A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

The second day of the National Day holiday, today is the day Lin Shubai is going to visit his maternal grandmother.

Lin Shubai lay in bed, but his mind was still filled with yesterday's events.

He pondered the phrase "The collection of works with the same name has been unlocked" all night.

According to his understanding, the work's name and the collection's name are the same, so that when one work is triggered, the entire collection of the same name is also unlocked.

Last night, he lay in bed thinking for a long time about which other works had collections with the same title. He came up empty-handed. After all, in his previous life, young people rarely read short stories, let alone paid attention to short story collections. He could only recall Shinichi Hoshi because "Feed—Out" was so famous, it had been included in his Chinese textbook. He couldn't even name many other short story writers.

He still remembers the feeling of the whole story flooding back to him when he found that children's drawing yesterday. The bottomless hole, the child throwing stones, and the words "Feed—out" were like a seed planted in his mind.

He lay there for a while, his mind racing with all sorts of thoughts. About the system, about the words that suddenly flooded his mind, about the inexplicable connection between this parallel world and his past life. But thinking about it was useless; he hadn't fully grasped the system's rules yet. All he could do was wait, wait for the next trigger, wait for more works to unlock.

Lying in bed until almost nine o'clock, Lin Shubai decided to focus on the task at hand. He sat up, got dressed, sat at his desk, and opened the manuscript of "Charlotte's Web".

He changed his clothes and went out. His grandmother's house was in the old town, more than half an hour away by bus. As Lin Shubai left, Wang Xiulan called out from the living room, "Come back early, don't let your grandmother keep you for dinner."

"understood."

The bus swayed and rattled as it passed through half the city.

After getting off the train at the station, Lin Shubai turned into an alley.

On both sides were old-fashioned Shikumen houses, with large patches of white paint peeling off the walls to reveal the red bricks underneath. Wires stretched haphazardly overhead, and sheets and clothes hung out to dry fluttered in the wind.

Several elderly people sat on small stools by the door, basking in the sun, teacups in hand, chatting idly. An old man in a gray undershirt saw Lin Shubai, squinted at him for a moment, and said with a smile, "Isn't this Xiulan's son? He's grown so tall." Lin Shubai greeted him with "Hello, Grandpa," and quickly walked over.

Grandma's house was on the second floor of a three-story building, the wooden stairs creaking as you went up. Lin Shubai knocked on the door, footsteps came from inside, and the door opened.

Grandma stood in the doorway, her hair completely white, neatly combed, and wearing a navy blue cotton coat. When she saw Lin Shubai, a smile creased her face: "Shubai's here? Come in quickly."

"Grandma." Lin Shubai walked in.

The living room wasn't large, but it was very clean. There was an old-fashioned fabric sofa, and a plate of oranges and some pastries on the coffee table. A framed photo hung on the wall—a black and white photograph of my grandparents when they were young, standing side-by-side, their expressions serious. Against the wall was an old bookshelf, filled with books and magazines, their spines faded.

Grandma pulled him to sit on the sofa, looking him up and down: "You've lost weight. Are you studying too hard?"

"No, the food was quite good."

"Is your mom's cooking too salty? I've told her so many times to use less salt."

"Not too salty, just right."

Grandma nodded, picked up an orange from the coffee table and handed it to him: "Have an orange, this was your favorite when you were little."

Lin Shubai took it, peeled the orange, broke off a segment, and put it in his mouth. It was sweet and very juicy.

"Your maternal grandfather also loves oranges," Grandma said suddenly, her tone very calm, as if she were talking about something very ordinary. "Every autumn when oranges are in season, he buys a whole basketful. I say that we can't finish eating so many, but he says we can eat them slowly and they'll last until winter."

Lin Shubai chewed on an orange, remaining silent. His maternal grandfather had passed away when he was five, and he had almost no memory of him. He only remembered that his grandfather was very tall, quiet, and liked to sit by the window reading. Sometimes, when he went through the original owner's memories, he could find fragments—his grandfather holding him on his lap, pointing to the words in the book and reading them to him one by one. He couldn't remember what he was reading, but the image remained.

"You look like your maternal grandfather, your eyes are like his, and your nose is like his too. When your mother was young, everyone said she looked like her father, but now you look more like him than your mother."

