I am not a literary giant

Chapter 92 Literary Authenticity

It's not just Prince Xu who thinks of Chen Qingluo. In fact, wherever Chen Qingluo goes, she leaves behind a trail of memories.

It was the right thing for her to return to Xihe under an assumed name. If she hadn't, the day she returned, she would have been booked with banquets until she left, and the guests were all prominent figures she couldn't refuse.

Therefore, it's almost impossible for Wang Zixu to run into her on the streets of Xihe. He wouldn't even see her if he walked 30,000 steps, let alone 60,000, unless he could recognize Chen Qingluo at a glance, completely covered by a mask and sunglasses. Only a fool like him would have remained unloved in Xihe for so many years, while Chen Qingluo, wherever she goes, has a bunch of people willing to share everything about her.

Li Tingfang said, "Now that Qingluo has returned to Xihe, you must keep a close eye on her. Shen Jianqiu has already said that she must be kept here to support the Xihe Literary Gathering."

Ning Chunyan was almost in tears: "How did Shen Jianqiu find out about this?"

Li Tingfang smiled and said, "Or maybe that kid is a high-ranking official in Xihe? He's very well-informed. He's the one who told me Qingluo was back. I checked with your parents, and sure enough, she's at your house."

Ning Chunyan cursed inwardly at how easily her parents were appeased, and whispered, "This is a crucial period for Qingluo's novel, and she doesn't want any social engagements."

Li Tingfang's tone became serious:

"Do you think I don't know? After your parents told me about her novel, I knew her work would be a sensation in the literary world. As soon as I heard that, I called Shen Jianqiu and told him that she could come out to preside over the 'Xihe Literary Gathering,' but she shouldn't be bothered with any other social engagements or matters. Nothing is more important than her novel!"

Ning Chunyan felt a warmth in her heart and exclaimed, "Long live understanding!" "What did Shen Jianqiu say?"

"He said that if anyone finds out that Qingluo is harassing her creative work, they should call him immediately to report it. He treats Qingluo's creative work as a matter of the highest importance."

Ning Chunyan looked at Chen Qingluo, who was stretching at that moment. Her bra, which had been hanging loosely on her arm, fell to the ground. She stretched her body like a swan, and her fair back presented a charming curve.

She felt both jealous and proud of her best friend. Even before her work was created, the entire city would protect and support it; when her work, like a newborn baby, just entered the world and uttered its first cry, everyone who saw it said that this work would eventually resonate throughout the world.

A writer who has reached this level has already achieved a fulfilling life.

Ning Chunyan lowered her voice and said, "At the Xihe Literary Gathering, isn't the main focus just on awarding prizes to the winning writers of the essay competition? If Shen Jianqiu also attaches great importance to it, won't it have a significant impact on the Writers' Association?"

Li Tingfang said, "Yes, that's why Lin Feng is under a lot of pressure. If he doesn't win a prize this time, he'll have even fewer people supporting him in the literary association."

Ning Chunyan asked, "Shen Qingfeng probably won't personally get involved, will he?"

Li Tingfang scoffed, "He never participates in any essay contests or competitions. Do you know why? He's afraid of being exposed. But he has thugs."

"Who are the thugs?"

"I mentioned him to you last time. His name is Lin Luo. He graduated from the same school as Lin Feng."

Ning Chunyan could sense that Li Tingfang didn't really want to talk about Lin Luo. The two chatted about Chen Qingluo's novel for a while longer before hanging up.

Ning Chunyan pulled back the covers, and Chen Qingluo, with her back to her, said softly, "You didn't protect me well."

Ning Chunyan looked aggrieved: "How else can I protect you? I practically carry you out every day. Who knows who leaked your whereabouts? Maybe it's because you ran 30,000 steps that day. Come on, get up!"

She locked Chen Qingluo's arms from behind, which made a certain part of her body appear even larger, and she wanted to pull her to the bed out of jealousy and anger.

"No, I was bitten by one of your pet mosquitoes."

"I don't keep mosquitoes at home, I only keep Chen Qingluo, who does all the work. Besides, who told you to take your clothes off?"

"I'm not doing this for free; I'm writing novels for your whole family to read."

Chen Qingluo turned around and easily pushed Ning Chunyan onto the bed. Ning Chunyan then remembered that this girl could not only create "The Dedication of Simone de Beauvoir," but also run 30,000 steps in one go; her physical fitness was undeniable. Her small frame was no match for her.

She knew why Chen Qingluo had trained her physical abilities to be so formidable. She had said that writing torments the mind, and if the physical body isn't tormented in equal measure, the mind and body will remain unbalanced for a long time, eventually becoming distorted and deformed. That's why great writers either smoke or run long distances. Haruki Murakami is also a long-distance running enthusiast. These are all forms of self-torture.

