I am not a literary giant

Chapter 272 Shi Shuqiu's Hesitation (Son of Shi Tonghe)

Many people came to my house that day.

Shi Shuqiu couldn't remember exactly how many people were there. He only remembered that the study door was open, and smoke drifted out, turning into blurry blue wisps under the corridor lights.

The adults' laughter came in bursts, sometimes loud, sometimes suddenly lowered, turning into a buzzing conversation he couldn't understand.

His mother pushed him.

"Go and pour tea for the uncles and elders."

He was seven or eight years old then, carrying the small purple clay teapot specially made for him. The teapot was a little bigger than his face, so he had to hold it with both hands, walking very slowly, afraid of spilling it.

He silently recited the key techniques he needed to keep in mind when serving tea—techniques his mother had repeatedly emphasized, aiming to mold him into a respectable young man befitting his father's status. Such a young man needed to have the proper upbringing.

The study was full of people. He didn't recognize any of their faces. His father sat in the wicker chair by the window, leaning slightly forward with his elbows on his knees, as if listening intently to someone.

That person was sitting in the very center of the sofa.

The sofa could seat three people, but he sat alone, his legs crossed and propped up high, his toes almost touching the coffee table. He wore a dark jacket, his hair combed back, revealing his full forehead. A cigarette was between his fingers, the ash quite long, but he didn't flick it, just letting it hang there.

He didn't know who that person was at the time. He later found out that his name was Jia Siming, a famous director who had filmed his father's book.

He carried the teapot over to the man. The man looked down at him.

He still remembers that look in his eyes.

It's not the way I look at a child, it's the way I look at an object. Something that's there, needing to be examined, evaluated, and confirmed to be in its correct place.

"Oh," the man said.

The cigarette ash finally fell, landing on the coffee table as a small clump of grayish-white powder.

That person ignored it.

He simply looked at Shi Shuqiu, from top to bottom and from bottom to top, slowly going through her once.

Then he laughed.

"Little Stone," he said, drawing out his words, "is really good-looking."

It's not "really well-behaved". It's not "really cute". It's "really good".

It's like describing a finely crafted piece of porcelain.

Shi Shuqiu stood there, holding the teapot, unsure of what to say.

The father chimed in from the side, "Quickly pour Uncle Jia some tea."

He realized what was happening and quickly raised the teapot high, pouring it into the cup in front of the man. The tea spilled out, steaming, and a few drops splashed onto the coffee table.

That person didn't look down at the cup of tea.

He kept looking at him.

He didn't look away until the tea was finished, then picked up the cup and took a small sip.

"Hmm," he said.

Just one word.

Then he put down his teacup, turned to his father, and continued the conversation.

Shi Shuqiu stood there, holding an empty teapot, and waited for a few seconds.

Nobody paid him any attention.

He turned around and went back to the kitchen.

Many years later, he would still think of that afternoon.

He remembered the look in that person's eyes when he looked at him. He remembered his father sitting in the wicker chair, leaning slightly forward, as if afraid of missing a single word. He remembered the cautious, slightly ingratiating smile on his father's face when he spoke.

That afternoon remained in his memory as "one of the most memorable things." As he grew older, he gradually came to appreciate more of its nuances.

He observed that his father would call Jia Siming's assistant to ask what Director Jia had been eating lately, whether he was avoiding certain foods, and whether he was cutting back on carbohydrates. Then he would ask his grandmother in the countryside to find ingredients. On a certain day when Director Jia visited, he would personally cook a meal to "show off his skills."

When Jia Siming has a new movie released, his father will clear his schedule a month in advance to attend the premiere. He always sits in the same spot in the front row, right in the middle, and is the first to stand up and applaud after the movie ends, always looking in Jia Siming's direction.

He gradually began to realize that the center of this relationship was not his father, nor the great Shi Tonghe, but Jia Siming.

At that time, Shi Shuqiu thought: I don't want to be like this.

I don't want to be someone who has to put up with other people's opinions.

I want to be the one who makes others read my expressions.

From that day on, he began to practice.

Practice how to lead a conversation. Practice how to draw attention to yourself. Practice how to become the center of attention in a crowd.

He succeeded.

From middle school to university, there were several similar people in Zhang Chou's niche. In all circles, he was the center, surrounded by admirers.

But he always knew it was fake. He just never put himself in a higher circle. He was the monkey king in the mountains.