Grandma paused suddenly, then stood up, walked to the old bookshelf, bent down, and rummaged through the bottom shelf for a while. The bookshelf was cluttered with a variety of items: several yellowed bound volumes of "Story Collection," a stack of old newspapers, and some magazines whose dates were indistinguishable. Grandma pulled out a small cardboard box from the very back, carried it over, and placed it on the coffee table.

The cardboard box wasn't big, it was dusty, and the edges were frayed. Grandma blew the dust off and opened the lid.

There wasn't much inside—a few old books, a stack of yellowed photos, and a few notebooks.

Grandma opened the box: "I've kept your grandfather's things since he passed away, but I haven't really looked at them much. Your mother doesn't like looking at these things, and your uncle doesn't either. I thought that since you're the only one in the family who still enjoys reading and writing, these things should be given to you."

"Take a look." Grandma pushed the cardboard box in front of him. "There are some books I can't understand either, but your grandpa treasured them like precious gems back then. Keep them if you think they're useful, and throw them away if you don't."

Lin Shubai reached into the cardboard box and took out the top book. It was a novel; the cover was torn and had been rewrapped in kraft paper. The title was written in neat pen on the cover.

He rummaged through the cardboard box again; inside were several novels and collections of essays, all published in the 1980s. The pages were yellowed and brittle, but they were well-preserved. Underneath the books was a stack of photographs. He picked them up and looked at them; most were black and white, some already yellowed. He stopped when he turned to the third photo.

The photo shows a vast field of sorghum, the heavy ears of grain bending the sorghum stalks. A young man stands at the edge of the field, wearing a white shirt and grinning broadly. On the back of the photo, written in pen, is the inscription: "Autumn 1958, taken in my hometown of Gaomi."

"This is your maternal grandfather. He took this picture when he went back to his hometown." Grandma leaned over and took a look.

Lin Shubai looked at the photo of his young grandfather, who stood in front of a field of red sorghum more than fifty years ago, smiling so happily.

"Your maternal grandfather was from Gaomi," Grandma said. "Gaomi, Shandong. He came to Shanghai when he was young and then stayed. In the first few years after he arrived, he missed home every day. Every autumn he would talk about how the sorghum in his hometown should be ripe by then."

She took the photo from Lin Shubai's hand. "He always told me about his hometown. He said there was a huge sorghum field behind the village, stretching as far as the eye could see. He grew up in that field. Then there was a war, and that field became a battlefield. Later, the field was still the same, but the people who farmed it changed generation after generation."

Grandma's voice was slow, as if she was recalling something from a very, very long time ago.

"Your grandfather said that sorghum may look ordinary, but it's strong. Its roots run deep, so the wind can't blow it down. He said that people should be like sorghum, unassuming but able to stand firm when the wind comes."

She closed the cardboard box and patted the lid.

"Take these things home and look at them slowly. You were only five years old when your grandfather passed away, and he didn't get to say what he wanted to say to you. But these books and photos are also a way for him to leave you."

Lin Shubai picked up the cardboard box and placed it on his lap. It wasn't heavy, but it felt substantial in his hands.

"Your grandpa would be so happy if he knew you were reading these books," Grandma smiled. "He used to say that our family has a child who loves to read, and who knows, he might become a writer someday."

Lin Shubai was taken aback: "He said that?"

"He did say that. When you were little, you sat next to him flipping through comic books, and he would just watch you and smile. Later, he told your mother that this child is like me, he loves to read."

Lin Shubai looked down at the cardboard box on his lap, his finger pausing on the lid.

Just as his fingers touched the edge of the box lid—

【Trigger Keywords】

[Cardboard box + photo]

[Red Sorghum Family (Mo Yan)]

That field of red sorghum, that place called "Northeast Township," those men and women who struggled, loved, hated, and lived and died on that land. "My grandfather," "my grandmother," the boy who urinated in the liquor, the bride who got married in the sorghum field, those sorghum stalks pierced by bullets, that bowl of sorghum liquor that burned his throat. Image after image, passage after passage of text, flooded in like a tidal wave, overwhelming him completely.

Lin Shubai's fingers trembled slightly, but quickly steadied. He took a deep breath, removed the cardboard box from his lap, and placed it at his feet. The images in his mind were still swirling—red, yellow, green—sorghum fields, distilleries, dirt roads, sedan chairs, gunshots, blood. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, everything had returned to normal.

