I am not a literary giant

Chapter 158 The Golden Age

The restaurant that Prince Xu booked was on Binhai Road, a place reminiscent of the exaggerated descriptions Guo Jingming made in his famous work—a maze-like metropolis, white-skinned foreigners engaging in high-sounding conversations, dazzling luxury goods, aloof shop assistants, and streets lined with elegant sports cars such as Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Koenigseggs.

He sat by the window, bathed in the golden light of expensive spotlights, which transformed his counterfeit suit into an atmosphere of high-end merchandise.

An elderly woman walked past the window, then suddenly turned around and looked at him through the window. In that one glance, the difference in their social classes and social status was palpable. If you had taken a picture at that moment from the right angle, it would have resonated deeply with you.

Wang Zixu believes that the world is ultimately a reflection of how you perceive it. Take him and this old woman, for example. While the world looks on with pity at this scene and laments the rampant materialism of our times, who knows if that old woman actually lives near Binhai Road and received 20 apartments as compensation for her demolished property?

Perhaps Prince Xu, the village head, is the one who deserves sympathy.

The old lady's background remained a mystery to Wang Zixu. Similarly, the background of Wang Zixu, sitting in that glittering shop window, was equally unknown to the others.

The true nature of things is what they are; everything else is speculation. Speculation is fabrication, and people's judgments and evaluations of people are mostly based on their own imaginations.

Whether it's sympathizing with the old lady or sympathizing with Prince Xu, it's just fabricating a reason in one's mind that they need sympathy, forcibly projecting one's own sentimentality onto them.

Both possess compassion, extending to all humanity and recognizing the suffering of all beings—this is the mark of a Buddha. Neither possesses compassion, showing no sympathy for any living being—this is the mark of a demon. Both are steadfast and unwavering, not easily swayed by external influences.

It is extremely difficult for humans to become Buddhas or demons; most people oscillate between the two, projecting their limited emotions onto a small group of people, which is why they are easily pleased and easily saddened.

When something makes you feel bad, looking at it from a different perspective can give you a completely different feeling. Because the fictional element changes. Humans are animals that are constantly creating fiction.

Prince Xu is a peddler of fiction. Whether writing novels or impersonating the Little Prince to create libido, he is subtly disguising his own feelings as reality and selling them to those willing to pay. Of course, he tries his best to only tell the truth, which is the responsibility of a serious writer.

However, reality is subjective. For him at this moment and in this place, it is true that he can see tall plane trees lining the road through the window, it is true that he can feel the sea breeze blowing in his face at night, and it is true that he can't afford any of the cars parked on the roadside.

These chaotic realities collectively constitute a complex and meaningless world. Humanity, through its own perspective, imbues this world with meaning. His work involves extracting these realities, arranging them into a certain form, and then presenting them to people.

In this sense, he felt a great responsibility.

When Prince Xu is lost in thought, he thinks about these things, and these thoughts make him prone to becoming cold and unhappy.

Just as Wang Zixu's thoughts were drifting further and further away, the editor finally arrived gracefully. He looked to be around 40 years old, with a serious expression, wearing a brown shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up, revealing an old-fashioned watch.

Wang Zixu's first impression of him was that he was a very upright person.

The editor walked to the table and sat down opposite him, placing his briefcase on the chair next to him. "My surname is Hao. You can call me Editor Hao. You may not have heard of my name, but you've definitely heard of the manuscripts I've worked on. Yanzishan and Xiao Mengyin's works were all edited by me."

The opening remarks were arrogant and shocking, and Wang Zixu was stunned in the first second. He quickly reached out and shook hands with him: "Hello, hello."

Editor Hao continued, "As for your situation, Chairman Shi told me about it, and I know your concerns, so I'll get straight to the point... By the way, we can serve the food now. We're short on time, so let's talk while we eat."

Wang Zixu said, "We haven't ordered yet; we're waiting for you to come and order. Waiter!"

Editor Hao took the menu, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "You can order... I'll have a traditional braised sea cucumber with scallions, a Huaiyang-style braised lion's head meatball, a salted pigeon, a garlic-baked small yellow croaker from the East China Sea, and a Wagyu beef bibimbap. That's all."

These dishes were not cheap, and it was clear that this person had not considered saving Wang Zixu money. He handed the menu to Wang Zixu, who reluctantly took it and hastily ordered two cold dishes.

Editor Hao took a sip of water: "By the way, where were we? Since Chairman Shi introduced you, I'll just say it directly... Did you bring the manuscript?"

Wang Zixu quickly pulled out the original manuscript: "I brought it."

Editor Hao took the manuscript, glanced at it, and then looked up and said, "I'll be blunt, this is definitely it, you know what I mean. Can I take the manuscript back with me?"

