Chapter Forty-Four: I Request Immediate Reposting

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July 17, 1979. The plane leaves along Changjiang Road in Hefei were curled under the searing sun.

Ye Qing, an editor from the Literature and Art Department of the Guangming Daily, stepped out of the Provincial Writers’ Association building with sweat already soaking the collar of his shirt.

His trip was originally to attend the “Anhui Provincial Symposium on the Liberation of Thought and Literary Innovation” and to research the state of grassroots literature. Yet, to his surprise, the most frequently heard name echoing in his ears these days was a youth from Fengyang named Xu Chengjun.

From the guesthouse to the conference hall, an old man selling ice pops muttered, “That poem ‘Walking Toward the Light’ sets the heart ablaze.”

In the bookstore, students in school uniforms crowded around the newspaper racks, eagerly passing copies between them.

Even the local Writers’ Association officials at the symposium discussed during breaks: “This young man’s letter lays bare the struggles of the educated youth.”

Ye Qing couldn’t help but wonder: what kind of writing could ignite such waves of discussion in Hefei’s sweltering air?

Passing the Mingjiao Temple market, he saw a crowd pressed around the tin box of a newspaper vendor and managed to grab the last copy of the Anhui Youth Daily.

The headline in the “Youth Observation” column on the front page leapt out at him—lines from “Walking Toward the Light” sparkled like stardust, from “when the wind carries the first hint of fragrance” to “flowers across the world will bloom in turn.” There were no shouts in the text, yet the phrase “liberation of thought” felt close enough to touch.

Turning to the letter “To Young Friends,” he read, “Hands cracked by cold can still write of spring,” and “even old grain in the warehouse can sprout.” Ye Qing’s fingertips paused at the line, “A speck of dust from the times, when it lands on an individual, is a mountain.”

This was no ordinary essay from an educated youth—it was the spiritual portrait of a generation caught in the tide of reform!

“What a remarkable Xu Chengjun!” Standing beneath the plane trees by the roadside, he ran his fingers repeatedly along the edge of the newspaper, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

There was the purity of Gu Cheng’s poetry here, but with more of the earth’s scent than the Misty Poets; the letter carried the pain of Scar Literature, yet broke free from the rut of accusation, using words like “trial and error” and “taking root” to twist confusion into a force for growth.

At this moment, when the liberation of thought so urgently needed a breakthrough, such words were not only a literary innovation, but a call to awaken the youth’s spirit.

This was precisely the voice the Guangming Daily ought to carry!

Ye Qing strode quickly to the corner public telephone booth, his palm sweating against the receiver.

When he was connected to the Literature and Art Department chief, his voice trembled with suppressed excitement: “Chief, I’ve found a groundbreaking piece in Hefei! The poem and letter by Xu Chengjun, an educated youth from Fengyang, intertwine personal fate with the era’s transformation—literary and sharp in thought!”

“This isn’t just youthful sentimentality—it’s a mirror for young people in the midst of reform!”

“Listen to these lines: ‘Growing up is a profound kind of despair’—‘Paths are all made by those who walk them.’ They cut straight to the heart!” He recited the verses into the phone.

“Right now, the whole country talks about ‘respecting knowledge and talent.’ This piece can inspire millions of young people more than ten editorials ever could. I request immediate reprint—poem with commentary, the letter in full, headline: ‘Taking Root and Growing in a Changing Era—The Spiritual Monologue of Young Writer Xu Chengjun.’ Do you approve?”

On the other end, he heard the scratch of a pen across paper, and after a moment the chief’s voice buzzed through the static: “Send the original text immediately, with editor’s notes. No, just say it over the phone, the phone bill’s on the paper!”

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“This piece is right on target—Xiao Ye, you’ve made a real contribution this time!”

After hanging up, Ye Qing gazed at the name “Xu Chengjun” in the newspaper.

He took out his pen and scribbled in the margin: “Literature should not only portray the times, but shape the hearts of the young.”

Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the plane trees, casting flickering patterns over his words,

Just like the poem declared: “All tenderness left unspoken grows into a furry little period.”

...

This time, Xu Chengjun’s “poisonous chicken soup” might really step onto the national stage.

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In July in Anhui, “Walking Toward the Light” and the letter to the youth burst like a silent spring thunder along both banks of the Huai River.

The presses at the Anhui Youth Daily ran from dawn to dusk, the smell of ink wafting down half the street.

The original print run of ten thousand copies was reprinted three times in as many days; newspaper vendors cycled between towns and villages, and wherever the bell rang, people with grain coupons surrounded them shouting, “Save a copy of Educated Youth Xu’s paper for me!”

At the Mingjiao Temple newsstand in Hefei, crowds gathered before dawn every day.

Students stood on tiptoe to copy poems, pen nibs scratching across their notebooks;

Some carved “Growing up is a profound kind of despair” into their desks,

Others copied “Paths are all made by those who walk them” into their labor manuals.

The classroom of the Chinese Department at Anhui University became an impromptu discussion hall—girls recited “The moon sows two stalks of shadow” with teary eyes,

Young men thumped their desks, arguing that “trial and error is the true color of youth,”

Even the cafeteria cooks squatted by the stove, newspaper in hand, muttering, “Hands cracked by cold can still write of spring” as they added firewood.

This fervor spilled from the highways into the counties and communes.

In the Xinhua Bookstore in Fengyang County, newspapers were dog-eared from use,

The wooden walls of the educated youth points were covered with clippings; someone drew an arrow beside “dogtail grass in the cracks,” pointing to their own worn cloth shoes;

In a factory workshop in Bengbu, workers gathered to read the letter during their break. The senior machinist, hands stained with oil, tapped the line “even old grain in the warehouse can sprout” and told the new apprentice, “See? Even those of us working the machines can live with pride.”

Even on the field ridges of western Anhui, a farmwife delivering lunch read the poem to her husband; the rice soup dripped from the edge of the rough porcelain bowl onto the paper, blurring the words “Walking Toward the Light” as if stitching a sparkling star onto the yellow earth.

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The newspaper’s phone was ringing off the hook!

Communal secretaries wanted to reprint the entire page for their members to study, high school teachers requested extra copies for teaching materials,

Even the Provincial Women’s Federation called: “The spirit in this poem will inspire our young women to dream and to act!”

The printing room workers, rubbing their sore arms, laughed: “We’ve printed newspapers our whole lives, never seen an article chased by the whole province like this. In Xu’s words, there’s a light we all carry in our hearts!”

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675 Jululu Road.

Xu Chengjun truly had no idea how much of an impression his poem and letter had made among his fellow Anhui natives before he left.

But he did know that, apparently, with the woman before him—Li Xiaolin—he’d perhaps overdone his own performance.

Once the topic turned to the college entrance exams and literature, he couldn’t stop himself—from Foucault’s theory of the mirror image to Borges’s labyrinthine narratives, even quoting original Spanish passages from One Hundred Years of Solitude off the cuff.

Now, looking at Li Xiaolin, her gaze hadn’t left him for a moment.

It wasn’t the look of romantic interest between a man and a woman,

But more like a gambler gripping a winning hand at the gaming table!

Her eyes were brimming with excitement and certainty—she had bet on the right horse!

Xu Chengjun awkwardly rubbed the tip of his nose.

Fortunately, Xiao Dai, who had just finished reviewing the manuscript, rescued him.

With a laugh, he interrupted, “Let me break up your conversation! Mr. Xu, to be honest, ‘The Fitting Room Mirror’ is bound to spark debate among the editorial board, but its sharpness is precisely the point. Editor Wu just said, ‘The value of literature is never in pleasing everyone, but in awakening those who need to awaken.’ He’s right, and this piece—”

“We’ll take it!”