original text of Lu Xun's "The New Year's Sacrifice," pointing to the three words "Xianglin's Wife" and saying: "This is the vitality of a 'typical character'—she is not a specific woman, but the epitome of the soul of millions of women at the bottom of society in old China."

When he got emotional, the professor would stop writing, glance at the wide-eyed students in the audience, and slowly add: "Aesthetics is not an ivory tower, but something that must be connected to life; literature is not a word game, but something that must illuminate the human soul."

One student pressed on, asking, "Are there any conflicts between Kant's and Lu Xun's aesthetic views?"

The teacher proceeded unhurriedly, from the warmth of "Dawn Blossoms Plucked at Dusk" to the austerity of "Wild Grass," and then back to Kant's "aesthetics without utilitarianism." As he analyzed layer by layer, even the sunlight outside the window seemed to slow down, and the only sound in the classroom was the scratching of pens on paper.

Mr. Chen Yunji's "Introduction to Philology" presents a completely different picture.

The professor specializes in classical literature and possesses the rigor of an old-school scholar; his lectures are never ambiguous.

He always carried an old cloth bag into the classroom, which contained the textbook "Chinese Classical Philology," which had just been published in 1979, as well as several rare thread-bound ancient books.

When lecturing on "textual criticism", he would spread different versions of the Analects on the podium, pointing to the character "习" in "学而时习之" ​​and pointing out the variant readings in the Song Dynasty printed edition and the Ming Dynasty manuscript: "You see, this character '习' is written as '温习' in ​​some versions and '练习' in ​​others. The skill of textual criticism is to distinguish the true from the false and explore the origin from these subtle details."

When discussing "cataloging", he cited the format of the "General Catalogue of the Complete Library of the Four Treasuries" and explained the classification logic of "classics, history, philosophy and literature" to the transmission of documents, clearly marking the source of each knowledge point.

When a freshman found philology "boring," the professor smiled and handed him a Qing Dynasty woodblock print: "Touch this paper, smell this ink. Every ancient book contains the knowledge of our predecessors. Philology is not a dead subject; it is the key that helps us unlock these 'boxes of knowledge.'"

Mr. Chen Sihe's teaching of Mr. Jia Zhifang's "Fundamentals of Writing" was full of "warmth".

At that time, there were no formal textbooks, so the teacher personally mimeographed "Lectures on Writing". Each page had the fresh smell of ink, and although the handwriting was sometimes blurry, every stroke showed his seriousness.

The core of the course is "genuine emotions." The teacher always says, "Writing is not about piling up fancy words, but about honestly expressing what's in your heart."

He would read excerpts from Ba Jin's "Random Thoughts" to his students—when he read the passages recalling his old friend Xiao Shan, his voice trembled slightly, and the students in the audience couldn't help but tear up.

In the after-class imitation writing exercise, some students deliberately used ornate metaphors, and the teacher wrote on the manuscript paper: "When Mr. Ba Jin wrote 'I miss her,' those four words were more powerful than a thousand words. True feelings never need embellishment."

The lecturers also knew that Xu Chengjun was among the freshmen, and whenever they had a question, they would call on Xu Chengjun first, regardless of the situation.

At that time, he mingled among the freshmen, but his story of "fighting the five great warriors" had already spread among the Chinese department lecturers.

Therefore, whenever there is a difficult question in class, I always habitually call out "Xu Chengjun" first—as if deliberately "testing" him, but also hiding a bit of "expectation".

Xu Chengjun never showed any special behavior intentionally.

Every time he was called upon, he would simply stand up and calmly state his views, which were often fresh perspectives that had been "out of touch with the past for over forty years".

It might be an academic hypothesis buried before the founding of the People's Republic of China, a new interpretation combining Western modern literary theory and classical Chinese literature, or a completely new interpretation of a classic text.

Once, Mr. Jiang Kongyang asked him "how to understand the timeliness of 'typical characters'", and he used Jia Baoyu in "Dream of the Red Chamber" as an example to analyze the social background of Cao Xueqin's era, and also to connect it with the eternal proposition of "human awakening", and even quoted the existentialist view that was rarely mentioned in China at that time.

After he finished speaking, the classroom was silent for a moment. Mr. Jiang Kongyang adjusted his glasses and nodded slowly: "I hadn't thought about this angle much before. Your thinking is amazing, your words are surprising, and what's even more commendable is your solid foundation. You are truly a promising young man."

Although the week was short, it was like a pebble thrown into the lake of Fudan University's Chinese Department students, creating ripples that lingered for a long time.

Zhu Dongrun's Classical Literature Class, Zhang Shilu's Linguistics Class, and Hu Yushu's Modern Chinese Class
These professors, some specializing in aesthetics, some in literature, and some in language, together have constructed a teaching paradigm that integrates literature, history, and philosophy.
Philology lays the foundation for literary studies, aesthetics broadens the horizons for text interpretation, linguistics provides precise tools for expression, and writing courses allow "scholarship" to be grounded in "genuine emotion".

This is not only about the transmission of knowledge, but also about the cultivation of academic character.

The teachers used their extensive knowledge and profound understanding to tell the students that "study requires a calm mind" and encouraged them to "dare to think, dare to speak, and dare to question".

That week marked the first week of the new semester for the Chinese Department at Fudan University in 1979, and it was also a microcosm of the recovery of higher education in China during the early stages of reform and opening up.

The professors returned to the podium, their eyes filled with passion for scholarship.

The students held their notebooks, their faces filled with a thirst for knowledge.

The sounds of discussions in classrooms and the rustling of pages in libraries intertwined to form the prelude to an era of "pursuit of knowledge."

It was in this atmosphere that Xu Chengjun gradually came into the public eye and stepped onto the historical stage that belonged to him.

(End of this chapter)