The moment Jia Siming appeared in the live stream, he suddenly returned to that restless and hot afternoon, transforming back into the little boy holding a purple clay teacup.

On the screen, Jia Siming finally raised his head.

Sunglasses covered his eyes.

But Shi Shuqiu knew that those eyes would still hold the same look.

Like looking at an object.

Something that needs to be checked to make sure it's in the right place.

His fingers clenched even tighter.

My palms were sweaty.

Jia Siming took off his sunglasses.

This was the first time he had taken off his sunglasses that evening. The temples made a soft "click" sound as they folded up.

He placed his sunglasses on the table and then looked up.

Those eyes looked older than I'd imagined. The eyelids drooped, and the bags under the eyes were heavy, but deep within the pupils was a light—not a gentle light, but a critical one, the kind of light that comes from years of sitting behind a monitor, staring at every frame.

"I heard what Hu Yezhou just said," he said. "I also remember what he said very well; I even thought about it for a while at the time."

He paused.

"I've been thinking about this for a long time, how should I shoot it?"

The lecture hall fell silent upon hearing this.

"Let me read this passage to you." He opened the book.

He looked at a crack in the opposite wall, walked crookedly down from the ceiling, and stopped halfway down.

The crack didn't end; it just hung there.

"He didn't know why the crack didn't go all the way. Maybe the bricklayers were tired, maybe there weren't enough materials, or maybe there was no reason at all. A crack is a crack; it goes wherever it wants, it won't go any further or less just because someone is watching it."

Jia Siming put down his book and said, "Most writers would try to evoke emotions when writing this kind of play. But Wang Zixu is very interesting; he's ruthless. He starts by describing the cracks. This isn't a description of the scenery; we call this an opening shot."

"From this crack, we are cut into two hospital rooms, two families, and two destinies. As the story unfolds, the gap between their social status and position widens, just as if they were severed by this crack."

"What comes next is even more amazing, a stroke of genius." Jia Siming turned a page.

"At that moment, he felt a little lighter. Not really lighter, but the kind of lightness you feel when looking down from a great height."

He saw a person sitting on the bench, wearing a gray Zhongshan suit, knees together, hands on knees, head slightly bowed, as if awaiting sentencing. That person was him, yet not him. That person was so small, so far away, like an acquaintance he had long forgotten.

"From this height, the corridor no longer seemed so long. The two doors no longer seemed so important. He could even see what was behind the doors: the left room, the right room, the sheets were all white, the blood was all red, and the women were all lying down. He saw two women straining at the same time, two babies pushing out at the same time, and blood, amniotic fluid, and sweat mixed together."

"He saw it all at once, but saw nothing at all. Because it was too far away."

Jia Siming closed the book with a sense of lingering interest and said, "This kind of subjective shot of the soul leaving the body is called psychological montage in our movies. It is also an objective shot at the same time. What kind of feeling does this give us?"

""

He waited a while, seemingly anticipating someone's answer, before finally giving his own: "A sense of God."

"That's right, it's God. This person, in the cracks of life, came close to God—I'm not talking about God in a religious sense, he possessed divinity."

"Every corner of this book depicts ordinary people struggling in their times, but here, a God-like perspective suddenly reveals divinity to me. Everything is seen, yet everything is beyond our control. This evokes a visceral sense of pain."

After speaking, there was a long silence. Wenren Zao picked up the microphone, put it down, and picked it up again: "Director Jia?"

After being reminded, Jia Siming belatedly realized what was happening and said, "Oh, I'm done."

"Uh—" Wenren Zao was uncharacteristically speechless for a moment at this abrupt ending. "Don't you want to give a comprehensive evaluation of this book?"

Jia Siming said, "Hmm, this is a very thought-provoking book. Interesting."

This assessment is a bit too brief compared to the previous lengthy explanations. It's like spending two hours registering and waiting in line for a checkup, only to have the doctor look at the report for two seconds and say, "You're very healthy."

At the Wen Nuan base, the black dog looked around, scratching its ears and cheeks, and finally couldn't help but ask, "This is definitely a compliment to Teacher Little Prince, right? I didn't misunderstand, did I?"

"You haven't misunderstood," the believer said. "Although I didn't understand what he praised, I think you haven't misunderstood."

Xing Sheng said, "Although he was sparing with words when it came to explicit praise, the look in his eyes when he discussed the book said it all."

