Chapter 41: All In—I’m in a Hurry (Please Vote and Keep Reading)

Xu Chengjun shook his head. “Not quite the same. Márquez’s magic is ‘reality itself carrying magic.’ The flying carpets and three years of rain in ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ are things that genuinely sprout from the Latin American soil. But the ‘shadow’s rebellion’ in ‘The Fitting Room Mirror’ is, at its core, reality bubbling out from the heart. What Chunlan dares not do, her shadow does for her—it’s more like suppressed desires taking visible action, reality being squeezed and distorted, not born magical.”

Such an understanding of Latin American literature startled her and piqued her curiosity.

She pressed further, deepening the question. “Then is it Surrealism? Dalí’s paintings also show this kind of ‘illogical truth.’”

“Surrealism is more like a jumble of the subconscious!” Xu Chengjun explained. “Take ‘The Persistence of Memory’ with its melting clocks—that’s a headless, instinctive outpouring. But Chunlan’s shadow always revolves around the ‘floral blouse’; every action points to a clear longing: she wants to live as herself. This ‘surrealism’ has a purpose—to tear open the bonds that the era has fastened around people. It’s more like ‘magic bound in shackles.’”

Li Xiaolin suddenly smiled, her fingertip tracing a line of annotation on the manuscript. “There’s another detail—you gave every fitting mirror the same chip, like ‘a cluster of open eyes.’ How should we interpret this awakening of objects?”

“Foucault said the mirror lets the ‘false self’ meet the ‘real body,’ laying bare reality’s fissures,” Xu Chengjun nodded. “In China, 1979, such fissures were everywhere. Borges wrote about ‘self-doubt in the mirror image’ in ‘The Circular Ruins,’ but he was more concerned with philosophical identity confusion. I want to write about real people—those secret desires blossoming in the cracks of policy.”

Now Li Xiaolin was truly surprised—even astonished!

Was this the breadth of knowledge a rusticated youth could possess?

Did you know these things from birth?

At this point, Xu Chengjun felt a twinge of regret. Foucault’s theories and Borges’ works had only begun to circulate in small circles in the country, and there were no official translations yet.

There wasn’t any real awareness of these ideas domestically!

How could a young man from the countryside, sent down for re-education, possibly know so much?

But it was fine—Chongqing writer Yu Qie had provided a perfectly effective approach.

Xu Chengjun said, “Actually, I know a bit of Spanish.”

“Spanish?!”

In those days, even English speakers were rare, let alone Spanish.

And a rusticated youth at that?

Nothing could be more astonishing.

“Yes, I studied a bit in the past, and through Chief Editor Zhou and some friends, I saw some Spanish editions of these works.”

But he truly did know the language—and it was best that he did.

In his previous life, he’d spent three and a half years working out in the university gym with a Colombian friend.

At first, they spoke English, but after a while, Xu Chengjun suddenly said, “Let me learn Spanish from you.”

It wasn’t a whimsical decision.

Back in 2006, when he’d started university, young men thought the coolest thing was: reading a classic, strumming a guitar, and flirting with a girl!

That was the artistic youth’s way!

If, on top of that, you mastered a less common language—what was that called?

A cultured, artistic youth!

Most learned Japanese or Korean, but he, learning Spanish, was as rare as a scorpion’s egg.

Li Xiaolin didn’t find any of this unreasonable. After 1978, the country’s atmosphere had gradually opened up.

Some intellectuals, through overseas connections, would procure foreign literature in the original languages.

Let alone someone like Chief Editor Zhou, a leading figure among Anhui’s cultural elite.

As for Spanish, Xu Chengjun’s explanation was acceptable—after all, who couldn’t have some family tradition?

She was an editor, not a police officer!

Li Xiaolin rose to her feet, smiling at him. “Your ‘The Fitting Room Mirror’ passes with me, but I don’t have the final say. It’ll have to go to Editor Wu for another round. Still, it’s not very long, and it’s good—let me put it ahead in the queue for you.”

In 1979, after Harvest magazine was revived, its editorial process usually followed a “three reviews, three proofs” system: initial, secondary, and final reviews.

