Chapter Forty: What Are You Supposed to Be?

Xu Chengjun, just emerging from his emotions, had already guessed who this was. After all, a woman in her early thirties who could freely enter and leave this place and know he was Xu Chengjun—there was only one likely candidate.

Li Xiaolin.

As Xu Chengjun sized up Li Xiaolin, she was studying him as well, curious about his youth. Zhou Ming had mentioned over the phone that Xu Chengjun was an educated youth, with an upcoming novella and poems to be published in the provincial literary journal, as well as a short story supporting small businesses.

She had already constructed a mental image of this “educated youth”—at least over twenty-five! Her frame of reference was Lu Xinhua, who had sparked a national craze for “scar literature” with his story “Scars” last year. How old was Lu Xinhua? This third-year student at Fudan’s Chinese department, born in 1954, had first been sent to the countryside, then joined the army, and had just turned twenty-five.

To put it in perspective, before 1979, Lu Xinhua had only published one piece in journals above the provincial level: “Scars” in Wen Hui Bao! The effort required to get even that short story published was immense, and as an editor at one of Shanghai’s top literary magazines, she knew it well.

Twenty-five? That was the lowest estimate she could make, given Zhou Ming’s insistence.

But Xu Chengjun before her—though steady in manner—could not conceal the youthful innocence in his face. He looked barely twenty.

As Xu Chengjun handed over “Foxtail Grass,” Li Xiaolin’s brows gradually knitted together as she became immersed in the poem’s imagery, instinctively offering her judgment: “A fine poem!”

This poem does not praise the tide of reform, nor depict the great changes sweeping the nation; it simply observes the wild grass on the hillside in quiet contemplation. Yet it grants the most precious gift of this era: humanity. There is a hint of the “obscure poetry” style, but upon closer reading, the images always point to concrete scenes of daily life, so it’s not quite the same.

She looked up again at Xu Chengjun, her gaze now warmer—talent is always favored, wherever one goes. Especially when it comes in such a handsome form.

“The style is much like Ai Qing’s recent works, with real potential for national resonance. It’s an excellent poem,” she added.

Ai Qing, the “returned poet,” had in the late 1970s moved away from fierce social critique toward a delicate observation of nature and life, becoming, along with Wang Zengqi, a representative of contemporary natural lyric poetry. Yes, Wang Zengqi wrote not only novels and essays, but a fair number of poems as well.

It was a high compliment.

Xu Chengjun raised his eyebrows slightly and smiled: “Teacher Li, you flatter me!”

The rest was simple: they introduced themselves, exchanged polite words. Li Xiaolin, forthright and direct, asked for the manuscript of “The Fitting Mirror” and began reading it on the spot.

Eight thousand words—it would take twenty minutes to read carefully, but Li Xiaolin spent a full hour on it. Her brows tightened further as she read, clearly weighing something.

Li Xiaolin looked up from the manuscript and suddenly smiled, the fine lines at her eyes rippling like water.

“Zhou Ming said you were bold.”

She pushed the manuscript forward.

“Now I believe it.”

Her pencil hovered over the line “broken glass singing”—“This ending is wild.”

You see, before the rise of scar literature, works about educated youth typically fell into two categories: the majority were written by those still in the countryside or just returned to the city; the minority by “professional writers” who had grown up in the 1950s, did not experience rural placement firsthand, but wrote after being tasked by the organization to “immerse themselves in the life of educated youth.” Representative work: Lin Yu’s short story “Song at Dawn on the Frontier.”

But they were less literary works than historical documentaries. Their greatest value in literary history lies in the precious material they offer for studying the mindset of 1960s Chinese youth and the history of frontier development.

Other works of that period were much the same—essentially propaganda tools, suppressing personal emotion.

Then came the newly emerging reflective and scar literature, led by Lu Xinhua and Liu Xinwu, whose greatest significance was breaking the grand historical narrative style and returning to the expression of personal feeling. Yet these works often wallowed in spectacle, their technique and emotion direct, reflection stopping at accusation.

A bit like the later “youth pain literature,” isn’t it?

To add, some works of this kind lacked objectivity, their creative models quietly absorbing Western-centric frameworks of trauma narrative, deconstructing local historical subjectivity under a guise of critique.

As Song Xiaobao would say, “Doesn’t seem very decent.”

Of course, their historical significance at the time cannot be denied. Great works arise from great suffering. Scars and reflection are the flowers born from hardship, standing at the forefront of the era.

But in terms of content and creative approach—even considering the nascent reform literature—none could match the wildness of “The Fitting Mirror.”

Wild in path, wild in technique, wild in every aspect.

Afterward, it was straightforward: as an editor, she needed to understand the creative thinking behind the work, so the two began a discussion centered on “The Fitting Mirror.”

Discussion? Not quite. Given Li Xiaolin’s strong and direct manner, it felt more like an interview.

So—

Li Xiaolin looked up and asked, “In your story, the mirror doesn’t reflect, but splits. Chunlan arranges fabric behind the counter, yet her shadow tries on the floral blouse in the mirror. This split—how did you conceive it?”

“In the department store,” Xu Chengjun replied honestly. “There was a salesgirl who, when few people were around, would hold up new fabric to the fitting mirror, pressing the corner to her body, quick as if stealing something. But she never actually wore it, only mimed. I suddenly felt the girl in the mirror was more real—the one outside was pretending.”

Li Xiaolin flipped to a page and read aloud: “‘The floral fabric in the mirror suddenly wrapped around her, the collar tied into a butterfly knot, while the fabric outside hung obediently on the rack.’ The perspective here is unusual: not in Chunlan’s mind, nor the observer’s eye—it’s as if the mirror itself is watching. What were you trying to solve with this shift?”

“I wanted readers to see the suppressed part,” Xu Chengjun said. “The mirror became her second life; her shadow does everything she’s afraid to do. From the mirror’s perspective, this second life is revealed directly, without detours.”

“In the last part, Chunlan’s shadow in the mirror unbuttons, her fingers tangled in threads, ‘the more she struggles, the tighter it holds, like a bound butterfly.’ Did you really see that detail?”

“The threads were an accidental observation,” Xu Chengjun nodded. “But the ‘entanglement’ in the mirror was intentional. Her longing and fear are like those threads—the more she tries to break free, the tighter they wind.”

Li Xiaolin tapped the manuscript with her fingertip: “This kind of scene, impossible in reality—what do you call it? A touch of magical realism?”

At this, Li Xiaolin felt a bit regretful. After all, nationwide research into Latin American magical realism had only just begun. Early this year, Shen Guozheng fired the first shot in domestic studies of Latin American literature. In May, “Foreign Literature Dynamics” translated the features of contemporary Latin American fiction as “magical realism” for the first time.

Discussing such a cutting-edge topic—surely it was unfair to an educated youth still doing rural placement. Not to look down, but in these times, educated youth had no access to Western literary works.

If he couldn’t answer, it would be awkward.

But Xu Chengjun gave her a tremendous surprise.

Or rather, an astonishment.

Had she not been mindful of her composure, she would have wanted to quote Sun Wukong:

Monster, what manner of being are you?