I am not a literary giant

Chapter 135 Someone is Coming (8000 words)

The silver body, like a sharp arrow, sliced ​​through the morning mist floating on the G112 highway. The simulated engine roared deep and pleasantly, and at 160 km/h, the light and shadow blurred against the background. Is speed the same as beauty? Yes, speed is beauty.

Prince Zi held the steering wheel with his hand loosely, while Shostakovich's Second Waltz played in the car. The spiraling melody made him feel as if he were climbing a long stairway to the gods as he ascended the elevated highway—grand, magnificent, and tragic. He involuntarily raised his arms and swayed to the music.

Sunlight rippled across the car body, reflecting fiery red patterns. As the music reached the third measure of the second part, human voices came from the car stereo, inserting discordant elements into the harmonious melody, which annoyed Prince Xu.

"So, the Nobel Prize in Literature for this year has been announced. The winner is the Norwegian playwright Johan Fosse. I'm afraid many readers in China are not very familiar with him, are they?"

"Yes. Johan Fosse was born in Haugesund on the west coast of Norway. He was skilled in writing in New Norwegian, also known as Nynorsk. He had a wide range of interests, and his works included plays, novels, essays, poetry, and children's literature."

"It seems this is a very 'niche' writer. Not only does he live in a niche place, but he's also very obscure. When I heard his name, my first reaction was, 'Who is he?'"

"That's right. For Chinese readers, compared to writers like Haruki Murakami who are often talked about for being runners-up, the name of this Norwegian playwright is quite unfamiliar. In fact, apart from Bob Dylan, most of the Nobel Prize in Literature winners in recent years have been relatively 'unpopular'..."

Wang Zixu's face showed disdain: "Nonsense. John Foster is considered an obscure figure? He was already one of the top living playwrights before he won the Nobel Prize, okay?"

The audio was filled with a hissing sound, giving the guest's voice a hazy quality: "Teacher, I've never really understood why people say Haruki Murakami is always a Nobel Prize runner-up. Is it because he gets nominated every time?"

"In reality, there is no such thing as a 'nomination' for the Nobel Prize. There are no candidates. The reason why Haruki Murakami is said to be a 'runner-up' is probably because he appears on the so-called 'Nobel Prize author odds list' that circulates every year."

"Oh, I know that. It seems that several Chinese writers have also appeared on this odds list, including Can Xue, Yan Lianke, Yu Hua, Yan Zishan..."

"Yes, but just treat it as entertainment and don't take it too seriously. Even J.K. Rowling, the author of Harry Potter, is on that list, which tells you how valuable that so-called odds list really is."

Wang Zixu laughed again: "Who said that? Modiano in 14, Bob Dylan in 16, Handke in 19, and Anne Elno last year were all high-ranking candidates on the odds list, and they won the prizes later. That list, although it doesn't always get the predictions right, is not far off either. It's much more valuable than yours."

His voice naturally couldn't reach that side; the voice from the speakers continued:

"Furthermore, although Haruki Murakami is a favorite among young literary enthusiasts in our country, he will never win the Nobel Prize in Literature. This is because he is too popular. The Nobel Prize committee has a more 'serious' taste; they believe that overly popular writers lose their seriousness, so he basically has no chance of winning the Nobel Prize..."

"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!" Wang Zixu said. "Marquez was already a bestselling author with tens of millions of copies sold before he won the prize, okay? You only have a superficial understanding, you're talking nonsense. You haven't read enough and you talk too much."

Then he suddenly fell silent, because he realized that he was alone in the car. Alone, his voice couldn't travel anywhere.

For the past four months, his life has been unusually regular: he would get up in the morning and write a 4,000-word script, then handle some daily chores in the afternoon, and start writing at six o'clock in the evening until midnight, without fail.

As the company's business gradually got on track, there were fewer matters that required his involvement. He specifically instructed Zuo Ziliang and Ye Lan to bother him less. With his deliberate avoidance, interpersonal relationships became simpler and simpler, and he became increasingly lonely.

He carefully hid himself in that house, facing the computer screen alone, as if the world had shrunk to just this small corner.

He imagined his house perched on a bluish-gray reef, with the black ocean and white waves outside the door. When the wind suddenly rose, it blew through the walls, past his temples, and howled towards the empty space.

