A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

While Lin Shubai and his group were on the bus, the grading of papers had already begun.

It didn't start in the evening, but in the afternoon. As soon as the candidates walked out of the examination hall, their papers were collected, put into sealed bags, sealed, and escorted by two staff members in black to the marking location—a small building next to the Affiliated Senior High School of National Taiwan Normal University. The building had a gray-white exterior and a police car parked at the entrance. It didn't look like a marking place, but rather like some kind of confidential unit.

The marking room was on the third floor, a converted large classroom with frosted paper covering the windows, obscuring the view from the outside. Fifteen long tables were arranged in a large U-shape, each with a lamp, a stack of papers, a red pen, and a blue pen. Fifteen judges sat on the outer side of the U-shape, each with a stack of essays in front of them.

The chief judge was Qian Xueshen, 62 years old, a professor in the Chinese Department of Beijing University. His hair was completely white, but he was in good spirits, wearing a dark gray sweater over a white shirt. He sat at the top of the U-shaped table, with only a desk lamp and a cup of tea in front of him. He hadn't even started looking at the essays yet—as the chief judge, he was responsible for the final review and arbitration; the preliminary review didn't require his involvement.

"Let's begin." Qian Xueshen glanced at the clock on the wall; it was exactly three o'clock in the afternoon.

Sitting in the first seat on the left side of the U-shape was Sun Mingyuan, 45 years old, an associate professor in the School of Literature at a teachers' university. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and his hair was neatly combed. His habit when grading essays was to first look at the beginning. If the beginning was not good, he would give it a passing grade, then quickly scan it to make sure there were no surprises before moving on to the next essay.

He tore open the first sealed bag, pulled out the composition paper, and glanced at the title—"The Troubles of Youth." He frowned; this title was too common. He had already read three essays on "The Troubles of Youth" today. He scanned the beginning: "Youth is the most beautiful time in a person's life, but it is also full of troubles and confusion..." He shook his head, picked up a red pen, wrote "72" in the grading column, and then placed the composition on his left.

Next sealed bag. Title: "My Childhood". Sun Mingyuan frowned again; this was common too. Beginning: "Time flies, years pass like an arrow, and in the blink of an eye, I am already sixteen years old..." He put down the red pen, switched to the blue pen, and wrote "68" in the scoring column.

Next one. Title: "Youth and Dreams". Beginning: "Everyone has their own dreams, and the dreams of youth are the purest..." Sun Mingyuan sighed and wrote "70".

I read seven or eight essays in a row, and they were all formulaic. They all started with "Time flies" or "Everyone has their own...", in the middle they either said "I remember once" or "There is something that I still remember vividly", and at the end they either said "Let's take action" or "I believe that as long as we work hard, we can succeed".

Sitting in the middle of the right side of the U-shape was Fang Mei, fifty years old, a senior-level Chinese language teacher at a key middle school. She had short hair, didn't wear glasses, and liked to hold the essay paper very close to her eyes when reading it, as if she were smelling something. Her reading habits differed from Sun Mingyuan's—she read every essay from beginning to end, regardless of its quality. She believed that the quality of an essay couldn't be judged solely by its beginning; sometimes the beginning was unremarkable, but the last paragraph would suddenly surprise you, like stepping on a loose brick and getting a jolt.

She was reading an essay titled "The Boy and the River." It described a river near the author's hometown, where he used to swim and catch fish as a child. Later, the river became polluted, turning black and smelly, and the boys stopped playing there. The author wrote, "The river is still there, but it's no longer the river I remember. Just like the boy is still there, but he's no longer the boy he once was."

After reading the last sentence, Fang Mei picked up her red pen and wrote "85" in the grading column. Then she drew a circle on the composition paper to indicate "Recommended".

A young judge nearby peeked over and asked, "Professor Fang, this is a good piece?"

"Hmm, not bad."

The young judge nodded and continued watching his own.

The marking process lasted two hours. By 4 p.m., the first round of preliminary review was mostly complete. The pile of "reviewed" papers in front of the judges was getting higher and higher, and there was also a pile of "awaiting review" papers—those with a difference of more than ten points required a third judge to review them.

Sun Mingyuan has read more than 30 articles, with an average score of around 75.

To his left was an essay he had marked with a score of "92", titled "Youth and the Times", written by Lin Wanqing from the Shanghai division.

