I am not a literary giant

Chapter 276 Don't pity yourself; pitying yourself is the act of a despicable coward.

"Let me tell you a story," Lin Feng said.

The crisp "click" of a lighter came from the other end of the phone, followed by the hissing sound of someone taking a deep breath.

"I used to have a friend whose professional skills were about the same as mine, not the best but not the worst either. Once, during an internal job competition, we were both on the shortlist, and I scored a little higher on the written test than him."

Lin Feng's voice was very calm, as if he were talking about someone else's business.

"In the month before the results of the competition came out, he went to the leaders' offices every day, visiting the leaders in charge, the head of the personnel department, and even the lady in charge of the official seal in the archives."

"I was young then, and I thought, what's the use of running away or giving gifts? Competitive recruitment is still based on ability. My performance was better than his, and the rankings were all published in black and white, visible to the whole unit."

"Moreover, this position is in a very small area, and the salary level is similar to that of our company, only the platform is a bit higher."

To act so blatantly for this position is beneath him. I'm waiting to see him make a fool of himself.

"And then?" Prince Xu asked.

"Later," Lin Feng exhaled a puff of smoke, "the results came out, and he made it. I was eliminated."

Lin Feng's gaze followed the smoke he had just exhaled, watching it twist and dissipate in the air.

"Such blatant injustice, I thought at least one of my colleagues would stand up and say something, even if it was just someone speaking up for me."

Okay. But there's nothing there.

Lin Feng paused.

"Not only did no one speak up for me, but some people laughed at me for being foolish. They said that if I had also gone out of my way to run errands and give gifts, that position would have been mine. I was just being hypocritical, and I deserved to have it taken by someone else."

Wang Zixu lowered his hand slightly as he held the phone, feeling a sudden emptiness in his heart. The melancholy he felt was very familiar, as if he had experienced it himself many years ago.

"The unfairness from my superiors certainly upset me, but what I resent even more is the reaction from my colleagues."

"No one said a word before the competition, but as soon as the results came out, they all came out. They told me that my competitors were asking around about me, and when they found out that I hadn't done anything, they were overjoyed. They even had someone keep an eye on me to make sure no one would say anything to remind me."

Lin Feng smiled wryly and said, "Why bother? Given my personality at the time, even if someone had reminded me, I wouldn't have gone to run or deliver it."

"So, I feel very sad."

After saying this, Lin Feng took a deep drag of his lungs.

"What saddens me is not being laughed at. It is that I suddenly realized that the principles, fairness, and justice that I value so much are not even worth a cup of tea or a pack of cigarettes in the eyes of my colleagues."

Nobody thought there was anything wrong with the opponent. And nobody considered whether they themselves might end up in the same situation.

They just fawn over the powerful and belittle the weak. There's no fairness or justice involved; I deserved to lose.

Raymond Lam suddenly laughed: "I had only graduated not long before that was the first time I truly felt the weight of the phrase 'the winner takes all'."

"Successful people possess everything, including wisdom, diligence, keen insight, good interpersonal skills, and all other excellent qualities. Unsuccessful people, even if they are arrogant, are still pedantic; even if they have high scores, they are still incompetent."

The light in the attic had dimmed considerably, and the daylight outside the window had completely faded.

The warm yellow light from the small coffee table lamp barely illuminated a small space, while the rest of the room was shrouded in darkness, blurring the outline of the cardboard box.

Prince Xu asked softly, "And then?"

"Later, the supervisor in charge of that exam was brought down," Lin Feng said. "He was corrupt, and the amount was substantial. But that was ten years later."

"In the past ten years, my colleague seized the opportunity of that exceptional promotion, began to stand out, and rose all the way up. Now he is on a completely different level from me. I still have to make an appointment to see him."

Silence fell on the other end of the phone, a heavy silence. The attic was quiet; Wang Zixu could almost hear his own heartbeat.

"Brother Wang," Lin Feng's voice rang out again, carrying an almost cruel honesty, "that's how the world is; the shameless enjoy life first."

A few pigeon whistles drifted from afar, long and hollow, before quickly disappearing into the wind.

