My era, 1979!

Chapter 18 Thunder Awakens the World, Raindrops Nourish the Heart

The most fragmented sense of emptiness in this era is:

My work is going to be included in the "First Collection of Poems by Thirty New Poets"?

what?
That damn famous one?

Xu Chengjun felt like he was in a dream all noon!
His "Time" will now be competing with those historical masterpieces!
From the very first day I wrote the two words "granary".

He had already made up his mind.

This is in the last era of great masters in the history of Chinese literature.

Discuss creative ideals with "Lu Guo Mao Ba Lao Cao Wei".

He competed with Wang Meng, Wang Zengqi, Liu Xinwu, Jiang Zilong, and others in creative writing.

He possesses a vision 40 years ahead of his time, a prescient approach to literary creation, and 20 years of honing his writing skills.

Who is afraid of who?

I can't pass an open-book exam?
As for the saying "time travel without plagiarism is a wasted time travel".

Xu Chengjun was speechless.

Just because you've read famous works doesn't mean you can write them yourself. Do you have the background of those authors? Do you have their writing skills? Can your mind remember tens of thousands of words across two different worlds?
Do you really think the whole world revolves around you?
Stop kidding me~
Let's be logical!
-
At noon, Lin Xiuying greeted him and asked him to talk about his thoughts on poetry writing.

He seemed not to hear a thing.

Still calm!
In 1979, a special juncture in Chinese history.

Liu Zuci's "First Collection of Poems by Thirty New Poets" was indeed a bombshell.

It can be said that this was not just a simple literary event, but also a cultural microcosm of China's social transformation in the late 1970s.

As Gu Cheng recalled in 1983, "Without the breakthrough of Anhui Literature, we might have been groping in the dark for much longer."
-
Time clearly didn't give Xu Chengjun much time to be "confused".

The revision meeting continued in the afternoon, but the topic changed.

Zhou Ming poured tea for the third time, and Su Zhong tapped his pipe: "We discussed the specifics of the manuscript this morning, so let's talk about the abstract this afternoon. Which way will the river of literature flow next?"

Xu Chengjun twirled the pen between his fingers.

He knew this was the real test.

When discussing specific works, one relies on details; when discussing the direction of literature, one relies on vision, and he happens to have a broader vision than others.

However, in today's setting, he clearly has no right to make such outrageous remarks.

He'll answer exactly what you ask!

"I'll throw a stone first."

Gong Liu stubbed out his cigarette in the jar.

"But literature can't just keep crying, can it? What should it do after it's done crying?"

Liu Xianping opened his notebook, the pages filled with densely packed creative outlines: "I've been writing about rural themes lately, but I keep getting stuck on the hurdle between 'collective' and 'individual.' If I write about collectivism, it seems fake; if I write about individual aspirations, I'm afraid of crossing the line. How do I strike that balance?"

"Today's main character is Comrade Chengjun, so let Comrade Chengjun speak first."

Zhou Ming smiled and nodded at Xu Chengjun.

Although he didn't say much today, it was clear that he admired Xu Chengjun the most.

Xu Chengjun didn't expect his chance to speak to come so quickly.

But it was clear that Xu Zhiqing was not going to let this opportunity slip by.

I was talking to the big shots about my literary ideals!

What are you afraid of!

If it doesn't work, then spray it!

In his past life, he was the third debater on the Chinese Literature Department's debate team!
"Teacher Liu, don't you think that literature today is like a river that has just thawed? The ice hasn't completely melted yet, but the water is already trying to change course?"

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping over the seniors present.

“When you’re in pain, you have to cry it out. But after you cry it out, you have to think deeper: it’s not about ‘who hurt me,’ but about ‘how should I live?’”

Su Zhong raised an eyebrow, finding it amusing, and twirled the pipe halfway in his palm: "Oh? What do you mean by 'going deeper'?"

"Go deeper into human nature."

Xu Chengjun's pen made a crisp, resounding sound as it scratched across the paper.

"For example, when writing about rural cadres, don't just write that they are rigid; write that they sigh at the account book at night. Good people are not all good, and bad people are not all bad; that's what real people are like."

