My era, 1979!

Chapter 162 Extra: Inaugural Address "Speaking for the Tide: The Cry of the Watchers, the Passion of the Icebreakers" (Recommended Reading)
—Steel guns and pens together forge the backbone: the integrity and brilliance of the nation at its early days.
At the inception of Fudan University's campus journal, I wrote the single character "浪" (Wave) to name it. Although its pages are confined to the corner of the ivory tower, it is but a small stream, yet it harbors a fervent hope: that it can break out of its circle and become the first wave breaking through the ice in the field of modern Chinese literature, a cutting-edge footnote in the tide of economic reform, and a vivid footnote to the pulse of the times.

That autumn sun, too, was divided in two: one half fell upon the trenches of the border, where steel guns gleamed coldly in the flames of cannons, etching the marks of the land onto the national border; the other half was imbued with the fragrance of ink in the study, where the pen, like the first cry of this new publication, surged across the manuscript paper like a river of spirit. The floodgates of reform and opening up had just been opened, and the west wind, carrying foreign ideas, swept across the land. China stood at the crossroads of a "two-front war"—the front lines, with steel guns protecting the land, were the defense line of the territory; the rear, with pens upholding the heart, were the Great Wall of the soul. This book, *The Tide*, was meant to be a glimmer of light on this Great Wall, both recording the surging tide and upholding righteousness in its voice.

However, some undercurrents use the guise of "open exchange" to carry out "deconstruction and infiltration": they regard Western classics as the ultimate standard, but regard the Book of Songs and the Songs of Chu as dusty old papers; they twist equal dialogue into groveling worship, and distort rational learning into absent-minded blind obedience.

I have some questions: Is the true meaning of openness to lose oneself and fawn over others? Is the price of communication to tear apart one's soul to cater to those who are different? Should the backbone of a nation be supported by compromise and bending over, or by standing tall with self-confidence?

I. Debunking the fallacy that "communication is groveling": The roots of literature are deeply embedded in the soil of civilization.
Those despicable individuals always like to label Chinese literature as "closed," as if without imitating Kafka's "alienation," without applying Faulkner's "fragments," and without replicating Márquez's "magical realism," Chinese stories cannot reach the world stage. They cannot see the factory workshops of 1979: old craftsmen caressing the shuttle of "Butterfly" sewing machines, the sparks flying from the steel files concealing the sincere desire to "build one more machine so that fewer soldiers on the front lines suffer from the cold." Such narratives, without the need for "surreal" packaging, inherently possess the warmth of the Chinese people; they cannot see the youths on campuses, their pens flowing with the sweet porridge of alleyways and the waves of wheat on the ridges of fields, those words wrapped in the warmth of everyday life, understanding the gene of "national resonance" better than any Western template.

Literary exchange is never about replacing native blood with foreign genes. Grass wrote *The Tin Drum* because the trauma of World War II in Germany was etched into his very being; we write Chinese stories because the wheat fields of the *Classic of Poetry*, the spirit of the Tang and Song dynasties, and the human emotions of Ming and Qing novels have long been woven into the fabric of language. No matter how exquisite Kafka's castle, it cannot contain the Chinese people's deep attachment to their land; no matter how secluded Faulkner's town, it cannot contain our sincere devotion to our homeland. This is a code etched into the genes of civilization; how can it be easily altered by a mere Western translation?
What these scoundrels truly fear is not that Chinese literature "cannot go global," but rather the collapse of their sense of superiority based on "learning from the West." What they truly resent is not that their local narratives are "not avant-garde enough," but that someone has exposed their mask of "using the West for personal gain"—they use "Western standards" as the sole yardstick, measuring not the quality of literature, but the capital they gain through patronage. But the literary world has already provided the answer: true cultural confidence means writing Chinese stories standing tall, allowing the world to understand the rhythm of the Book of Songs and the everyday life of humanity; not kneeling and imitating Western styles, distorting the very soul of the nation.

II. Refuting the lie that "cowardice equals rationality": The blood of dignity boils in the very marrow of the nation.

When border soldiers, their hands cracked from frostbite, wrote "The position cannot be lost," and when factory workers, their eyes bloodshot from working tirelessly to produce military equipment, scoundrels clamored in the shadows: "China cannot withstand war," and "Only compromise can bring peace." They disguised their "fear of bloodshed" as "rational restraint," and their "fear of drawing their swords" as "putting the greater good first," forgetting that in 1950 we were able to cross the Yalu River, in 1964 we were able to detonate the atomic bomb, and in 1979 we naturally dared to defend every inch of our land with steel guns—China's peace has never been won by "kneeling," but by "fighting"; national dignity has never been won by "giving up," but by "defending."

The "rationality" hidden beneath the surface concealed a deep-seated cowardice: they feared the artillery fire would scorch the warmth of their studies, forgetting that the ice shards in the trenches froze the very backbone of the nation; they feared conflict would disrupt their own comfort, disregarding the weight of territorial integrity and the lives of their soldiers. Ultimately, they failed to understand: the steel guns protected not only the land, but also the right of every Chinese person to "not bow down"; the machine tools turned not only equipment, but also the nation's unwavering resolve to "not surrender." Our system has never been labeled "authoritarian," but rather a force capable of uniting hundreds of millions of hands, ensuring the front lines and the rear are in sync, and that steel guns and pens resonate.