As a result, he felt cold all over and uncertain of his future, so he psychologically forced himself to write as soon as possible. At the same time, he also developed the habit of talking to himself.

In the last month, his mental state became increasingly worrying. At his worst, he wrote 12,000 words a day. When he collapsed in bed, his speech was fragmented and incoherent. He picked up the phone and asked the person on the other end to drive a high-speed rotating machine to deliver liquid to China, leaving the water deliveryman completely baffled.

Wang Zixu is not the first writer to drive himself to mental illness.

According to later generations, three writers in the world preferred to write naked. The first is Victor Hugo, the second is Ernest Hemingway, and the third is Chen Qingluo.

Hugo went naked because he suffered from severe procrastination. To suppress his playful nature, he had his servants hide his clothes so he couldn't go out. Hemingway, on the other hand, didn't want to be bound by the mundane things like clothes. He used this behavior to break free from the shackles and chains of worldly views and become the freest creator on earth.

Chen Qingluo's reasoning was similar to the latter's. When she became completely absorbed in her work and entered a state of self-forgetfulness, her clothes would unknowingly disappear one by one. She created her art in complete seclusion, with the door locked, and only Ning Chunyan witnessed this magical process.

Writers often have various quirks, each with its own reasons, but they all point to one fact about creation: writing is a torturous process that can distort behavior and is difficult for ordinary people to understand.

Writing involves immense suffering. If you don't write it down, this suffering will affect your mind, tormenting you and making it difficult to eat or sleep; if you do write it down, this suffering will be projected onto your body, making it impossible for you to eat or sleep.

Wang Zixu endured this torment, but fortunately, the torment was not without results. After the long summer, Wang Zixu produced a novel of 50 words.

This novel is too long; it presents a significant challenge whether submitted to a writing contest like "Feishi·Suihan" or a magazine, or even if the author chooses to publish it independently. Therefore, he is currently undergoing a painful process of proofreading the first draft, aiming to reduce it from 50 words to under 30.

The interview playing on the speakers was coming to an end, and the host said:

"So, for domestic audiences, which other excellent authors would you recommend?"

"The younger generation of writers has grown up. Chen Qingluo goes without saying, but Xiao Mengyin, Xiao Chi, and Gu Zao are all worth paying attention to."

"Oh, I've heard of Xiao Mengyin. She's a very unique woman. I recently watched some of her interviews, and she speaks very philosophically."

"Yes. She has a strong personality. Her works, like herself, are full of a strange and unique quality that makes them irresistible to read."

Upon hearing the familiar name, Wang Zixu felt a pang of sadness, but he quickly and quietly erased the fleeting emotion from his heart, returning to his composure.

He hadn't seen Chen Qingluo since that fleeting glimpse.

Xie Cong posted a video in the class group chat of Chen Qingluo presenting an award to Wang Zixu, which caused a sensation in the group. People first recognized the award presenter, Chen Qingluo, dressed in a beautiful outfit, and marveled at her appearance. Then they discovered that the person receiving the award was Wang Zixu, and countless messages flew in like snowflakes.

Wang Zixu, harboring a secret joy, peeked into the class group for a long time, but Chen Qingluo didn't show up. Finally, he was disappointed to find that she had left the group at some point.

Because of this incident, he was even more unsure of Chen Qingluo's intentions and dared not contact her.

He tried countless times to write a letter to Chen Qingluo. He used all his writing skills to write various openings, some passionate and some deep and calm, but without exception, they all ended up as scraps of paper, which he patched up and stuffed into Wen Ai's script.

It wasn't that his writing was bad. His scripts during that period received unanimous praise from speech therapists and clients (Ye Lan commented that he became more and more charismatic with age). It was just that he lacked the courage to send them out.

He wondered if his love story would end tragically, like those in Márquez's novels. Many years later, when he was old and frail, he suddenly picked up his luggage, walked many kilometers, and knocked on Chen Qingluo's door, saying: "I heard that your husband has died."

Prince Xu banished these chaotic thoughts from his mind and repeated another name in a normal tone:

"Xiao Mengyin".

Prince Xu effortlessly recalled all the rumors he had heard about this woman.

He knew she was the winner of the previous Fei Shi·Sui Han Literature Award and had read her new book. Through her work, he learned that she was a post-90s generation like him, or even two years younger.