Xiao Ba looked at the front row and asked, "Team leader, what do you think?"

"I don't think this is a question that needs to be discussed," Cheng Xing said. "He was already thinking about how to film it while he was reading the book."

Knowing Jia Siming as I do, he rarely evaluates a work in this way outside of commercial settings.

The black dog asked urgently, "Then—is there a chance that Teacher Little Prince's books will be made into a movie?"

The group exchanged glances. No one spoke.

Finally, Xiao Mengyin spoke up: "There's a chance. As long as someone acts as a go-between, and Wang Zixu takes the initiative and serves diligently, there's a high probability he'll be chosen."

"Wow—go—" the black dog exclaimed.

Although he didn't understand what being adapted into a film by Jia Siming meant for a writer, Black Dog instinctively felt it was a pretty cool thing.

"But for Wang Zixu, winning the bid might not be a good thing," Xiao Mengyin said.

To have one's script chosen by Jia Siming and adapted into a film is a dream come true for every writer in the literary world, as it would elevate their status dramatically. This is especially true for a newcomer like Wang Zixu; it could very well be a good thing.

Therefore, when Xiao Mengyin said those words, she herself felt that she was being a sour grapes.

But that's really what she thought.

Is this really a good thing for the Little Prince?

Lecture hall.

Zhang Chou turned his head indignantly and said, "That Jia Siming is dishonest! How could he praise 'Fire in the Stone' like that?"

The bespectacled man next to him asked, "Why can't I blow it?"

"Who doesn't know about his relationship with Professor Shi Tonghe? How does Professor Shi Tonghe feel about him supporting Wang Zixu's book like this?"

The bespectacled man adjusted his glasses: "Maybe, they genuinely admire him?"

"You shouldn't say that publicly," Zhang Chou said. "If it weren't for Professor Shi Tonghe's works, he wouldn't be where he is today. To put it bluntly, what he said today makes people wonder if he has a relationship with Professor Shi Tonghe. Doesn't he consider the impact?"

"Shut up!" Shi Shuqiu suddenly shouted, losing control. Zhang Chou fell silent instantly.

Ye Zhihan originally wanted to share the Douban page of "Fire in the Stone" again, but she was startled and didn't dare to say anything.

On her phone screen, the number of people "interested" in "Fire in the Stone" had risen to over five thousand.

Shi Shuqiu's expression finally changed.

He doesn't understand. He really doesn't understand.

Who is Jia Siming? He's the one who sits in the middle of the sofa, making everyone else read his face.

It was the person whose father asked someone to find pickled vegetables, to clear his schedule in advance, and to send him thirty-year-old Moutai.

He was the only person among all the people he had ever met since childhood who could make his father smile cautiously.

That person always looked down on everyone.

That's true for my father. It's true for him too. It's true for everyone.

But now, he's saying to Wang Zixu's book, "Interesting."

He was treating that book as something worth "pondering".

Shi Shuqiu lowered his head and looked at his hands.

His hands were on his knees, and his knuckles were white.

He recalled his father sitting in the wicker chair, leaning slightly forward, as if afraid of missing a single word.

He recalled standing in front of Jia Siming with a teapot in his hand, and how the man looked at him from head to toe as if he were looking at an object.

What he wanted—someone with no background, someone no one had ever heard of before he wrote the book, an "ordinary person"—was obtained effortlessly.

On what grounds?

What makes his book so special?

He looked up at the curtain.

Jia Siming stopped talking. He leaned back in his chair, put his sunglasses back on, and became the enigmatic man he once again was.

But his words still linger in the air.

"I've been thinking about this for a long time—how should I shoot this?"

"A stroke of genius!"

"interesting."

Shi Shuqiu's fingernails dug into her palm.

He suddenly wanted to ask a question: What exactly is that thing that interests you?

What's so interesting about it?

What exactly is literature?

What exactly makes something "interesting"?

He knew that no one would answer these questions for him.

Although his books are widely praised and hailed as the guiding principles for young writers, he remains, in his approach to literature, like that little boy holding a purple clay teapot, needing even instruction on the proper stride length.

In the live stream room.

Wenrenzao's voice rang out: "Thank you, Professor Jia Siming, for sharing. Finally, please welcome Professor Yanzishan to speak."

The camera cuts to the chair on the far right.

Yanzishan sat there, without moving.