History has long shown that we do not crave war, but we are never afraid of it; we cherish exchanges, but we protect our dignity even more. To talk about "compromise" with China? First, ask the guns in the trenches if they agree, ask the hundreds of millions of Chinese people if they agree with the spirit of "rather die standing than live on their knees"! Those weak words that denigrate China and fallacies that advocate dependence are nothing but bubbles that burst at the slightest provocation before the cold glint of the JFJ.

Third, clarify the distinction between "upholding the right path and not being conservative": the path of development is rooted in its own soil.
People often misunderstand this: upholding cultural roots means rejecting literary modernization; adhering to the core of the system means hindering the progress of the times; and being determined to achieve economic independence means closing the door to openness. This sets "upholding the right path" against "innovation" and confuses "independence" with "closed-offness"—we have never confined ourselves to a narrow path, but we refuse to be drifting duckweed; we have never refused to grow, but we aspire to be trees rooted in the earth.

Upholding culture doesn't mean locking the *Classic of Poetry* away in a glass case, but rather integrating its elegant essence into contemporary narratives: writing about the neon lights of the city, and also the starlight on the field ridges; using modern techniques while preserving classical spirit. This isn't rejecting literary modernization, but rather pursuing a "literary modernization with Chinese characteristics." It allows Kafka's "alienation" to serve us, without losing the "human touch" of *Dream of the Red Chamber*; it allows Márquez's "magical realism" to draw inspiration, without forgetting the "moral principles" of *Romance of the Three Kingdoms*. Economic autonomy doesn't mean closing the door to development, but rather opening up while upholding bottom lines: we welcome foreign investment, but don't allow capital to monopolize people's livelihoods; we embrace the world, but don't depend on other countries' markets. This isn't rejecting economic openness, but rather pursuing a "path of economic openness with Chinese characteristics." The door to openness opens wider and wider, but the foundation within remains "people-centered," not working for Western capital.

The adherence to the system is not about stagnation and rigidity, but about self-reform based on national conditions: we improve governance to make the system more suitable for China's soil; we absorb experience to make advantages more suitable for national development. This is not about rejecting systemic progress, but about following a "path of systemic progress with Chinese characteristics"—the direction of progress is not to copy the Western "separation of powers," but to ensure that the system can always unite the people, concentrate power, and protect the country and its people.

Upholding principles means preserving the roots of civilization and the soul of the nation; innovation means taking our own steps and forging our own path. The modernization we seek is one with Chinese characteristics; the openness we seek is one with self-reliance and confidence; the progress we seek is progress rooted in our nation—this is not an either-or choice, but a dialectical progress of "not losing our roots and not stopping our pace."

Fourth, be wary of the danger of "passing down spinelessness": The fire of the spirit burns in the palm of self-confidence.

Looking back on the past and looking forward to the future from the juncture of 1979, we must be even more sober-minded: if the sordid logic of the scoundrels is not uprooted, a "soft bone disease" will inevitably breed in the future. Some people will treat snippets of Western media as "truth," exaggerating the growing pains of China's development into "incurable systemic diseases"; some will smear "national self-confidence" as "narrow-minded populism," and denounce "adhering to the homeland" as "closing the country to the outside world"; even worse, some will use "international vision" as a pledge of allegiance, framing national scars as exhibits in Western showcases, and distorting economic achievements as "plundering dividends."

These future "spineless individuals," ostensibly "rational public intellectuals," are in reality "cultural compradors." They proclaim "seeking development for China," but secretly plot to "seek private gain through the West." They forget that national strength has never relied on Western recognition, but was forged through hard work—"building nuclear weapons and satellites when we were poor and backward, and protecting our vast land when everything was in ruins"; cultural confidence has never relied on Western applause, but has been passed down "from pen and ink to machine tools and fountain pens, from 'Li Sao' to contemporary epics"; and the advantages of our system have never relied on the endorsement of outsiders, but have been proven by "concentrating resources to accomplish major tasks and working together to overcome difficulties."

The winds of this year carried not only the autumn light, but also a timeless warning: the future of China does not need "people who speak on their knees," but "people who stand tall and have backbone"; it does not need "vines that cling to others," but "pines and cypresses that take root in the earth."

We are willing to build bridges of exchange, but we will never dismantle the foundation of our own civilization; we are willing to seek the benefits of cooperation, but we will never bend the backbone of our nation. Cooperation is never about dependence, and exchange is never about flattery. This is the clarity we learned that year, and it is also the upholding of the righteousness of our national spirit. When the last sycamore leaf of that year fell on the manuscript paper of "The Wave," the pen and the gun met again at this moment: the cold gleam of the gun is an indestructible barrier for the mountains and rivers; the passion of the pen is the eternal flame of the soul; and the three confidences in culture, economy, and system are the backbone that supports all of this.

From now on, we will not be spineless cowards who fawn over foreign powers, but rather staunch defenders of our roots; we will not be timid talkers who engage in empty rhetoric, but rather courageous doers who take action. This is the spiritual legacy left to us by 1979, and it is the very foundation upon which the Chinese nation stands: steel guns protect our land, pens safeguard our souls, self-confidence upholds our unyielding spirit, and dignity shines eternally!

(End of this chapter)