"I know you don't like hearing this." Lin Feng seemed to sigh, his tone softening a bit, "but I've been there, so I just wanted to remind you."

"Some opportunities, once missed, are gone forever. If you're arrogant today, tomorrow you'll see others standing on the podium, and the day after tomorrow you'll want to make up for it, but there won't be a place left."

He paused, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk, and stared at the small pile of ashes.

"Those who want to seize the opportunity don't have time to be dignified, but once those people succeed, their lack of dignity is no longer a problem."

"No one will remember how he flattered and schemed back then. Ten years later, people will only see where he sat, remember what profound theories he made, and praise how farsighted he was back then."

"Those things from back then are either forgotten, or they're described as 'broad-mindedness' and 'not bothered by trifles,' or 'knowing how to fight for what you can't have.' That's the meaning of 'the victor is king, the loser is villain.' Only the losers need explanations; the victors simply need to exist."

Prince Xu finally spoke, his voice slightly hoarse: "You mean—"

"What I mean is, you still have a chance, don't let it slip away easily." Lin Feng's voice was firm and unambiguous. "You and I both know how well 'Fire in the Stone' is written. It's something you risked your life for, it's impeccably good. If you miss this opportunity, you might regret it forever."

He paused, then added one last sentence, as if giving him a push, or perhaps leaving him one last chance: "You yourself..."

Think about it. Once you've figured it out, feel free to contact me.

Wang Zixu sat in the small room filled with cardboard boxes, staring at the darkened phone screen, without moving for a long time.

The wind outside the window picked up and whipped up a few fallen leaves, which hit the glass with a soft sound.

The streetlights were already on, their orange light slanting in through the windows, casting long shadows on the ground that gently intertwined with the warm glow of the lamps.

"Shameless people enjoy life first."

"Those who want to seize the opportunity don't have time to be dignified."

"The losers need explanations; the winners only need to exist."

Prince Xu closed the book and stood up from the chair.

Who says Raymond Lam can only write reportage? The hidden pain in his heart, like that of Prince Xu, has long been brewed into wine, and once poured out, it is both soul-stirring and excruciating.

As Lin Feng told this story, Wang Zixu seemed to see many illusory figures moving silently and blindly behind the narrative. Upon regaining his senses and reflecting on it, he realized that those illusory figures overlapped one by one with the faces he had encountered in his own life.

One can't help but feel a sense of sympathy for those who share the same fate.

When Raymond Lam offered such earnest and heartfelt advice, he was not only surprised by this sudden enthusiasm, but also somewhat self-deprecatingly shocked.

I was shocked that someone like me was not worthy of talking about "having a face," and that I needed others to come and persuade me.

He was the kind of person who would write a short story for a mere two hundred yuan fee. If you're talking about being "shameless," he's no better.

Ultimately, the options Lin Feng offered boiled down to those two choices he was all too familiar with: choosing the "right path" or choosing the "path to success."

Unbeknownst to him, he had become the epitome of a loser—each time, stubbornly and firmly, he chose the "right path."

He began to wonder why he had ended up like this.

If we choose a trendy explanation, it might be related to his family background—his mother was willing to abandon her son to save her marriage.

His wife was always melancholy, but if he produced money and proved his success, everything would be fine.

Whether they love him or hate him, they only focus on his success or failure; no one truly sees him as a person.

They were no different from the colleagues Lin Feng mentioned; they were just ordinary people who fawned over the powerful and bullied the weak.

Director Gou, Shi Tonghe — these people formed the backdrop of his life like distant mountains, towering and imposing, making it hard to breathe.

Ordinary people form the background, with the leisurely white clouds above the distant mountains.

Perhaps it was because he disliked the landscape that he stubbornly and obsessively chose the path he believed to be "correct" time and time again, wanting to make it through.

Perhaps subconsciously, he always thought that as long as he succeeded on this path, he would have the answer to life and could prove that he was worthy of being loved.

It's not that I love his success, but that I love him as a person, and I love the unwavering persistence and core values ​​he possesses.

Thinking of this, Wang Zixu's eyes welled up with tears. He quickly pulled out a roll of tissues and blew his nose forcefully.

