My era, 1979!

Chapter 135 Ideals and Ideals (First Release)
As Xu Chengjun's reputation and influence gradually expand, it is conceivable that such lectures will become the norm.

And the “wave” will eventually become an important symbol of Shanghai literature and even national literature.

Ru Zhijuan's bicycle disappeared at the end of the sycamore-lined path on campus. The laughter in the lecture hall had not yet subsided when Xu Chengjun walked onto the stage with a microphone in hand.

He didn't rush to speak; instead, he bent down and adjusted the microphone.

Adapting to the hundreds of bright, shining gazes below the stage—familiar faces from Fudan University members, eager anticipation from students from other universities, and the smiling expectations of Director Zhang.

Touching the cold metal casing of the microphone, he suddenly recalled the scene last year when he was working in the countryside in Anhui, reading poetry to the villagers under the light of a kerosene lamp. At that time, there was only a dim yellow light in front of him, but now there was a room full of eager eyes, and a surge of heat suddenly welled up in his heart.

"I've kept Sister Ru's words in mind—not only should we submit articles to 'Shanghai Literature,' but we should also provide a platform for every literature enthusiast here to speak and write."

The audience burst into laughter.

His voice came through the microphone, not deliberately raised, but with a calming power.

"Today, we have members of our Langchao Literary Society, students from various departments of Fudan University, and friends who came from Tongji University and East China Normal University. I know that everyone is sitting here because they all have a passion for literature in their hearts. So I want to tell you that from today onwards, Langchao Literary Society will do two things."

He held up two fingers, still stained with tea from when he handed Ru Zhijuan tea: "The first thing is to hold regular lectures by renowned figures and occasional writing salons."

Every month we invite senior writers like Sister Ru to talk about their creative process, from "how to capture the true details of life" to "Chinese stories in world literary trends" and "new realism".
Every two weeks we hold a salon at Xianzhou Pavilion. You can relax and bring a short essay, an unfinished poem, or even just a sudden idea. We can sit down and chat.

Whether you're a member of the Wave Society or a friend from another school, as long as you love literature, the doors are open—we don't form cliques; we want to come together and celebrate this literary golden age.

Suddenly, someone in the audience clapped quietly. It was Wang Chunan from the Journalism Department. Her eyes were shining as she quietly turned to a new page in her notebook.

Xu Chengjun saw this and smiled slightly. He continued, "But there's something I have to say first—when it comes to literature, no matter how many theories you hear or how many techniques you learn, nothing beats picking up a pen and writing yourself."

Just like China in 1979, we had heard the principles of reform countless times, but ultimately, it still depended on ordinary people working hard in the fields, and skilled workers wrenching things out in the factories.

He raised his hand and tapped the podium, which still had chalk dust from Ru Zhijuan's writing on the blackboard: "I'm explaining the creative ideas behind the 'time loop' to the members, and the 'era imprints in individual stories,' not to ask everyone to copy it, but to build a ladder for everyone."

No matter how good the ladder, you still have to climb it yourself; no matter how profound the truth, you still have to polish it on paper yourself. The path to greatness begins with a single step—and these 'steps' are every word you write, every fragment of life you record in your notebook, the thrill you feel when you see smoke billowing from a factory chimney, the bittersweet memories of your time in the countryside. These are things no one can give you; you must write them down, venture out, and learn from your mistakes yourself.

These words were like a pebble thrown into water; some people in the audience lowered their heads to take notes, while others nodded gently.

A few Tongji University students in the back row huddled together and whispered among themselves. One of them, a boy wearing glasses, was still holding the notes he had taken during the lecture, his eyes full of agreement.

Xu Chengjun looked at them and said in a steady voice, "So I want to say to all the students in Shanghai who love literature, you are welcome to submit your work to Langchao. Don't be afraid of writing poorly, don't be afraid of 'small' topics—you can write about the sweet porridge your mother cooks in the alley, the first skill your master teaches you in the factory, or the first sycamore tree you see on your way back to the city. These are all good submissions."

What we need are not empty words with flowery language, but genuine writing that carries warmth and the essence of everyday life.