This thought always filled Prince Xu with worry.

There is indeed a tendency for the Nobel Prize in Literature to be awarded to writers from the same region in a short period of time. For example, the South American authors Gabriel García Márquez and Mario Vargas Llosa were writers from almost the same period, but Márquez won the prize, while Vargas Llosa received the honor a full 30 years later.

In other words, if Wang Zixu wants to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, his biggest competitor actually comes from within China, and is about thirty years his senior. If a Chinese author of his age wins the prize, it could potentially ruin his chances of winning it twenty or thirty times over.

Most of the currently popular authors on the odds list are outside this range. As for those within that range, he's confident he can surpass them in his lifetime. Xiao Mengyin's appearance has put some pressure on him. Not much, but definitely there is.

However, the one who put the most pressure on him was indeed Chen Qingluo.

"Hey, Lao Wang, have you arrived yet?"

The car stereo amplified Lin Feng's voice from the phone, bringing it directly to his ears. Wang Zixu said, "Not yet, have you arrived?"

Raymond Lam said, "I'm almost there. You set off even earlier than me, how come you're not here yet?"

Wang Zixu said, "Nanjing University is much farther than Jiangnan University."

"Oh right, yes."

Today is the day for the offline review of materials for the postgraduate entrance examination. Wang Zixu is on his way to Nanjing University to submit his various documents.

During this period, Lin Feng also planned to take the postgraduate entrance examination while working, but he was afraid of the admission score of Nanjing University and chose Jiangnan University instead.

"Brother Wang, are you really going to take the full-time postgraduate entrance exam? Have you thought it through? Are you sure you won't take the civil service exam afterward?"

Wang Zixu was silent for a moment: "I can't think of any reason for someone with no interest in a career in government to pursue a part-time degree. But you, haven't you always dreamed of attending Nanjing University? Why don't you apply?"

Lin Feng smiled sheepishly: "I've already said it, I urgently need a degree to get promoted. Nanjing University is indeed my dream, but one can't live on dreams alone."

So, people can't live on dreams?

Lin Feng added, "By the way, there's a writers' exchange meeting at Nanjing University today. Many celebrities are there, and I heard Yanzishan is also there."

"Yeah?"

"Could you go and ask Yanzishan for a photo for me? I was too excited last time and forgot to ask him for it."

Wang Zixu hadn't planned to join in the fun, but after hearing Lin Feng's earnest words, he agreed.

Speaking of which, Yanzishan told him to "go to the East China Sea." He has already arrived at the East China Sea; I wonder what Yanzishan will say next?

He finally arrived at Nanjing University's campus. This was his second time here, but he found it much more bustling than the last time. Vehicles from all over the country had formed a long line at the entrance. A security guard-looking man walked over and waved to him.

"No need to go in, the parking lot is full."

Wang Zixu stuck his head out of the window: "Is it full?"

"Full. Turn around, turn around."

Wang Zixu had no choice but to drive the car to the side of the road.

Donghai is a refined place. Prince Xu didn't know if parking was allowed on the roadside, but there was already a row of cars parked there, so he followed suit.

As soon as he got out of the car, three girls ran over and pointed at his car.

"It's Paul Smith!"

"Yes, it's Busch rice."

The three girls were dressed differently. One had a face that wasn’t particularly special, but had extremely long eyelashes; another wore a polka-dot T-shirt and had a large chest; and the third had long, flowing hair that had been carefully dyed and permed into flamboyant waves.

They looked like students handing out flyers on the roadside to earn money while studying, but what they were holding were not flyers.

Wang Zixu tucked his registration materials into his pocket and walked straight towards the school. Three girls caught up with him from behind and greeted him.

"Are you from Nanjing University?"

Prince Xu didn't know how to answer that question, so he could only shake his head: "Not yet."

Three girls chattered excitedly, saying, "We're second-year Chinese literature students, currently working on a research project. Could you spare a little time to help us with a questionnaire?"

"Can."

One of the girls, with very long eyelashes, pulled out a piece of paper and placed it on her notebook: "May I ask what your educational background is?"

"Undergraduate degree."

"Are you currently an undergraduate student or have you already graduated?" The girl with long eyelashes looked up.

Wang Zixu said, "I graduated many years ago."

