Chapter 50: The Possibility of Skipping Undergraduate Studies to Pursue Graduate School

As he stepped out of the Immortal Boat Pavilion, the afternoon sunlight sifted through the gaps in the plane tree leaves, scattering mottled patterns across the red-brick path.

A faint chorus of cicadas drifted on the breeze.

He gazed at the students on the lawn, their heads bent over their books, and couldn’t help but smile. The days spent poring over papers in the library at Jinan University in his previous life still lingered vividly in his memory.

He could hardly have imagined that in this life, he would fret beneath the trees of Fudan, worrying over another kind of “entrance exam.”

Now, with the library and the Chinese Department’s resource room at his disposal, he felt equipped to accomplish something significant.

Something that would support the modest ambition he hoped to realize through the recommendation system for workers, peasants, and soldiers.

That ambition was this:

To skip the undergraduate stage and go straight to graduate studies!

The idea had taken root the moment he learned that Fudan had a recommendation policy for workers, peasants, and soldiers.

What was the greatest advantage of a transmigrator? It was time.

Forty-four years of memories were like an hourglass tucked close to his heart. With each grain of sand that fell, he was reminded: this golden age would pass in a flash!

Lu Yao’s “Life” wouldn’t be published for another three years.

Mo Yan was still in the army, writing novels.

Yu Hua had only just begun his career as a dentist.

If he didn’t forge ahead now, would he wait for others to fill every seat in the literary world?

What was his advantage?

Aside from a knack for writing, he refused to let the experience of studying Chinese literature at graduate level in his previous life go to waste.

He possessed a perspective forty years ahead of the current academic landscape!

He had far more mature scholarly ideas.

And, if nothing else, he could churn out papers that would make his contemporaries weep with envy.

So, he was determined not only to be a pioneer in creative writing, but also to become a literary giant in the study of Chinese language.

Spending four years as an undergraduate at Fudan would truly be a waste of time for him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear the sparks of thought from this era’s academic masters, but there would still be opportunities to seek their guidance as a graduate or doctoral student.

In fact, the opportunities might multiply.

Besides, he wasn’t keen on being Lu Xinhua’s junior, but as a senior and perhaps even a teacher, he was open to the idea.

Most importantly,

Zhang Peiheng’s academic philosophy and research focus matched precisely what he wanted to pursue in graduate school!

How could he not be tempted?

Professor Zhang was soon to succeed Professor Zhu as head of the Chinese Department, and in another two years would rarely supervise graduate students.

If he let such an opportunity slip by, he would be failing his destiny as a transmigrator.

But how could he skip the undergraduate stage and go straight to graduate studies?

That was why he chose the recommendation route for workers, peasants, and soldiers.

1979 was a pivotal year for the transformation of higher education in China.

On one hand, after the resumption of the college entrance exam in 1977, undergraduate education was gradually returning to normal.

On the other, the policy for admitting worker, peasant, and soldier students hadn’t been fully abolished, leaving a flexible policy for “exceptional admission of special talents.”

The first batch of graduate students was admitted in 1978, with selection criteria that emphasized “practical experience and academic potential” over strict educational prerequisites.

For worker, peasant, and soldier students with outstanding academic achievements or special contributions, certain universities—especially in the humanities—offered the rare chance to be recommended directly for graduate studies.

And as for examples, he didn’t need to look beyond Fudan itself!

Professor Chen Shangjun at Fudan entered as a worker, peasant, and soldier student in 1977, and in his second year, 1978, sat for the graduate entrance exam directly, becoming one of these special cases.

And that year, Fudan was among the schools that allowed high school graduates to apply directly for graduate studies!

Moreover, Yi Zhongtian, who later became famous on “Lecture Room,” also skipped undergraduate studies and went straight to a master’s degree at Wuhan University.

In his previous life, he’d come across these cases while browsing a certain website where “public intellectuals” criticized the quality of Chinese university education, citing examples like these.

He hadn’t felt that education was watered down; he’d only regretted not taking the college entrance exam around 1978!