"Don't pity yourself. Pitying yourself is the act of a despicable coward."

Having already put on a tough act, and having chosen difficult paths time and time again, and ultimately ended up living the way I do now, there's no need for me to sit here lamenting the passing of spring and weeping silently, is there?

"Teacher Little Prince!"

A series of urgent knocks on the door shattered the silence inside the house.

"Little Prince teacher, are you inside?"

The one shouting was the black dog.

"Can you please stop messing around!"

"Don't disturb the Little Prince while he's working!"

There are also believers and Xiao Ba.

"Black dog! What exactly do you want?!"

"Stop knocking! Move aside! I need to get this straight!"

The door was suddenly opened.

The black dog's hand was still frozen in mid-air. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, and it took a long time before he could see the backlit figure standing at the door.

Prince Xu stood there, his silhouette bathed in the dim light, as quiet as an old book in an attic.

The black dog, which had been so aggressive just moments before, suddenly lost most of its strength, its fingertips curling up, and it became inexplicably hesitant.

The believer covered his face and turned his head away, while Xiao Ba also turned his face away to look at the cardboard box in the corner. The three of them stood at the door, all looking somewhat helpless and embarrassed.

"Teacher, this kid is a bit stubborn—we couldn't stop him." The believer scratched the back of his head, his voice very low.

"It's nothing," Prince Xu said softly, stepping aside to let him in.

The black dog took two steps forward and stopped half a step away from the table.

His chest was still heaving violently, his breathing was still not calm, and his eyes were like pool water that had just calmed down after being disturbed by a storm. After the impulse subsided, confusion, tension and grievances rose up again.

"Didn't you just say you had something to ask?" Wang Zixu asked as he turned his back to organize his books.

"Teacher Little Prince," the black dog said.

Prince Xu waited.

"You told me," the black dog said, "that if you read enough classics, you can write very well."

Prince Xu did not deny it.

The black dog's voice rose: "I've read them. I've read 'Ordinary World,' 'A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,' 'Jean-Christophe,' and 'One Hundred Years of Solitude'—I read them every day. I've finished all the books you gave me, and I'm still looking for books to read on my own."

He paused.

"But just now, Sister Xiao said, 'Survival of the fittest.' It's not about writing well to win an award. It's about survival of the fittest."

The voice carried an unprecedented sense of panic, as if a piece of the ground beneath their feet had suddenly collapsed.

"Teacher Little Prince, then what's the point of what we do? What's the point of reading so many books?"

He looked up at Wang Zixu, his eyes filled with a desperate question: "What exactly is right?"

Xinzhe and Xiaoba stood at the door, barely daring to breathe. The attic was so quiet that they could hear the wind whistling through the eaves outside.

Prince Xu looked at the black dog.

A pure sense of bewilderment and helplessness surged across that young face. This pain was all too familiar.

He suddenly remembered many things.

I think of the Stegosaurus in the small park, the desk on the balcony, and the curled-up pages of Anna Karenina.

Thinking of the countless nights he endured, and of his clumsy yet stubborn self, it felt as if reading with enough effort could dispel those nagging, helpless feelings of confusion.

He remembered why he had started writing.

He remembered why he had been writing all this time.

He spoke.

"Black dog."

The black dog looked at him.

"The question you asked," said Wang Zixu, "is the same question I've been asking myself."

He paused.

"From the moment I decided to write, I've been asking myself this question."

He placed "Being and Nothingness" at the very bottom of the stack of books.

"Xiao Mengyin is right. Survival of the fittest. This world is unreasonable and unfair. Good writing deserves awards"—that's an ideal state. The world is realistic; it's not that idealistic.

He looked at the black dog.

"But I'm right too."

The black dog paused for a moment.

"I never think about winning awards when I write. I don't write because I like trophies; I write because I enjoy it."

Enjoy writing.

Wang Zixu smiled and said, "If you like doing something, you want to do it to the best of your ability. There's no need for a reason, is there?"