"So you're going to Nanjing University now...?" the girl with long eyelashes asked.

"Graduate school application," Wang Zixu said, raising the documents in his hand.

The three girls whispered to each other, "Yes, today is indeed the day for graduate school registration."

The busty girl in the polka-dot dress looked up and asked with a strange expression, "Excuse my intrusion, but how old are you?"

Wang Zixu did not shy away from saying, "Thirty."

The three girls exchanged glances, then said, "Oh, part-time graduate students."

"Full-time."

"A thirty-year-old applying for graduate school? And a full-time graduate program at that?" The girl's eyes widened.

Wang Zixu said, "Jin Yong was still pursuing graduate studies at the age of eighty."

"That's true," the busty girl in the polka-dot dress said convincingly. "What I meant was that the older man's perseverance is commendable."

Prince felt a little breathless: "I'm only seven, eight, or nine years older than you, right? I'm not that old, am I?"

A busty woman in a polka-dot dress stuck out her tongue: "But 30 feels like such a distant age."

Prince Xu thought viciously to himself, "In another five years, you'll start to panic too. The god of time is fair."

"That's not the point, please don't change the subject." The girl with long eyelashes stopped the conversation from drifting off. "The topic of our survey is the general public's enthusiasm for the Nobel Prize in Literature. We'd like to ask, are you aware that the Nobel Prize in Literature was recently announced?"

"I know perfectly well."

Wang Zixu hadn't yet recovered from his earlier setback when the girl with long eyelashes smiled and nodded, then asked:

"Do you know who has won this year's Nobel Prize in Literature?"

"John Foster, Norwegian writer."

The three girls' eyes lit up, they exchanged surprised glances, and they praised the prince, saying, "He's the first one today to answer correctly about his name and nationality."

"oh."

Wang Zixu now realized that he might not be considered an ordinary citizen.

Do ordinary people have 49 opportunities to win the Nobel Prize in Literature?

However, in the conventional evaluation system, a 30-year-old unemployed person taking the postgraduate entrance exam without a job is, even if not an ordinary citizen, a level below the ordinary citizen. It's like a bumper harvest compared to the Yellow Crane Tower.

How much do you know about his work?

Wang Zixu said, "I have read his collection 'Someone Is Coming,' which contains several plays. I haven't read his other works, such as essays and poems. I haven't read many of his works."

This answer surprised the three girls. They exchanged glances and fell silent.

Finally, the girl in the polka-dot dress blurted out, "The awards ceremony was just yesterday, and I've already read it today? How come so fast? Do you live next to the bookstore?"

"John Fosser didn't become a Nobel laureate. I read his books before this year's Nobel Prizes were announced."

The girl with wavy hair slightly opened her mouth, her almond-shaped eyes staring at him with suspicion, as if to say sincerely: Uncle, the trick of trying to pick up girls by pretending to be a literary youth is outdated now.

Wang Zixu couldn't help but defend himself: "He's already a well-known playwright in Norway, and a world-class playwright. It's not surprising that you've read his books, is it?"

He wasn't angry about the girls' distrust. When he bought John Fosser's works years ago, he was quite surprised to find that the book had sold 10 copies online: "Are there really 10 people in China who want to pursue the Nobel Prize in Literature?"

Aside from that, he couldn't think of any other reason why anyone would read this minimalist play by the Norwegian playwright.

The girl in the polka-dot dress waved her hand, seemingly wanting to quickly skip the topic: "Next question."

The girl with long eyelashes suddenly flipped through a few pages of manuscript paper and asked, "Do you have any objections to the results of this year's Nobel Prize in Literature?"

Prince Xu stopped in his tracks: "Why should I have a problem with that?"

The girl with long eyelashes was startled by his tone: "I mean, if you had to choose, who would you pick to receive this award?"

Many names flashed through Prince Xu's mind, but he finally said, "John Forser. He deserves it."

He paused, then added, "If I could choose, I would nominate Thomas Pynchon, Milan Kundera, Don DeLillo..."

The girl with long eyelashes exclaimed, "Wait, wait... could you please speak more slowly?"

Wang Zixu taught her how to write those characters: "Thomas Pynchon, 'Pynchon' is the 'pie' in 'pie,' and 'Pynchon' is the 'admire' in 'admire'... What's going on? A Chinese literature major, how come you don't even know Thomas Pynchon?"