Looking at the students below the stage, he smiled again, "Even if it's fancy, if you can write words like Li Bai, we'll still use them no matter how empty they are!"

The students below the stage burst into laughter again, and Zhang Peiheng whispered to Su Liancheng next to him: This kid has some skills, his stage presence is quite steady!

Su Liancheng pursed his lips and glanced at Su Manshu, whose eyes were sparkling.

"It is ok."

Xu Chengjun paused deliberately, his gaze sweeping across the room. Seeing the curiosity in everyone's eyes gradually rise, he smiled and said, "There's something even more important to announce—our Wave Literature Society's journal will be called 'Wave,' and the inaugural issue is expected to be published this December!"

The moment those words were spoken, the lecture hall erupted in chaos.

"Are you really going to publish a company magazine?"

"December? That's still two months away?"

Exclamations and whispers mingled together, like spring rain falling on new seedlings, full of vibrant energy.

Lin Yimin, sitting in the front row, suddenly straightened up, his eyes flashing with disbelief.

He was discussing with Xu Chengjun yesterday whether to print a few mimeographed issues first, but he didn't expect to directly publish a formal issue.

Wang Chunan took out a fountain pen and quickly wrote "December Inaugural Issue" in her notebook, the pen tip almost piercing the paper.

Lin Wei, Xu Qian, Chen Yang.
The members all sat up straight, full of anticipation.

Even Zhu Dongrun, who was sitting in the corner, couldn't help but smile and nod to the teacher next to him, his eyes full of satisfaction.

He arrived quietly. He had heard that this student had made quite a splash with his "wave" and had been following it closely. Hearing about tonight's lecture, he came alone without notifying anyone, but was recognized by an old professor he knew well.

Students from other schools were even more excited. The boy from Tongji University pulled his classmate aside and said, "If I could get published in 'The Wave,' I'd be even happier than if I got a scholarship at school!"

Another female student from East China Normal University quickly took out a small notebook from her bag and wrote down "the address for submitting articles to the Langchao Literature Society".

That was the one Wang Chunan had just posted at the entrance of the lecture hall, and now it had suddenly become the most sought-after "treasure".

Xu Chengjun waited a while until everyone's emotions calmed down before continuing, "The Wave is a student publication, not some highbrow stuff. We just want to be a 'literary diary' for us young people. It will be published every two months, featuring outstanding works by our members, good submissions, and comments from experienced writers like Sister Ru."

I know that publishing a magazine isn't easy; you have to find a printing press, raise manuscript fees, and handle distribution. But I believe that as long as we write and publish together, this 'wave' will definitely rise, allowing more people to see the writings of Shanghai students and the voice of our generation.

He raised his hand and pointed to the window of the lecture hall.

The sycamore leaves outside swayed in the wind, and sunlight streamed through the gaps in the leaves, falling on the young faces below the stage.

"Sister Ru said today that she was afraid she wouldn't be able to get me any manuscripts. Actually, what I'm afraid of is missing out on this wonderful era and the literary dreams in everyone's hearts. So from today onwards, let's pick up our pens together and keep writing, so that this 'wave' will not only resound on the Fudan University campus, but also on the streets and alleys of Shanghai, and resound in the youth of our generation!"

As soon as he finished speaking, applause erupted in the auditorium like a tidal wave, even more enthusiastic and longer than before.

Holding the microphone, Xu Chengjun looked at the waving arms and bright eyes below the stage, and suddenly recalled the scene when the club was first founded, when only a few people were discussing around an old table in the storage room of Xianzhou Hall.

The word "wave" has gradually evolved from an idea into a name that can ignite the passion of so many people.

This is not his achievement alone; it is Wang Chunan's persistence in visiting the Shanghai Writers Association, Xu Demin's dedication in reviewing manuscripts late into the night, Lin Yimin's meticulous organization of activities, and above all, the unquenchable passion in the hearts of every literature lover.

Of course, the road to founding the society is still long and arduous, and much work remains to be done.

The manuscripts collected are not comprehensive enough, and they lack truly influential content.