He spoke vaguely, and Wang Zixu didn't really understand. He wanted to ask for clarification, but seeing Hao's serious expression, he didn't dare ask too many questions for fear of angering him. He simply nodded and asked, "Yes. You mean, it can be accepted for publication?"

Editor Hao chuckled, neither saying yes nor no, only saying, "Chairman Shi recommended it, why are you worried about publication?"

Prince Xu felt a weight lifted from his heart, and suddenly the bill didn't hurt him as much anymore.

Editor Hao flipped through the thick manuscript, looked up and said, "Could you briefly explain your thought process? This manuscript is so thick, it will take a month just to review it. Please explain your thought process so I can organize it when I get back."

Wang Zixu then explained his outline and ideas to him in great detail. Editor Hao did not interrupt him, nodding occasionally and saying "hmm".

After he finished speaking, Editor Hao looked up and said, "That's great!"

"Yeah?"

"That's a good idea." Editor Hao lowered his head and ate his food. "Okay, I got it. I personally think it's pretty good."

The prince breathed a sigh of relief: "Thank you."

Hao Bian used chopsticks to pry open the lion's head meatballs, then switched to an iron spoon to scoop up the minced meat, dipped it in a little broth from the bottom of the plate, and put it in his mouth. He then stirred the beef slices to mix the meat juice with the rice, picked up a sea cucumber, placed it on the rice, and scooped it into his mouth with the spoon.

Wang Zixu slapped his thigh: "Oh, I forgot to order a drink."

While chewing, Hao said, "No need, I don't drink sugary drinks, my blood lipids are a bit high."

He cut the pigeon with a knife and fork, poured the scallion sauce over the meat, picked up a leg and chewed it, making a crisp sound.

In the blink of an eye, he had finished the sea cucumber and both legs of the pigeon. Wang Zixu could only pick at a few cold dishes, but he had no appetite for food. He asked, "Editor Hao, do you receive many submissions?"

"So many, so many, like snowflakes," Editor Hao said while chewing. "They've piled up into a mountain. The primary task of interns there is to review these mountains of manuscripts. They sit there every day at work and look at them until their internship is over, at which point they don't have to look at them anymore."

"An intern?" Wang Zixu sounded a little disappointed. "Do you get many high-quality manuscripts?"

Editor Hao put down his chopsticks, his lips still greasy.

"Let me put it this way: the main source of articles for our magazine is commissioned articles. We also have submission channels, but we basically don't use submitted articles."

Why?

Editor Hao was taken aback by the question: "Why? Of course, it's because the quality is too poor. Most of the submissions are from retired cadres who, after retiring, have nothing to do at home and suddenly recall their literary dreams, so they write something and send it over, which is simply unreadable."

Recalling his experiences at the editorial office of "Xihe Literature and Art", Wang Zixu sighed that it was the same everywhere.

Editor Hao added, "We mainly solicit articles from established authors. The quality of their writing is controllable, and it's easier to review it. Searching for articles from the general public is like finding gold in a sea of ​​garbage."

Wang Zixu asked cautiously, "What if we don't have enough commissioned articles?"

"How could it not be enough?" Editor Hao laughed. "We have a lot of articles, and we don't even have enough space."

Prince Xu asked, "Since this piece is so long, will it be able to be published?"

Editor Hao paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully: "This piece of yours is indeed in trouble. If we're going to publish it, we'll have to create a special long-form section for you. Our magazine doesn't have many long-form sections; usually, only renowned writers are eligible!"

Wang Zixu felt even more uneasy after hearing this: "Then... then I'll trouble you."

After saying that, he sat down in his seat, looking dejected. He could probably guess why he had submitted his manuscripts everywhere without success. If it weren't for Shi Tonghe's words, he wouldn't have been able to sit here and speak directly with the editor. Thinking about it this way, he felt like someone who had gotten in through connections, and he began to feel uneasy.

After finishing their meal, the bill came to 3800 yuan for the two of them, including a 5% service charge. When Wang Zixu paid, he grimaced, and the clerk thought he had a toothache and asked if he needed warm water. Wang Zixu said no. What he needed was a calculator.

The meal cost nearly four thousand yuan, more than the royalties from an article. It was like he was losing money to get published in a magazine. The more Wang Zixu thought about it, the more he felt like he was being taken advantage of.

This place wasn't chosen by him, but by Zuo Ziliang. Zuo Ziliang knew a little about the inside story and told him when choosing the seats, "Since you're worried about offending people, then pick a place where, if someone tries to harm you, they'll remember this meal and be willing to let you off the hook." So Wang Zixu decided on this place.