The girl with long eyelashes had tears welling up in her eyes as she was being scolded, but Wang Zixu didn't care and continued:

"If I could bring the dead back to life to receive the prize, I would give it to Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Calvino, Nabokov, Philip Roth... Oh right, there was no Nobel Prize when Dostoevsky died, so I'll just have to ask Mr. Nobel to die sooner..."

"Didn't hear me? Okay, I'll slow down. Thomas Pynchon, Don DeLillo, and Milan Kundera are the ones who need to be awarded the prize as soon as possible. If we don't, they might die, and then it will be too late. Philip Roth was already unfortunate enough, dying at 18, only living to 85. The others mentioned above were about the same age as him. If they had died, it would have been a great loss to the Nobel Prize..."

Wang Zixu's incessant chatter only served to accentuate the eerily quiet atmosphere. The three girls exchanged bewildered glances, clearly unsettled by his rapid-fire remarks.

The girl in the polka-dot dress raised her hand to interrupt him: "Excuse me, which graduate program are you applying for?"

"Chinese Literature Department"

The three girls were relieved, their pent-up frustration vanishing: "So it was our senior brother."

Seeing the girls celebrating, Wang Zixu finally realized that their strange silence earlier was because his performance had exceeded expectations. The girls were taken aback by his reciting the menu and felt quite jealous.

"Is the senior student from this school or someone from another school who took the entrance exam?"

I graduated from Beijing Institute of Technology with a bachelor's degree.

"...Does Beijing Institute of Technology have a Chinese Literature Department?"

"I didn't major in Chinese literature; I studied engineering."

Looking at the expressions on the three girls' faces, Wang Zixu said earnestly, "It's not only Chinese literature majors who read books, nor does it mean that Chinese literature majors necessarily read more books than others. You should let your major give you wings, rather than letting it become a mold that solidifies you."

After he finished speaking, he felt that there was something profound about his words, but the audience's reaction was not satisfactory. None of the three girls responded, and Wang Zixu suddenly felt a little discouraged, wondering if his lecturing had been a bit too paternalistic.

This also reflects the changes in students' mental outlook over the years. Today's students are more confident. In the past, when Chen Qingluo said, "You haven't even read XX," Wang Zixu's only reaction was to nod and bow, saying, "I am ignorant and guilty," and then go home to secretly stay up late studying after seeing Chen Qingluo off.

But things won't be like that now. Unconsciously, Wang Zixu adopted the same airs he had when Chen Qingluo lectured him: What? You don't even know Thomas Pynchon? A living legend, one of America's greatest serious writers, author of *Gravity's Rainbow*, and you don't even know that? And you still dare to stay in the Chinese Literature Department?

But the three girls remained unmoved, and Prince Xu began to reflect on himself: perhaps not knowing Thomas Pynchon was not a sin.

But what finally broke through the prince's feigned defenses was the wavy-haired girl's nonchalant remark: "Of the people you mentioned, I've only heard of Milan Kundera, but isn't he already dead?"

The prince stood frozen in place, stunned: "When did this happen?"

"It happened not long ago, there were so many news reports about it, didn't you know?"

Wang Zixu immediately started searching. He had been engrossed in his creative work at home for the past few months and hadn't been paying attention to the news at all. After finding the news of "Milan Kundera's death," he put his hands on his head and stood there for a long time.

Then, looking dejected, he said, "Are you done asking questions?"

"Okay, that's it."

The prince excused himself. As soon as he left, a heated discussion broke out among the three girls:

"Does he really know anything, or is he just bragging?"

"I don't know, I'm only a sophomore, why are you asking me?"

"Tie Wenqing... no, Wenzhong. A middle-aged literary man."

"Sigh, why are all the students in the Chinese Literature Department such weirdos?"

"It's no wonder you can't remember."

"Sigh, I don't think we need to care so much. They can tell at a glance that they love literature and have come here with dreams. I don't think we need to laugh at them."

They didn't have any issues with Wang Zixu; they were simply scrutinizing him to assess his worth and value. They then found it difficult to fit this 30-year-old who drove a Xiaomi SU7 to Nanjing University to take the Chinese Literature graduate entrance exam (and was even switching fields) into any existing social framework, which left them feeling lost.