He looked up at Gong Liu and said, "Just like when Teacher Gong Liu wrote 'Oh, the Great Forest,' wasn't he letting anger be wrapped with hope for humanity?"

Gong Liu was taken aback, then burst into laughter: "You young man, your words are interesting, and they hit the nail on the head! I've been revising my poems lately, and I always feel like they're lacking something. I didn't expect to be enlightened by you, a 20-year-old."

"Sharpness alone is not enough; it must be supported by warmth."

During this period, Gong Liu was experiencing a period of silence in his literary creation.
The focus has shifted from early enthusiastic praise to profound reflection on history, human nature, and social realities.

Xu Chengjun, who has read "Selected Poems of Gong Liu".

How could I not know what he's thinking?

Laughing hysterically.jpg!

Liu Zuci suddenly laughed: "When Xiao Xu mentioned 'turning a corner,' something came to mind."

"I've recently received some manuscripts from young writers. They don't write about movements or collectives; they just write about the moonlight outside a girl's window or a mother mending socks. Some people call this 'petit-bourgeois sentimentality.' Xiao Xu, what do you think?"

"This isn't about being bourgeois; it's about literature coming home." Xu Chengjun paused for a few seconds, then began to spout nonsense:
“In recent years, literature has always carried the banner of writing about the country and ideology, forgetting that people are first and foremost individuals who ‘eat, sleep, and think.’”

"In the future, there will be more and more works that depict the joys and sorrows of 'this person,' rather than the label of 'this type of person.' Just like a river that flows and branches into countless streams to irrigate every specific field."

Qian Niansun pushed up his glasses, his pen flying across the notebook: "You mean, literature should shift from 'grand narratives' to 'individual narratives'?"

"It's not a shift, it's complementarity."

Xu Chengjun shook his head.

"Just like a river, no matter how wide, it can't do without the inflow of streams."

"Future literary history will remember that 1979 was not only marked by the thunderous accusations, but also by the raindrops falling from the eaves. The thunderous accusations awakened the world, and the raindrops nourished the heart; neither could have been accomplished without the other."

This was actually the natural trend in the development of literature.

Liu Zuci's eyes lit up. "What a wonderful 'thunder awakens the world, raindrops nourish the heart'! You're a natural-born writer!"

"I think these 'raindrops' might break the dam."

Su Zhong suddenly shook his head, his tone becoming somber.

"Literature has never been a solitary pursuit. If you write about 'a mother mending socks,' who will write about factory chimneys and tractors in the fields? Young people are prone to getting caught up in their own little joys and sorrows and forget that literature should be a clarion call."

He tapped the table, the jujube wood pipe making a muffled sound. "Back in 1958, when we wrote 'New Song of the Huai River,' the words were full of the spirit of 'collective progress.' Now, it's all the same, everyone wants to dig into the 'scars.' If there are too many scars, won't it become a quagmire?"

That's well said, but some people won't tolerate it.

Gong Liu chuckled, his blue-rimmed glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose: "Old Su, you're being too blunt. Good crops only grow in mud!"

"When Qu Yuan wrote 'Lamenting the hardships of the people's lives,' wasn't he also digging out the pain of the nation from his personal 'scars'? But you, Su Lao, are always thinking about 'bugles' when you write commentaries now. Be careful not to become a cheerleader."

"You are making excuses!"

Su Zhong's face darkened. "I mean, literature needs to have substance; it can't just be about romance and nature!"

"True character is found amidst romance and fleeting pleasures!"

Gong Liu suddenly stood up.

"When I wrote 'Meditations,' I placed the bloodied head on the scales of life, so that all the survivors would lose their weight. Isn't that backbone stronger than your slogans?"

Zhou Ming quickly tried to smooth things over: "Let's all keep quiet. Xiao Xu, continue. How do you think literature will develop ten years from now?"

Xu Chengjun and the other person calmed down a bit: "I think what the teachers said is actually reasonable. Literature is all-encompassing. I'd like to share my humble opinion."