The inaugural issue in December was not only a source of motivation for everyone, but also a source of pressure for him.

The inaugural issue must contain genuine content.

What should I do if I can't get out?
He'll do it himself!

When the event ended, the students surrounded Xu Chengjun, asking him all sorts of questions.

"President, is there a deadline for submissions?"

When is the next salon?

Can students from other schools also attend the revision meeting?

Xu Chengjun answered each question with a smile. Someone borrowed his pen to sign it, and someone handed him his notebook from his pocket, asking for his contact information.

Wang Chunan and Lin Yimin helped maintain order, their eyes filled with pride as they watched the lively scene unfold.

They knew that the story of the wave had only just begun.

Secretary Qi from the school's Youth League Committee walked over and patted Xu Chengjun on the shoulder: "Chengjun, Sister Ru just told me that this lecture went better than she expected. I think it's not that the lecture was good, but that you young people have brought the soul of literature to life."

Xu Chengjun scratched his head, wanting to say "it's all thanks to everyone," when he saw several students from other schools surrounding Wang Chunan, asking for Langchao's contact address. One of the girls was holding a crumpled piece of paper in her hand, her eyes full of anticipation.

That was a manuscript ready for submission, covered with dense writing, like stars scattered across it.

The autumn breeze blew in through the windows of the lecture hall, carrying the fragrance of sycamore leaves and the vibrant hope that belonged to 1979.

Looking at everything before him, Xu Chengjun suddenly remembered the cover design of the magazine "The Wave".

In the waves of blue ink painting, a few tiny stars should be added.

He thought that those stars were the light in the eyes of every literature lover in the audience, the warmth in every manuscript that was about to be submitted, and the most moving force in this wave of sound.

Xu Chengjun was still exchanging pleasantries with the professors, elders, and other senior students who came to the meeting when he saw Xu Xiaomei and her roommate walk past him with a smile.

"Brother, you're awesome!"

As he spoke, he gave Xu Chengjun a thumbs-up.
-
As the crowd dispersed, only a few people remained on the sycamore-lined path in front of the auditorium.

The evening breeze swirled golden leaves, which landed on Xu Chengjun's shoulder. He had just seen off the last professor who had come to exchange pleasantries when he turned around and met a pair of smiling eyes—

Su Manshu was standing under the streetlight, her pale yellow skirt stained with a few fallen leaves, holding the enamel mug she had left at the lecture that afternoon, with half a sip of cold water still on it.

"President Xu is really in the limelight today."

She came up to him and reached out to brush the fallen leaves off his shoulder. "Even Sister Ru was 'lured' here to give a lecture by you. Are you going to take this wave to Beijing next?" Xu Chengjun smiled and took the enamel mug, then touched her hand and grasped it. "What's wrong, Teacher Su? Are you jealous? Or do you think I'm too ambitious?"

"Having big ambitions isn't necessarily a bad thing."

Su Manshu held his hand and followed him into the depths of the woods. The fallen leaves rustled softly under her feet, and the starlight above filtered through the branches of the sycamore trees, scattering into a silvery glow.

"I'm just curious, is making Wave bigger and stronger really your ideal? I thought your ideal was to write all the stories in the world and be a writer for life."

Her tone was slightly teasing, and her eyes curved at the corners, as if filled with starlight.

Xu Chengjun didn't joke around as usual. Instead, he stopped and looked seriously into her eyes, his voice deeper than the evening breeze: "Yes."

Su Manshu's smile faltered for a moment.

She hadn't expected this answer.

In her eyes, Xu Chengjun's talent should belong to more free creative work, rather than being tied down by trivial matters such as "running journals and organizing events".

She bent down and kicked at the fallen leaves at her feet. The withered yellow leaves swirled around her shoes. After a while, she asked softly, "Why? Running a literary society is so tiring. You have to go to the printing press, collect royalties, and deal with so many other trivial matters..."

Her voice carried a rare hint of the confusion typical of a 20-year-old, lacking maturity and appearing somewhat naive.

"It's tiring, but it's worth it."