But since the magazine had only just resumed publication, gathering experts for a second review was still difficult.

Usually, it meant one review by the editor, one by the deputy chief editor.

As for the chief editor, at the time, he was in Beijing preparing for the fourth National Writers’ Congress, constantly shuttling between Beijing and Shanghai.

He hadn’t gotten to meet any literary celebrities, which left Xu Chengjun a bit regretful, but he believed it wouldn’t be his last visit to Harvest.

There would be plenty of chances to meet that venerable elder of the literary world.

Xu Chengjun also rose. “That’s very kind of you, Editor Li.”

See? Getting moved up the queue—that’s the power of connections.

Old Zhou really came through; this was a thigh worth clinging to!

But “The Fitting Room Mirror” meant something special to Xu Chengjun—it was his first attempt at using techniques not yet belonging to this era, to write about people and happenings overlooked at this point in time.

If anything, “The Fitting Room Mirror” was his true debut.

“The Granary” and “Weighing the Stars” were more like his tickets of entry into the era—his protective charms.

In terms of influence, even though he’d used many writing techniques and policy foresight from the future, these two works were still very much rooted in the conventions of rusticated youth literature. Forty years later—or even just twenty—these novels would be no more than a line in his biography.

Who in forty years would still discuss “The Class Advisor” or “Scar”?

Literature riding the wave of its era often has symbolic significance far beyond its literary value.

Its reach is also limited to a particular time and place.

He didn’t have to wait long before Li Xiaolin returned with two glasses of water.

Perhaps because he’d left such a good impression, instead of busying herself with the manuscript, she sat down and discussed literary creation and the history of literature with him.

From current “scar literature,” “reflective literature,” and “reform literature,” their conversation ranged to foreign literary classics, from writing techniques to reality itself.

And what astonished Li Xiaolin more and more—

Even now, she couldn’t quite gauge Xu Chengjun’s depths.

Was he really a twenty-year-old rusticated youth?

This young man from a small town, sent down to the countryside, possessed such insight and perspective on literature and the arts that she herself was amazed.

And she was Ba Lao’s daughter, immersed in this milieu since childhood—most writers grew nervous discussing literature with her.

After all, writing well didn’t necessarily mean one had mastered the discipline of literature.

Yu Hua would have applauded him.

Was this young man not a trickster straight out of legend?

When their conversation turned to his interview for worker-peasant-soldier student admission to Fudan University, Li Xiaolin grew even more curious.

She had a formal background, having graduated from the Shanghai Theatre Academy in 1968, and was instinctively convinced that the college entrance exam was the proper path.

So she asked, “Why didn’t you take the college entrance exam? With your knowledge level, it shouldn’t have been difficult to get into university.”

“The credentials of worker-peasant-soldier recommended students may never match those of entrance exam candidates.”

His answer left her startled, even shocked.

She sensed that Xu Chengjun was the sort of person who made life plans for the future and then followed them with unwavering confidence.

Such people were rare.

She was certain his achievements would not stop at provincial journals or at “The Fitting Room Mirror,” which might appear in Harvest.

She wanted to bet on him.

Xu Chengjun looked up at her, his gaze curious. Then he spoke:

“The value of life isn’t in how I enter a university, or even whether I go to university at all. It’s in what I can achieve, what mark I can leave on this world—what works I can write, what innovations I can contribute to scholarship. I wasted many opportunities before; now I’m awake. The chance at Fudan appeared before me, and I’m willing to give everything to seize it—not because I’m not qualified to take the entrance exam. Many chances in life come only once; if you don’t grasp them now, they’re gone forever. I let too many slip by before. Now I want to rediscover the world—and let the world rediscover me. I’m racing against time.”

Hearing this, she was moved.

Sometimes, the times and destiny favor those who dare the tide.

In her eyes, there was no reason Xu Chengjun wouldn’t pass the Fudan interview.

Because he was that tide-rider.

The era is a grain of sand—on each person’s shoulder, it’s a mountain.

But sometimes, once your eyes are open, the era is also a gust of wind—

Lifting you to soar ninety thousand miles high.