"Ten years from now, some people will feel that 'realism' is not enough and will start to change the form, using disrupted timelines, dialogues that are incomplete, or even deliberately making it incomprehensible. The whole thing will go in two directions."

“They’ll get bogged down in the details. Take the land allocation for example, in the future, someone will be watching the boundary marker at the edge of the land and writing the demarcation lines.”

"Zhang's wife thought the boundary marker was half a foot crooked. Li's old man squatted down and smoked a pipe. Finally, he took out a sweet potato from his pocket and they shared it half with each other."

Instead of writing "how important it is to divide the land," write about who threw away the sweet potato peel first, and who secretly broke off a large piece of their half and gave it to the other person. These small details, when piled up, are more substantial than shouting "reform is good" a lot.

He glanced at the crowd, his voice filled with certainty.

"The other end will go towards Kuanli. It's like someone entering the city and seeing the job postings at the factory gate, which will mention who has new cloth shoes that their mother made overnight, who has half a year's worth of food coupons hidden in their pocket, and who is counting their fingers in the crowd, etc."

“The wording may not explicitly state ‘the policy has changed,’ but the stitches on the cloth shoes and the creases on the grain coupons are all real changes.”

"As for the writing style, I'm afraid we'll have to come up with all sorts of variations."

Xu Chengjun smiled and said, "Now when I write about things, it's mostly in a smooth sequence like 'the rooster crows—I go to the fields—I finish work.' In the future, I might write in reverse, first about the mud on my trousers when I finish work, and then back to the roasted soybeans my mother stuffed into my pocket when I left in the morning."

"It's also possible that the stories of several people are mixed together, with one person's plow bumping into another's basket, and incidentally pulling out a half-sack of wheat seeds borrowed three years ago. It looks messy, but in fact, it exposes all the twists and turns in people's hearts."

He turned to Su Zhong, his tone carrying a hint of earnestness from a younger generation: "But we can't lose the 'backbone' that Teacher Su mentioned. If this foundation is firmly planted, no wind can blow it down."

Su Zhong loosened his grip on the pipe but didn't say anything more, clearly indicating some approval.

Qian Niansun suddenly closed his notebook: "Let me add something. We must be wary of what Xiao Xu called 'individual narrative' turning into 'refined egoism'."

“19th-century Russian literature focused on the individual; Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, for example, all reflected the era through their individual lives. If one only writes about ‘the moonlight outside the window’ and forgets the land that the moonlight shines on, then one is putting the cart before the horse.”

Liu Zuci mediated, saying, "In my opinion, this is like planting wheat. It needs to be rooted in the soil and also has the ability to bloom in the wind. This seed of Xiao Xu has both the earthy quality and the vitality of a new seedling. Let's not confine it to old frameworks."

Zhou Ming nodded in agreement, “There are very few educated youths these days who can write like Xiao Xu. Whether it’s his works or his vision, he is far beyond what a 20-year-old should be like.”

"You really gave us old folks a good literature lesson!"

"I'm setting the tone: the front page of 'Barn' will be published in September. I hope all of you senior colleagues will give it your support."
-
The afternoon passed quickly.

Zhou Ming, Liu Zuci, and Gong Liu expressed their undisguised admiration for Xu Chengjun's works and vision.

While others may have some disagreements, their discussions are limited to literary aspects.

Most people asked for Xu Chengjun's address, saying they would contact him by letter if needed.

According to Xu Chengjun, the people, farmers, and writers of this era are all so simple and honest that it's impossible for them to harbor any ill intentions.

Speaking from today's meeting...

Although the number of participants was small, it included the best of Anhui's literary and artistic circles.

Even with his limited perspective, Xu Chengjun could sense the undeniable passion these people had for the development of literature.

Although there may be selfish motives, one's public-spiritedness is hard to hide.

As the setting sun bathed the conference room in a golden-red hue, Xu Chengjun carried a stack of books given to him by his seniors as he walked out.

Su Zhong called out to him from behind, her tone softening: "You're coming to the youth creative writing conference next month. Prepare a manuscript; don't just talk the talk, come up with concrete examples that resonate with you."

It's also about temperament.

(End of this chapter)