And now, fate had brought him to 1979.

Who wouldn’t seize such an opportunity?

When he first arrived, he wasn’t sure.

But now, with some creative achievements under his belt, he had to try.

Why not simply apply for graduate studies? The answer was straightforward: by the time he transmigrated, the application period had long passed.

Thus,

His best shot was the “special talent channel” through the recommendation system.

He would simply raise the matter with the professors directly.

He pulled the interview procedure sheet from his pocket; the words “academic ability assessment” were circled in red ink, standing out sharply.

His creative works—“Granary,” “Fitting Mirror,” and others—were solid achievements.

His recommenders were weighty; letters from Su Zhong and Liu Zuci would lend him the necessary gravitas.

But what did Professor Zhang Peiheng mean by, “Without seeing the original work, it’s difficult to judge its depth”? What was he doubting?

Academic ability.

It was the hurdle he had to clear to skip undergraduate studies and go straight to graduate school.

He had a sound plan, but in this era, skipping directly to graduate studies was no easy feat.

First, two experts with associate professor or higher titles had to recommend him.

Second, he had to demonstrate “academic ability equivalent to a college graduate”—such as publishing high-level papers, making significant creative contributions, and, crucial for this era, possessing strong English skills.

Third, he had to pass a special assessment by the admissions unit.

The first and third requirements overlapped with this interview; English was a non-issue.

Now, the only challenge was academic ability.

“Being good at creative writing doesn’t mean being good at academic research.”

Xu Chengjun tugged at his shirt collar and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I can hardly tell the professors, ‘I read your books in my previous life,’ can I?”

Literary creation relied on inspiration and experience; academic research demanded a solid foundation in literature.

His ideas about the modern transformation of traditional literary theory had spun through his mind countless times, but without textual research and citations from journals, they were just castles in the air before a master like Zhang Peiheng.

“I need a paper that can command respect,” he resolved, turning his steps toward the library.

As he neared the library, the sound of water reached his ears.

Approaching, he saw a shallow ditch winding down the slope, lined with wild daisies in full bloom, a golden stretch.

A little girl with pigtails squatted by the ditch, teasing tadpoles in the water with a twig.

A few steps further, and the Fudan library came into view.

It was a three-story red-brick building, tufts of moss growing in the cracks, tinting the bricks with varying shades of red.

The roof was a slate-gray slope, covered in fish-scale tiles; the corners curled up like the collar of an old cotton coat.

The main entrance faced west, three stone steps worn smooth by countless feet, flanked by half-height stone pillars.

Faintly carved patterns marked the pillars, blurred by time, with only the outlines of entwined branches still visible.

The doors were double-paneled wood, painted a deep red, studded with brass knockers polished to a shine.

When pushed open, they creaked.

The attendant was an elderly lady with reading glasses. Seeing him with a canvas satchel, she slowly flipped through the register. “You look unfamiliar, not from our school, are you?”

Xu Chengjun produced the slip from the Chinese Department’s academic office, handed it over with both hands, and replied with a smile, “Here for an interview.”

The old lady examined the slip twice, then asked with concern, “What books are you looking for? A lot aren’t available for loan over the summer.”

“I’d like periodicals on traditional literary theory and modern literature, and Professor Zhang Peiheng’s works.”

She adjusted her glasses and led him through two winding aisles, pointing at a dust-laden shelf, “This is traditional literary theory. Be careful—many are single copies. The rest you’ll find here.”

Sunlight slanted through the high windows, casting long shadows across the shelves.

Xu Chengjun pulled out “Annotations to The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons” from the top shelf. The pages were yellowed and brittle, the front leaf still bearing the previous owner’s ink notes.

He flipped to the phrase, “Literary change is influenced by the sentiments of the times; rise and fall depend upon the sequence of events.”

He recalled Professor Zhang Peiheng’s interpretation and felt his lips curve upwards.

At last, he had the references he needed.

Otherwise,

He couldn’t very well cite literary works from 2024 in a paper written in 1979!