The fog in the black dog's eyes hadn't completely cleared: "But—"

Wang Zixu's voice was not loud, but very steady: "Everyone has their own sense of right and wrong. Xiao Mengyin's sense of right and wrong is to survive in this world and live well. But I have hardly enjoyed the pleasure of living, so I simply live as I please."

The black dog's eyes widened.

Xinzhe and Xiaoba stood at the door, motionless.

Wang Zixu finally finished tidying up the books, picked them up with his left hand, and straightened his collar with his right.

"I participated in this award not to prove that I am better than anyone else. I wrote the book to put my way of life into the public eye and see if it has any meaning."

He looked at the black dog.

"I want to see if I'm completely wrong, or if there's something wrong with the world."

After saying that, he patted the black dog on the shoulder, walked past him, and headed outside.

The black dog was stunned for a long time before it came to its senses.

"Little Prince teacher? Where are you going?"

Prince Xu turned around and glanced back.

"Go downstairs."

He said.

"Let's look at today's performance."

The door closed behind him.

The sound of footsteps followed the stairs, descending step by step.

The black dog was still standing there, looking at the door.

"Oh my god!" the believer exclaimed. "Didn't you hear? The Little Prince went to check the performance records! Did you write yours today? Our group won't have zero results, will it?"

Xiao Ba was a little nervous: "Our group didn't write much either. But I think Xiao Mengyin wrote quite a lot."

"What are you still standing there for? Let's go!"

The black dog came to its senses, and the three of them pushed and shoved each other as they walked down the stairs.

Zhao Ci stood in front of the door and rang the doorbell. On the third ring, the door opened.

A woman in her fifties stood at the door, wearing an apron and with her hair neatly combed.

"Miss Zhao?"

Zhao Ci nodded.

"Please come in. The master is waiting for you in the study."

As Zhao Ci changed his shoes, he glanced at the entryway out of the corner of his eye.

A calligraphy scroll hangs on the wall, containing only four characters: "Literature carries the Way."

The signature was that of a deceased master calligrapher; she recognized the name, but that circle was too far removed from her.

The living room was smaller than she had imagined. Or rather, it was more "normal" than she had imagined. There was no mahogany furniture, no walls covered with calligraphy and paintings, no deliberately created sense of a "scholarly family," but rather it was quite "modern."

It's hard to say whether her original sense of unease lessened or worsened.

"This way, please."

The nanny led her through the living room to a half-open door. She stopped and knocked.

"Sir, Miss Zhao has arrived."

"Please come in."

The voice came from inside the door, neither loud nor soft, like that of an ordinary old man.

But Zhao Ci's heart skipped a beat.

She opened the door.

The study was large. Three walls were lined with bookshelves, stretching from floor to ceiling. The spines of the books varied in color, some yellowed, others still quite new. A desk stood by the window, piled with manuscripts, letters, and opened delivery boxes.

Shi Tonghe sat behind his desk.

He looked thinner and older than he did on TV. He was wearing a dark gray sweater with a slightly loose collar and rolled-up cuffs, revealing an old-fashioned watch on his wrist.

He looked up.

Those eyes were completely different from those on TV.

On television, Shi Tonghe was gentle, kind, and highly respected. But at this moment, his eyes were fixed on Zhao Ci, devoid of any expression.

Zhao Ci recalled a word: scrutiny.

It's not about looking around or observing; it's about scrutinizing.

It's like reading a manuscript, page by page, line by line, punctuation mark by punctuation.

"sit."

Shi Tonghe pointed to the chair opposite the desk.

Zhao Ci sat down.

She noticed that her palms were a little sweaty.

Shi Tonghe didn't speak immediately. He put down the pen in his hand, capped it, and placed it on the pen holder. His movements were slow, as if giving her time to adjust.

Then he spoke.

"I heard you have something important to tell me."

He paused for a moment.

"It's related to Prince Xu."

There were no small talk. No pleasantries. No preambles like "What have you been up to lately?"

That's the name it is. It doesn't give her any chance to waste her precious time.

However, she was certain that the information she was about to reveal would delight the old man. The time spent on her would be absolutely worthwhile.

She took a deep breath and spoke.

"Teacher Shi, what I'm about to tell you might surprise you."

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