A perfect score on the college entrance exam? The Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng has astonis

The homeroom teacher, Mr. Fang, saw the video at home.

He had just finished dinner and hadn't washed the dishes yet, so he sat on the sofa scrolling through his phone.

His wife was watching TV next to him, and he was wearing headphones, watching the video of "Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River" three times.

The first time, he looked at the words.

He recognized all the words, but when put together, he felt like he was reading them for the first time.

The second time, he looked at the structure.

Exposition, parallelism, allusion, and rhythm.

Every step was so perfect it gave him goosebumps.

The third time, he looked at the emotions.

Those weren't cold, impersonal words; they were words that were about to overflow from a young boy's heart.

He took off his headphones, leaned back on the sofa, and let out a long breath.

"What's wrong?" his wife asked from the side.

"It's nothing," he said.

"I feel like I've been teaching for over a decade, and only today do I truly understand what a genius is."

He was silent for a moment, then suddenly laughed.

"Do you know Chen Mo? He's the one who got a perfect score on the college entrance exam."

"Yeah, I know, they're in your class. What's up?"

"He wrote a poem today at the Luoshui Scenic Area called 'Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River,' which is about a woman. The whole internet is buzzing about it."

My wife paused for a moment, then asked, "Written for a girl? A confession?"

"Um."

Old Fang smiled and shook his head.

"You know, kids these days make such a big fuss about dating. Back in our day, we had to write love letters secretly, but these kids just write a timeless masterpiece."

He paused, then added.

"If my students can write articles of the caliber of 'Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River' when they fall in love in the future, I will support them wholeheartedly. Not only will I support them, but I will also help them correct their typos."

His wife rolled her eyes at him: "You're dreaming. You're lucky if you meet one student like that in your lifetime."

Old Fang smiled but didn't say anything.

He picked up his phone and sent a message to Chen Mo.

"You're a hidden talent, kid."

After sending the message, he stared at the screen for a few seconds and then added another one.

"You don't need to come to class anymore. You can do whatever you want. I'll approve your leave."

He laughed first after he posted it.

He knew Chen Mo wouldn't be coming to class.

Because I've already graduated.

But he wanted to send this message not to Chen Mo, but to himself.

It's an explanation to myself after more than a decade of teaching: Look, you've taught a student like this.

Teachers from other schools were discussing it wildly in various teacher groups.

Someone posted a link to "Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River" with the following text.

"This was written by a student who got a perfect score on this year's college entrance exam, from No. 1 High School." The comment section immediately erupted in excitement.

"From No. 1 Middle School? In Teacher Fang's class?"

"Teacher Fang is amazing this time. He's the first student in the country to get a perfect score, and it's from his class."

"Teacher Fang often complained to us that some students in his class were bad at Chinese, which must have included Chen Mo. But what happened? He got a perfect score in Chinese on the college entrance exam and even wrote 'Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River.' Teacher Fang was actually praising him while criticizing him."

"So, what exactly did Teacher Fang teach Chen Mo? His writing is so good, is it because of Teacher Fang's guidance?"

The group chat was silent for a moment.

Then someone sent a message with a mischievous grin emoji.

"What did you teach? Teacher Fang herself said, 'Chen Mo's Chinese language scores have never been outstanding.' To put it bluntly, it has nothing to do with Teacher Fang that Chen Mo writes well."

This was followed by a string of "hahahaha" and "the truth is out".

But everyone knows that no matter how much Teacher Fang teaches, as long as Chen Mo is in his class, the credit will always be attributed to him.

From then on, every time there was a teaching and research meeting, every time there was an evaluation for outstanding students, and every time there was a professional title evaluation, Teacher Fang could bring up the fact that she had "cultivated the first student in the country to get a perfect score in the college entrance examination".

It's not that he wants to say it; it's that others will say it for him.

Teacher Fang looked at the messages in the group chat.

The curve of her lips just wouldn't go down.

He's already starting to think about how to teach the first lesson of the new semester.

Although Chen Mo has already graduated, he can still tell Chen Mo's story—about how he usually scored over 400 points on tests, but got a perfect score on the college entrance exam.

He was criticized online for saying "anyone with hands can do it" on Douyin.

He wrote "Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River" at the Luoshui Scenic Area, which moved an old professor to tears in public.

He wants to tell this story to every class of students until he retires and can no longer tell it.

Mr. Zhang from Peking University's admissions office saw the video while on a business trip.

She was sitting on the high-speed train, scrolling through her phone, when she suddenly saw that the top trending topic was "Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River".

She clicked on it, watched for five minutes, then took off her headphones, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes.

Her colleague next to her asked her what was wrong, and she opened her eyes and said something that stunned her colleague.

"Chen Mo wrote a poem called 'Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River.' Go and take a look. After you've read it, tell me if anyone in our Chinese Department at Peking University can write something like this."

My colleague took out his phone and looked at it for ten minutes, then fell silent.

"How is it?" Teacher Zhang asked.

"no."

My colleague said, "Not a single one."

Teacher Zhang closed her eyes again.

No one at Peking University can write an Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River.

Even professors were included.

So…

Who will be able to teach Chen Mo in the future?

I'm afraid not.

but,

It doesn't matter whether it's there or not.

For a genius like Chen Mo, can you say that his "Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River" was taught by a teacher?

No!

No one can teach him.

Because geniuses don't need to be taught.

As long as he is a student at Peking University.

This is enough.

The messages started flooding the Peking University Chinese Department professors' group chat in the afternoon.

Initially, someone forwarded a link to "Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River" with the following text.

"Everyone, take a look at this."

Then the group was quiet for about twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes later, the first reply appeared: "I've read it. Who wrote it?"

"The student who got a perfect score on this year's college entrance exam is named Chen Mo. He chose our school, but applied for the computer science department."

The group chat fell silent again.

Then came the second reply, from a professor in his seventies with completely white hair who had been rehired after retirement to mentor doctoral students.

He wrote a very long passage:

"I have spent my whole life reading and teaching classical Chinese texts, and I thought my understanding of classical Chinese poetry was already at a very high level."

"But today, after reading this 'Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River,' I suddenly realized that I know nothing at all."

"It's not because this article is difficult to understand, but because it's so beautiful that it makes me feel that all the papers I've written and the research I've done in my life are just nonsense."

"An eighteen-year-old boy wrote something I could never have written in my entire life."

"This makes me rethink a question—what exactly are we, these so-called 'professors,' teaching our students?"

Someone replied: "Professor, please don't say that. Talent has nothing to do with age. Mozart composed at the age of four, and no one said his teacher was a good teacher."

"I know. I'm just lamenting, who among us is qualified to teach a student like that?"

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