He read the essay twice. He began by saying, "Young people should not just be bystanders of the times, but participants." He then used three examples—the youth of the May Fourth Movement, the educated youth sent to the countryside, and the volunteers in the Wenchuan earthquake—to demonstrate how young people can play different roles in different eras.

The ending reads: "Times change, and the mission of youth changes, but one thing has never changed—youth are always the most sensitive nerve endings of the times."

After reading it, Sun Mingyuan leaned back in his chair and thought for half a minute before typing "92". This was the highest score he had given that day.

Fang Mei also submitted a high-scoring essay titled "A Young Man's Poem," written by an author from the Shandong Province competition. The essay was a long poem depicting a young man's confusion, struggles, hopes, and courage. Fang Mei didn't understand poetry well, but after reading it, she felt something stir within her, like a violin string being gently plucked, producing a resonant sound. She gave it a score of "90."

At 5 p.m., the door to the marking room was pushed open.

Qian Xueshen walked in, sat down at the top of the U-shaped platform, and began to flip through the pile of essays that the judges had already scored. He flipped through them quickly, looking at the titles and scores of each one, occasionally pausing to read a passage. After reading more than a dozen essays, his expression remained unchanged, neither happy nor sad, like a stagnant pool.

When Sun Mingyuan put an essay into the "awaiting review" pile, Qian Xueshen's gaze swept over.

"What happened to that article?" Qian Xueshen asked.

"The score difference is too big. I got 68, and Teacher Li next to me got 89." Sun Mingyuan pulled out that essay. "I think this one is just average. The structure is loose and the language is long-winded. Teacher Li thinks this one has a spark, but the technique is not mature."

Qian Xueshen took the essay, read it once, and then put it down: "Teacher Li is right. I'll give this one an 85."

Sun Mingyuan didn't say anything. He didn't doubt Qian Xueshen's judgment.

Time ticked by. Darkness fell outside the window, but the lights in the marking room remained on. Staff brought in boxed lunches, which the judges ate while reviewing the papers. Fang Mei ate a tomato and egg rice bowl, eating very slowly, her eyes glued to her essay paper. Several times she brought the food to her nose before realizing something was wrong.

By 8 p.m., there weren't many essays left.

Sun Mingyuan reached for a sealed bag, tore open the seal, and pulled out the composition paper. He glanced at the title first—"A Young China's Manifesto."

Five words.

He paused for a moment. This title was interesting. The four characters "Young China" themselves carried a sense of momentum, and adding the word "say" made it seem like a declaration was about to be made.

He glanced at the author information—Shanghai Division, Lin Shubai.

Have not heard.

He began to read.

"In my heart, there exists a young China!"

The very first sentence froze him in his chair. It wasn't the kind of gradual entry into the mood; it was like flooring the gas pedal, going straight from zero to a hundred. He instinctively brought the essay paper closer, like Fang Mei had done, to examine it more closely.

"To discuss the old and young of a nation, one must first discuss the old and young of its people. The elderly often dwell on the past, while the young often think about the future. Because they dwell on the past, they develop a sense of attachment; because they think about the future, they develop a sense of hope..."

As Sun Mingyuan read this, his hands began to tremble slightly. Not from fear, but from excitement. In all his years as a judge, he had read thousands of middle school essays, and never before had a single one made his hands tremble.

"If all the youth of the nation truly remain youthful, then China is a nation of the future, and its progress is immeasurable. If all the youth of the nation also become old, then China is a nation of the past, and its demise can be awaited with bated breath."

Sun Mingyuan read this passage twice.

He continued reading. He came to that sentence—

"Therefore, the responsibility of today does not lie with others, but entirely with our youth. If the youth are wise, the nation is wise; if the youth are wealthy, the nation is wealthy; if the youth are strong, the nation is strong; if the youth are independent, the nation is independent; if the youth are free, the nation is free; if the youth progress, the nation progresses; if the youth surpass Europe, the nation surpasses Europe; if the youth are the most powerful on Earth, the nation is the most powerful on Earth."

Sun Mingyuan put down the red pen, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

He thought for a moment and wrote a small note next to it: "Recommendation to the chief judge for final review."

Fang Mei noticed the commotion on Sun Mingyuan's side. She saw Sun Mingyuan stand up, take the essay, walk up to Qian Xueshen, and say something. Qian Xueshen took the essay and began to read it.