Looking back now, at least 3000 of the 3800 yuan was public relations expenses incurred due to offending Shi Tonghe.

Shi Tonghe, you're really expensive!

Fortunately, he had money.

After paying the bill, Wang Zixu thought to himself, "Thank goodness I write flirtatious stories. If it weren't for the money I make from flirtatious stories, I wouldn't even be qualified to submit them. No wonder a high-achieving student like Yingjiang would also go and write flirtatious stories."

Before saying goodbye, he added Hao Bian on WeChat. After returning home, he sent Hao Bian an emoji, and Hao Bian sent him an emoji in return. Not knowing how to start a conversation and afraid of bothering Hao Bian, Wang Zixu didn't continue, but waited with hope.

Five days passed in this way. There was still no news from Editor Hao.

After Wang Zixu finished smoking on the toilet in the bathroom, he turned on the exhaust fan, washed his hands, and looked out the bathroom window. Half of the view was of buildings, and the other half was of the blue sky.

With the NTU postgraduate entrance exam approaching, the deadline for Fei Shi's essay submission is also drawing ever closer.

He stood up, packed his clothes, and set off for Nanjing University.

He contacted Editor Hao yesterday, and he was told to wait for news. He felt bad about urging him, but the approaching deadline for Fei Shi made him quite anxious.

If the submission period drags on for too long, and you miss this year's call for papers, you'll also miss next year's call for papers, which would be quite embarrassing.

He parked the car in front of the magazine office, got out, and went upstairs. Wang Zixu took out his keys to open the door.

Recently, he has been going to work at the magazine office every day. He is not a person who likes to get up early, but compared to the others, he is considered diligent. He is always the first to arrive and the first to open the door.

This has led to him becoming increasingly skilled at opening and closing the roller shutter door recently.

He mopped the floor, opened the windows for ventilation, tidied the tables and chairs, and emptied the tea leaves left over from yesterday. After finishing his housekeeping duties, the blackbirds outside the window began to chirp. He sat down by the windowsill and began reviewing the manuscript.

After he started working as an editor himself, he gradually came to understand Editor Hao better. New manuscripts were arriving every day, some by mail, but most in his inbox. Before he knew it, a huge pile would accumulate, eventually forming a mountain of manuscripts.

The more manuscripts piled up, the less he wanted to review them. In the end, he simply handed them over to interns. Those manuscripts, which contained his hard work and hopes, lay there quietly waiting to be reviewed, and were eventually thrown into the trash can. To avoid this situation, Wang Zixu insisted on reviewing all the manuscripts he had saved every day.

Even if in the end all those manuscripts are rejected, he would rather read them first before rejecting them, so that at least those manuscripts would have a reader.

After processing the accumulated manuscripts, Wang Zixu got up to stretch his body, but saw a stack of manuscripts on Ning Chunyan's table. He looked around and confirmed that this manuscript was neither among the rejected manuscripts nor among the accepted manuscripts. Could it be that one of the manuscripts awaiting review was missed?

He picked up the stack of manuscripts and began to read them. He was immediately captivated.

The writing quality of this manuscript was completely different from the novice works he had just read; the author's talent for controlling language was clearly visible. Even the punctuation marks revealed the writer's delicate and perceptive soul.

Wang Zixu sat down in his seat, poured himself a cup of tea, and kept his eyes on the manuscript in his hands.

This should be considered a love story, or rather, a tragic love story in the style of *Wuthering Heights*. Wang Zixu believes that the era in which *Wuthering Heights* was written was the golden age of novel writing, a time of boundless possibilities, with so many stories yet to be created. Novelists of that time were extremely fortunate; they had countless new themes to explore.

In this era, all stories have been written, all themes have been explored, and stories created with painstaking effort are bound to become mere parrots or old tunes.

The golden age has passed, and people can no longer experience the same awe as before.

The manuscript in his hand, though clearly a modern work, gave him a spiritual touch reminiscent of the Golden Age. With its old-fashioned and solid style, coupled with its vivid and spirited writing, Wang Zixu felt that this manuscript was not only likely to be published in the magazine "New Appreciation," but it might even win some kind of literary award.

He searched through the manuscript but couldn't find the author's contact information, only the title. A noise came from the doorway, and Wang Zixu excitedly called out:

"Ning Chunyan, Ning Chunyan! I've found a potential literary newcomer award piece for our magazine! Who sent you this copy of 'The Dedication of Simone de Beauvoir' on your desk? Who is the author?"

With a soft "click," the door opened, and a cold face, completely different from Ning Chunyan's, appeared in the doorway.

"Stop yelling, that's my manuscript, I'm the author."

(End of this chapter)