"What's wrong?" Grandma glanced at him.

"It's alright," Lin Shubai said. "Grandma, I'm taking these things back."

"Take it," Grandma nodded. "It's better to keep it with you than with me. My place is damp; it'll get moldy in a few years."

Lin Shubai had lunch at his maternal grandmother's house. His grandmother had made braised ribbonfish, stir-fried vegetables, and tomato egg drop soup—all his childhood favorites. The ribbonfish was pan-fried until golden brown on both sides, and the braising sauce was thick and flavorful, making it especially delicious with rice. His grandmother didn't eat much herself, but kept piling food onto his plate, saying, "Eat more. Nothing at the school cafeteria tastes as good as home cooking." Lin Shubai's bowl was piled high with food; he buried his head in his food, saying nothing.

After dinner, he helped wash the dishes and then watched TV with his grandmother for a while. She was watching a traditional opera channel; a woman in opera costume was singing on screen. Lin Shubai didn't quite understand it, but he enjoyed listening. His grandmother started to doze off, her head nodding. Lin Shubai covered her knees with a blanket and didn't wake her.

Around 2 p.m., he stood up to say goodbye.

"Are you leaving already?" Grandma saw him to the door.

"Okay, you don't need to see me off."

"Be careful on the road," Grandma said, standing at the door. "Come again next week."

"it is good."

Lin Shubai carried the cardboard box down the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under his feet. When he reached the alleyway, he glanced back and saw his grandmother still standing at the door, waving at him.

The bus swayed and rattled back. Lin Shubai sat by the window, placed the cardboard box on his lap, opened the lid, and glanced at the photograph one last time. His young grandfather stood in front of the sorghum field, grinning broadly.

He carefully put the photo back, closed the lid, closed his eyes, and went through the entire work in his mind.

He hadn't read the original novel in his previous life, but he knew a little about it—it was Mo Yan's representative work, telling the story of Northeast Gaomi Township during the War of Resistance against Japan, a legend woven by "my grandfather" and "my grandmother" in the sorghum fields. The novel contained bloodshed, violence, and a raw vitality, as well as a primal beauty. That field of red sorghum was not merely a backdrop; it was almost alive, one of the most important characters in the story.

The problem is that this work is too "heavy".

While works like "The Gift of the Magi," "Lunch," "The Back View," and "Spring Blossom Noodle Shop" are of high quality, their themes are gentle and their emotions universal. It's surprising, but somewhat understandable, that a sixteen-year-old could write them—simply a sign of precocity, sensitivity, and keen observation. A child who loves reading from a young age who writes moving stories will be described as "talented."

But Red Sorghum is different. There are too many things in this work that a sixteen-year-old should not understand—that profound understanding of the land and history, that raw and wild vitality, that calm gaze in the face of violence and death, and the desires and struggles of the adult world.

These things can't be explained by "talent." How could a high school freshman who grew up in the alleyways of Shanghai write a story about Northeast Gaomi Township? How could he write about those men and women fighting the Japanese, brewing wine, killing people, and falling in love in the sorghum fields?

Even if he changes the setting, changes Gaomi to another place, and changes the characters in the story to other people, the core remains the same. The core of this work is too deep, too heavy, and too adult, completely different from his previous tender short stories.

If he were to present "Red Sorghum Family," what would people think? Their first reaction wouldn't be, "This kid writes really well," but rather, "This couldn't possibly have been written by a high school student."

Lin Shubai leaned against the car window, watching the street scenes flash by outside, and had already made up his mind.

This work cannot be touched for the time being.

It's not that we'll never move, it's that we can't move now. We'll wait until he's older, until his "writer's identity" is more stable, until he has more works to his name, until he has enough reasons to explain why he can write such things—then we'll talk about it.

Right now, I need to finish writing "Charlotte's Web," publish the manuscript for "Story Collection," and take care of the essay competition.

Take it one step at a time.

The bus arrived at the stop. Lin Shubai got off, carrying the cardboard box, and walked into the residential area. When he reached the bottom of the building, he stopped, shifted his grip on the box, and glanced up at the sixth-floor window. The curtains were drawn, so he couldn't see inside.