She also knew why Chen Qingluo insisted on taking off her shirt while writing. It was because she didn't like feeling any constraints while writing, and she had said that "taking off your clothes makes it easier to get into the flow."

Everything this girl did was for the sake of writing. She was as persistent as a martyr. Ning Chunyan was both fascinated and envious of her persistence, because she could never do that.

……

Raymond Lam was squatting at his doorstep smoking at that moment.

He's recently become obsessed with Da Feng Shou (Big Harvest), which costs three yuan a pack. His good friend Wang Zixu recommended it to him; it's strong and potent, but too much of it can cause headaches. He likes to light one up when he's feeling particularly excited.

He had revised the novel he wrote for the essay contest seven or eight times. Today, he showed it to Li Tingfang and was scolded again. Li said that his writing was still too flat and that the characters in the novel were not like people but like machines.

When I came back and revised it that night, I felt that I was getting worse and worse. I went out for some fresh air, lit a cigarette, stared at the filter, and thought of Wang Zixu, who recommended this cigarette to me. Then I thought of Wang Zixu's novel "Wild Grasses", and then I thought of the female owner of the flower shop.

The more he thought about it, the more amazed he became. He was very curious about how Wang Zixu managed to bring a real person into the novel, and so vividly. When he chatted with the female shop owner, every word she said seemed to come from the wife in the novel herself.

Or rather, every word spoken by the wife in the novel seemed to be something the female shop owner would say, and even the expression on the female shop owner's face when she smiled and mentioned her "husband" was exactly the same as described in the novel.

He felt this was an immense talent, much like his astonishing memory. Ever since that social gathering, he had sensed that Wang Zixu was no ordinary person. It was a pity he was trapped in that small unit, his talent wasted by those around him. It was utterly a waste.

He took out his phone, intending to call Wang Zixu to ask him to take a look at his novel and offer some constructive suggestions for revision. However, the call didn't go through. He hung up, just as he saw Shen Qingfeng's car drive into the yard.

Lin Feng took a drag on his cigarette and squinted. It was indeed Shen Qingfeng's car. Luckily, he was crouching under an old locust tree, his body hidden in the shadows. After extinguishing his cigarette, there was no light source around him, and apart from mosquitoes, no one could spot him.

He saw Lin Luo lean out of the car, and a well-known member of the Writers Association got in. As the car drove out of the yard, the window rolled down, and he saw Gou Yingbiao's face flash by.

Lin Feng was utterly perplexed by this incongruous group of people gathered together. But he knew that Shen Qingfeng must have some ulterior motive, and that motive might even be related to Prince Xu.

He called Wang Zixu again, but still couldn't get through. Then he called Li Tingfang, but the call was busy. He became increasingly anxious.

……

"Of all a woman's emotional needs, the desire to be conquered always trumps everything. More than being pleased, they crave to be conquered by a powerful individual."

Jean-Paul Sartre was speaking eloquently to Prince Xu. Prince Xu, holding his head in his hands, squatted on the sofa, enduring the ugly man's lecture.

"I'm not defending myself. I believe the root of all freedom lies in sexual freedom. Our existence originates from sex, and without sexual freedom, existence is not free."

"I discussed this issue with Simone de Beauvoir countless times. Of course, there were moments of confusion and arguments along the way, but in the end, we both accepted it. Because she also recognized that marriage was a tool used by the ruling class to control the people. So we chose not to get married."

"Think about it, are our punishments for infidelity really that severe? It's just a mirage. Marriage isn't about restricting your partner; it's about restricting yourself. If you can't control yourself, then get a divorce. There's an old Chinese saying, 'Taking off your pants to fart.' In my opinion, marriage is the most pointless thing ever."

Wang Zixu finally got annoyed by his brainwashing: "What exactly are you trying to say?"

Sartre said, "It's absurd to say that Beauvoir was blind to have fallen for me. You see, we weren't even married."

"That's just you shirking your responsibility."

There's an old Chinese saying...

"Don't just spout our old Chinese sayings. You don't understand them."

"...It is said that one should pluck a flower while it is in bloom, lest one break a bare branch when there are no flowers left."

The prince was thoroughly annoyed with him. Sartre was like Tang Sanzang from *A Chinese Odyssey*. The little prince, sitting beside Ye Lan, lit his pipe, crossed his legs high, and said:

"Don't listen to him. There's an old Chinese saying, 'A rabbit doesn't eat the grass near its burrow.' If you actually listen to him, you'll be planting a permanent landmine."

Sartre then feigned innocence, raising his hands and saying, "I didn't offer any advice. I was just stating a fact. By the way, in my experience, if they give you an opportunity and you don't seize it, you'll be resented."

Prince Xu stood up unsteadily and said, "Stop arguing, let's figure out a way to get her up there."

Sartre and the Little Prince simultaneously shrugged: "There's nothing we can do about that; you'll have to do it yourself."