Xu Chengjun squatted down and picked up the fallen leaf that she had kicked and spun around. The veins of the leaf were clearly visible in the starlight.

"Do you remember when I sang 'Waiting for You to Return to the North' during military training? A fellow educated youth told me that he never dared to imagine that the doggerel he wrote in the fields could be listened to seriously. For me, Langchao is about providing a platform for more people like him."

Not everyone can publish their work in magazines like Harvest and Poetry Journal, but their stories and thoughts should also have a place to be expressed.

Most importantly, China should have its own literature. I can't do it alone. Tagore's literature holds a very high position, but Indian literature is completely silent.

He looked up at Su Manshu, his eyes reflecting starlight: "I want to turn the tide into a 'literary soil,' so that words rooted in life can grow, and so that more people can know that literature is not just highbrow art in an ivory tower, but also sweet soup in alleyways, the sound of wrenches in factories, and 1979 in the eyes of our generation. This is not some grand ambition, but my real ideal."

Su Manshu listened quietly, her fingers gently hooking around his sleeve.

The evening breeze carried his words very lightly, yet they were like a small pebble that landed in her heart, creating delicate ripples.

She used to think that "ideals" should be distant and brilliant, such as studying abroad or becoming a top economist.

But looking into the light in Xu Chengjun's eyes, she understood that some ideals are down-to-earth and can make people feel grounded.

The two stood in silence for a while, with only the sound of falling leaves and the evening breeze rustling through them.

Xu Chengjun tucked a fallen leaf into her notebook, touched her slightly cool hand, and asked softly, "And you, Manshu? What are your ideals? I always heard you say you wanted to understand economics, do you still do?"

Su Manshu was taken aback by his question, and her gaze drifted to Xianghui Hall in the distance, where the eaves were faintly outlined under the starlight.

She gently shook his hand, her voice softening: "I did think about it a lot before."

I want to thoroughly understand Samuelson's "Economics" and figure out whether "marginal utility" can explain China's food rationing system.
I've also considered studying abroad, visiting the Cambridge School of Economics in England, and observing how their market economy works in the United States.
She even dreamed of publishing her own paper in the journal *Economic Research* and becoming one of the top female economists in China.

She paused, then turned to look at Xu Chengjun, her eyes seeming to shine even brighter: "But things are different now. Those ideals are still there. I still want to understand economics, and I still want to see the outside world."

But... I'd rather stay with you forever.

I want to go with you to Huaiguo to hunt for bicycle parts, I want to make you a cup of hot tea while you write your thesis, I want to listen to you talk about your creative process of 'time loop' at the Wave Salon, and I even want to help you find economic information when you write a novel in the future—

For example, if you write about self-employed individuals after the reform and opening up, I can tell you exactly how their cost accounting works.

Of course, I also hope to travel abroad with you to see the world, and then return to the place where we were born and raised.

As she spoke, she couldn't help but laugh, her dimples deepening as if filled with honey: "Xu Chengjun, don't you think that's greedy? You want your own ideals, but you also want to include you in my future."

Looking at her smiling face, Xu Chengjun felt his heart soften as if enveloped by the evening breeze.

He reached out and gently brushed her wind-blown hair aside. "Don't be greedy. You have me in your dreams, and you should be in mine."

Su Manshu chuckled at his teasing and playfully punched him: "But... I suddenly feel that my ideals are clearer now. I used to think that economics was just formulas in books and theories in class, but after being with you, I realized that it can be very close to real life."

Xu Chengjun pulled her to sit down on a bench by the roadside, placing an enamel cup between them, the cup still slightly warm.

He recalled Su Manshu's previous struggle with the "dual-track pricing system" and suddenly spoke up: "Actually, regarding your question about whether 'unplanned transactions are speculation,' I think China will gradually open it up in the future. A market economy isn't the sole domain of capitalism. Just as the tide gives ordinary people the opportunity to publish their work, the economy should also give more people the opportunity to 'do things'—"

In the future, there will be many private enterprises, goods that can be purchased without ration coupons, and even multinational corporations owned by Chinese people.