Fang Mei had never seen Qian Xueshen with that expression before.

When Qian Xueshen read essays, he usually remained expressionless. Whether he was happy or disappointed, his face showed no emotion. But this time was different. Fang Mei saw Qian Xueshen's eyebrows rise slightly, then rise even higher, then his mouth slightly open, then he took off his glasses, wiped them, put them back on, then held the essay paper closer to his eyes, then leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for several seconds, then lowered his head and read the essay from beginning to end.

After reading it a second time, Qian Xueshen placed the essay on the table, pressed down the corner of the paper with his palm, and then picked up a red pen and wrote a number in the grading column.

Fang Mei couldn't see the number clearly, but she saw Sun Mingyuan smiling beside her. It wasn't a polite smile, but a knowing smile.

Qian Xueshen put down his essay, picked up his teacup, and took a sip. The tea was already cold. He frowned slightly but didn't seem to care. He turned to Sun Mingyuan and said something in a low voice, but Fang Mei, who was sitting next to him, heard it.

Qian Xueshen said, "This essay would score 100 points in any exam room in any era."

Fang Mei was stunned.

She had been a Chinese language teacher for over twenty years and had seen countless excellent essays, but she had never heard Qian Xueshen say anything like this. "Any examination room in any era"—this assessment is no longer an assessment, but a definitive conclusion.

She stood up, walked to Qian Xueshen's side, and looked down at the essay. The title was "A Discourse on Young China," and the author was Lin Shubai. She read it from beginning to end, and when she reached the line "When the youth are strong, the nation is strong," her eyes welled up with tears.

She walked back to her seat, sat down, pushed aside the essay paper in front of her, leaned back in her chair, and let out a long breath.

The others in the grading room also sensed the change in atmosphere. Someone whispered to the person next to them, "What's going on?" Someone else said, "It seems like a particularly good one came out." Someone else said, "Professor Qian gave it a perfect score." The news spread like ripples, but the ripples didn't turn into waves—grading continued, and no noise was allowed.

By 9:30 p.m., all the essays had been graded.

The staff entered the scores into the computer, sorted them, and generated rankings. Qian Xueshen stood beside the computer, looking at the list on the screen. First place: Lin Shubai, Shanghai region, total score 100. Second place: Lin Wanqing, Shanghai region, total score 94. Third place: a boy from Shandong province region, total score 92.

Qian Xueshen stared at the name on the screen, remained silent for a few seconds, and then said to the staff, "Print three copies. One for archiving, one for public display, and one for me."

He picked up his share, folded it, and put it in his shirt pocket.

Then he walked out of the marking room, stood in the corridor, took out his phone, and dialed a number.

"Old Li? This is Qian Xueshen. Have you finished editing the articles for the next issue of your magazine? I have something here that you'll definitely find interesting. It's not a submission, it's an entry for today's innovative writing competition. Yes, it's written by a high school student. You'll see when you read it. I'll send the manuscript to you in a bit. Okay, that's all."

He hung up the phone, stood in the corridor, and looked out the window at the night view of Beijing. Neon lights lit up one by one, and in the distance, Chang'an Avenue was bustling with traffic. In November, the wind in Beijing had already begun to pick up, feeling like tiny knives on his face.

But he didn't feel cold.

He had spent his entire life studying and reading, thinking he would never be moved by words again. But today, an essay written by a sixteen-year-old boy made him rediscover what it meant to be "overwhelmed with emotion."

He put his hands in his pockets, turned around, and walked back to the marking room.

"knock off."

When Qian Xueshen said "That's a wrap," a rustling of chairs echoed in the marking room. After sitting for seven or eight hours, everyone's backs were stiff. When Sun Mingyuan stood up, his knees cracked twice. He looked down at his legs and said, "A thirty-year-old soul, sixty-year-old knees."

Fang Mei was packing her things nearby, not even looking up: "You're fifty-five."

"That's the knee of a fifty-five-year-old, the soul of a sixty-year-old."

"Your soul is older than your knees."

The judges walked out in twos and threes. The lights in the corridor were voice-activated; they would turn on as someone walked by and turn off as they passed, as if someone was chasing after them to turn off the lights. Sun Mingyuan and Fang Mei walked at the very back, the two of them going downstairs side by side.

How many times have you read "A Discourse on the Youth of China"?

Four times.

"Me too. By the third time I read it, I found my back was sweating."