Wang Zixu's confusion stemmed from a life crisis: Milan Kundera had also died, ultimately failing to win the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Philip Roth had already died before this.

Soon, Thomas Pynchon will die, Don DeLillo will die, Seth Nooteboom will die, Adonis will die, and among the younger ones, Haruki Murakami might be on the list as well.

How many great writers died before winning the prize? Calvino didn't win either. Who knew he would die so young?

Borges didn't win the prize either, so who can he complain to?

Camus did win the prize, at the age of forty-four, and then he died at forty-seven. It was almost as if they had foreseen his early death and awarded him the prize ahead of time.

If Camus hadn't died and the Nobel Prize had been awarded to Calvino sooner, would history have been different?

If even those people couldn't win this award, can he really do it?

Wang Zixu looked up at the new library of Nanjing University. The sun shone on the blue glass curtain wall, reflecting a dazzling light.

Will the world remember that he was ever here?

Whether he would remember or not, he didn't know, but in any case, he couldn't remember where Chongwen Building was.

Wang Zixu turned around, found the three girls, and asked in a low voice, "Do you know where Chongwen Building is?"

"Go straight ahead, turn left, and go into the second row of houses..."

The three girls were quite enthusiastic, and after a flurry of chatter, the girl with the wavy hair said:

"Alright, we'll take you there."

Prince Xu was immediately flattered.

This is another difference between Wang Zixu's students back then and his students now: today's students are more confident and more eager to meddle in other people's business, so they tend to let go of minor disagreements as soon as possible, keeping things separate.

Wang Zixu then noticed more specific details about the three girls. For example, the girl with long eyelashes had slightly thicker makeup than the other two, the girl in the polka-dot dress had looser clothes, perhaps to cover her chest, and the girl with wavy hair had full lips and dyed hair.

Regardless, girls of this age are always beautiful, no matter how they dress up. You might not realize it if you spend a long time among them. For example, when Wang Zixu was in school, he never thought much about the looks of the girls around him. But now, dragging his thirty-year-old body here, he suddenly discovers the beauty of young and energetic bodies.

The young men led Prince Xu through the path to the dormitory building. He saw a large group of people gathered on the lawn between the dormitories, and the girl with the wavy hair immediately looked disappointed.

"Why are you still here?"

Prince Xu pointed with considerable curiosity: "What are you doing?"

"Confessing your feelings? Can't you see?"

Looking around, Prince Xu saw a sea of ​​people, gathered in the middle, doing something he couldn't understand. Some were shouting, others were clamoring, and distant memories were awakened.

"It's been almost all morning! Why isn't Du Kezhu coming out? Even just a word would be enough to make people give up."

The girl in the polka-dot dress sounded quite dissatisfied, as if she had a problem with the girl named "Du Kezhu".

"What I mean is, just give me a yes or no answer. Why make it like this, blocking the way and making it impossible to walk?"

The girl with long eyelashes blinked and said, "You can't blame Zhuzhu. It's not like she asked someone to confess to her. People confess to her every other day. She's annoyed too."

"Who told her to be so flamboyant? She drives a Mercedes E-Class to school; everyone knows she's from a wealthy family."

"Really? I heard she's not a rich kid; she started her own business and earned all her money herself."

"Wait a minute, wasn't she supposed to be a novelist?"

The three girls looked at each other, and the girl with the wavy hair finally complained, "What 'Phoenix Pride' novel? One of you should call her and ask her to come down and handle this."

Wang Zixu held up his watch, as if to say it was getting late and he should take his leave. Then he heard the long-lashed girl beside him say quietly, "No need to call, she's already down."

Then, Prince Xu saw a head of green hair drift in from the crowd, and the crowd parted as if Moses had parted the sea.

After he clearly saw the green-haired girl's face, he couldn't help but laugh. What Du Kezhu, what Feng Aotian?

Isn't this an innocent poet?

Then, without stopping, the poet rushed toward Prince Xu, as if he had expected him to be there. To the astonishment of the three girls, a hand gripped his arm like a steel clamp.

"Walk."

"Where to?" Prince Xu asked in a panic.

"Anyway, let's go first." The poet lowered his head and didn't look at him at all. "Besides, I'm not an innocent poet now, I'm a poet of eternal sin."

(End of this chapter)