He wanted to open a door for Su Manshu, a door to China's future economics.

Su Manshu looked up at him abruptly, her eyes filled with surprise: "You really think so? But the teacher said that the pursuit of profit by capital will disrupt order..."

"Order is not static; it follows people."

At this point, Xu Chengjun smiled and said, "Ideals aren't static; they move with people."

The evening breeze rose again, swirling up the fallen leaves and making a circle around the bench.

She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, and the evening breeze, carrying the fragrance of sycamore leaves, carried their whispers into the star-studded night sky.

The fallen leaves were still gently drifting down, landing in their hair and on the benches.

A few scattered chimes came from Xianghui Hall in the distance. Xu Chengjun lowered his head and kissed the top of Su Manshu's head, whispering, "Manshu, with you here, my ideals are more complete."

Su Manshu squeezed his hand, looked up at him, and her smile was brighter than starlight: "Me too."

The night sky was clear, the stars filled the sky, and fallen leaves fluttered along the sycamore-lined path.

Two young figures nestled together, their ideals intertwined like waves in the evening breeze, harboring both literary aspirations and the beauty of love, slowly flowing towards a hopeful future.

The beautiful woman arrived as promised, and the kerria japonica blossoms were in full bloom.

I stand by the riverbank, my jade pendants jingling.

Not seeing the beautiful woman, my heart is filled with anxiety.

The wind caresses the fragrant herbs, and the dew dampens the blue robe.

The beautiful woman arrived as promised, and the mandarin ducks adorned the beams.

I carry a red writing brush, and speak of my thoughts of my beloved.

When I saw the beautiful woman arrive, her smile was radiant.

She reached out her hand, warming me from the cold.

The beautiful woman arrived as promised, and vines entwined around her.

I have prepared fine wine to feast my guests.

Playing the zither and blowing the sheng, the music was harmonious and melodious.

Holding hands in a vow, we are forever united in heart and soul.

(original)
-
On the second day of the tenth lunar month in 1979, the small building of the Qingming Magazine office at No. 161 Anqing Road, Hefei, was filled with the scent of ink, even through the cracks in the window frames.

The wooden door to the second-floor editorial office was open, and the dim incandescent light illuminated the busy atmosphere inside.

On the long wooden table was a pile of sample copies of the inaugural issue of "Qingming" magazine, which had just been delivered from the printing factory. The Wei stele style of the two characters "Qingming" on the cover had a matte finish under the light, and the hand-drawn illustration of the red silk image was so soft from being rubbed.

A rolled-up promotional poster stands at the base of the wall, with the words "First release nationwide on the third day of the tenth lunar month" painted in bright red Song typeface.

The tea in the enamel cups had long since gone cold, with unsteeped tea stems lying at the bottom, but no one bothered to add more water.

"Old Chen! The last sample copy has been checked. Take a look at it again!"

Deputy editor Yan Zhen carried a sample copy of the magazine up the wooden stairs. His military green Zhongshan suit collar was stained with printing ink. He was a veteran of the Anhui poetry scene and this time he was not only in charge of the poetry section of the inaugural issue, but also had to keep an eye on the posters.

"The printing plant said that the additional 5,000 copies have been loaded onto trucks and will be delivered to Xinhua bookstores in Hefei tomorrow morning. Post offices and sales outlets in other cities have also sent out delivery slips."

Editor-in-Chief Chen Dengke was hunched over his desk, marking up the distribution list with a red pencil. A veteran writer who had transferred from the military, he still bore scars from his early wars. Yet, he was meticulously examining the densely packed addresses: "The Chinese departments of universities like East China Normal University, Fudan University, Peking University, and Nankai University need to be sent separately, with a handwritten letter attached. Be polite—"

The teachers and students of these universities are the readers we at *Qingming* magazine are trying to reach. We also need to reach the writers' association system, from the Beijing Writers' Association to the Shanghai Writers' Association—we need to reach them everywhere. Don't forget Mr. Feng Mu; he inquired about the progress of the inaugural issue before.”

"Know it!"

(End of this chapter)