Those two useless fellows. The spirit can never truly triumph over the material.

Wang Zixu stared at Ye Lan's unguarded body for a while, feeling at a loss for what to do. After thinking for a moment, he went upstairs and knocked on the poet's door.

After a while, the door opened, and the pink-haired girl appeared by the door, asking him what he wanted.

"Could you help me move Mr. Ye's things? I can't do it by myself."

The poet stared at him with amusement. The Little Prince rarely showed his vulnerable side, let alone today when he was so tenderly vulnerable.

Wang Zixu felt that he had been seen through—in fact, it wasn't that he couldn't move Ye Lan, but that he didn't want to move Ye Lan "alone".

And ideally, his assistant would be a woman. With a woman present as a witness, he could prove he did nothing wrong. Sartre could choose not to marry, but he could not abandon his innocence.

"Alright," the poet agreed. The prince breathed a sigh of relief.

The two of them helped Ye Lan up from the sofa, each carrying one hand on their shoulder. Ye Lan was groaning and half-asleep, and Wang Zixu prayed that she wouldn't vomit.

Ye Lan had a great figure, but he didn't find it erotic at all. The poet said to him across Ye Lan:

"Everyone assumes you and Mr. Ye have that kind of relationship."

The prince feigned disgust: "Who thought?"

"Everyone."

"Who are you all?"

"Sakura-chan, Xinzhe, Xiaoba, Chengxing, and the auntie who cooks for us."

It really is everyone. This is outrageous! How did the cook even get involved?

Prince Xu said, "This is absolutely not true."

The poet said, "But they say you went out with Ms. Ye, and when you came back, there were lipstick marks from her on your clothes."

"Who said that?"

"them."

"who are they?"

"Sakura-chan and the believer."

Prince Xu secretly made a mental note of the two of them, deciding to give them a good beating the next day.

"It's not a lipstick mark, it's chili oil," Wang Zixu explained.

The poet asked, "Why chili oil?"

"Because we ate spicy snacks outside."

The poet thought for a moment, shook his head, and said, "I'd rather believe you two are sitting outside eating spicy snacks than that you're sitting outside kissing. The latter has more literary authenticity."

"..."

After putting Ye Lan back to her own bed, the poet Chong Wangzi waved his hand and said, "Leave the rest to me. I'll take care of her."

Wang Zixu said sincerely, "You're a really nice person. I used to think you were very rebellious."

The poet said, "You're a really nice person. I used to think you were a seasoned player in love."

Both of them felt ashamed of their previous shallowness. Before leaving, Wang Zixu turned back and instructed, "At least help her take off her high heels."

Why?

"Because if you wear high heels all night, your feet will be swollen when you wake up the next day."

"Chungking Express?"

"What 'Chungking Express'?"

The poet waved him off impatiently, and the prince closed the door behind him. Standing in front of the door, Sartre rested his face on his shoulder in a playful manner:

"I bet you, Ye Lan will definitely pick a fight with you tomorrow."

"Don't make a sound. I'm thinking."

The poet's words had just given him a wake-up call. He vaguely realized a flaw in his own writing.

He quickly went downstairs, turned on all the lights in the living room, then swiftly emptied the coffee table. He then turned back and grabbed several books from the bookshelf, including *The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle*, *My Name Is Red*, *The Green House*, and *Madame Bovary*...

Sartre looked him over curiously: "What are you doing?"

"I've realized that my past writing has been too 'conventional'," Wang Zixu said, looking down at his book. "Ning Chunyan is right. I've taken serious novels too seriously, always restraining myself and trying to write something 'pure.' But actually, that's a big disadvantage."

He slammed the books onto the table one by one: "Look, these books include stories about wives cheating, husbands cheating themselves, husbands murdering their wives after cheating, stories about brothels, stories about military prostitutes, stories about crimes of passion... and these are all Nobel Prize-winning works. Some of these are in these books..."

He tried to organize his thoughts, and finally said, "Some very stimulating content. This content is very literary in nature, or rather, typical. People like to read this kind of thing. But these are precisely the things I used to avoid."

Sartre nodded and said, "Of course. There's a story about incest between siblings in 'Thunderstorm,' and there's also a story about a woman dying in the Heavenly Fragrance Pavilion in 'Dream of the Red Chamber.' In my 'No Exit,' there are only three people, but the story is still very exciting."

The Little Prince counted on his fingers and said, "The Red and the Black is about adultery, and Crime and Punishment is about murder and wrongful killing. In fact, serious novels are not lacking in sensory stimulation."

As Wang Zixu spoke, he became increasingly excited: "When I was creating the script for 'The Little Prince,' I didn't have this mental barrier, which is why the works created by 'The Little Prince' were so popular. People shouldn't restrict themselves; what they need is to find a balance in the middle."

Sartre and the little prince exchanged a glance: "He understands."

(End of this chapter)