Chapter 54: There Are Trees Upon the Mountain, and the Trees Have Branches

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Before the morning mist had fully lifted, Xu Chengjun was already making his way to the archives, dew clinging to his shoes. As he passed the athletic field, a few boys in vests were practicing on the horizontal bars, making the iron frame creak with each swing. At the edge of the track, someone was touching up the slogan “Advance Towards Science” on the blackboard with chalk.

“Morning!” The old gatekeeper in the porter’s lodge was wiping down his bicycle. When he saw Xu pass, he looked up and grinned, “Good luck with the interview! I heard a talented young poet from Fengyang, Anhui came for the interview yesterday. I remember you’re from Fengyang too—guess that must be you!”

Xu Chengjun waved his hand, smiling. “I’m no poet. I still need to ‘learn from the masters’ at Fudan!”

Yesterday, he had searched for some books in the library but couldn’t find a few; today, he decided to try the Chinese Department’s archives. The archives were tucked away on the east side of Xianzhou Hall, the brass knocker on the wooden door polished bright by years of use.

He pushed the door open, and a blend of old book must and camphor greeted him. The archivist, Old Zhang, was dusting the shelves with a chicken-feather duster.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you before?” Zhang adjusted his reading glasses, his eyes narrowing to slits behind the thick lenses.

“Good morning, sir. I’m here for the ‘special talent’ interview at Fudan. Professor Sun from the Chinese Department gave me a note to let me look for materials here.”

Zhang took the note from Xu, examining it carefully. He seemed a bit stern, but his manner wasn’t unfriendly.

He told Xu, “The archives aren’t like the library—some materials aren’t public. If you’re looking for something, just ask me.”

“Professor Sun called yesterday, said a young writer named Xu Chengjun might come looking for materials. Whatever book you need, just let me know.”

Xu realized that Professor Sun, ever helpful, had already given advance notice.

He moved closer and pointed to a shelf. “Mr. Zhang, I spent all afternoon in the library yesterday. There was only one volume left of the Anthology of the Tongcheng School, and I couldn’t find Research on Ancient Literary Theory at all.”

“The library wouldn’t dare put those out. Aside from the old professors, students rarely ask for these books,” Zhang replied. He set aside his duster and moved to the innermost section, revealing a shelf secured with an iron lock. “A few years ago, they called these ‘remnants of feudalism’ and locked them away in the archives.”

Moving unhurriedly, he took out a brass key and opened a box. “Here’s the 1958 edition of Research on Ancient Literary Theory—the only surviving copy.”

Xu took the book and thanked him.

On the yellowed title page was a red stamp: “Collection of Fudan Chinese Department.”

Perhaps it was because Xu had come early, or maybe it was simply the quiet of the holidays, but the room was nearly empty.

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Xu Chengjun found a seat by the window and began cross-checking his notes from the library, filling in gaps as he went. His pen raced across the draft paper.

The introduction flowed effortlessly. He precisely identified the dual predicaments facing the literary world in 1979: the emotional excess of “scar literature” and the hollow sloganeering of “reform propaganda literature.” He then smoothly introduced Zhang Peiheng’s unfinished reflections on “rooting literature in national tradition” and “opposing blind Westernization,” and naturally raised the central question of “modern transformation of traditional literary theory.” This not only pointed out an innovative path for realist literature rooted in local culture but also deftly responded to the era’s call for constructing literary subjectivity amid intellectual liberation.

After finishing the final period, Xu gazed at his draft and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. His thoughts had cleared; even the air felt lighter.

The literature review, the second section, showcased his skill best. He first mapped the academic landscape: in 1979, research on traditional literary theory mostly lingered on annotating ancient texts or clumsily comparing them to Western theory. Articles collating The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons piled up like mountains, yet few truly used traditional theory to interpret contemporary works—let alone force-fit “typicality theory” onto “the theory of artistic conception.” He then cut to the heart of ongoing debates: the binary opposition over whether tradition hindered innovation and whether Western theory was universally applicable was raging. Finally, he pivoted to reveal his breakthrough: stepping beyond the false dichotomy of “revival vs. Westernization,” he zeroed in on how the problem consciousness of traditional theory could migrate into contemporary creation, deftly outlining a new research frontier in just a few strokes.

The footnotes, however, proved troublesome. Many references he remembered simply didn’t exist in this era, forcing him to delete or alter several citations.

The third section, theoretical framework, flowed most smoothly. Here, Xu constructed a threefold mechanism for the modern transformation of Chinese traditional literary theory: the mechanism of conceptual migration, which revived classical theoretical concepts in contemporary writing; the aesthetic balancing mechanism, which employed the traditional ideal of harmony to resolve the era’s creative polarization—balancing the tragic outcry of scar literature with the restraint of “sorrow without injury,” and tempering the slogans of reform literature with the principle of “holding to the mean”; and the mechanism of practical application, which addressed how grassroots creative work could activate the real-world potential of traditional theory.

The fourth section presented case studies. He used his own creative practice as evidence, analyzing how rural-themed works in 1979 integrated traditional forms: the natural fusion of imagery narrative with classical allegory lent everyday scenes in the fields a deeper cultural resonance. The example of Zhang Peiheng’s scholarship provided a vivid footnote to the theoretical framework.

In the conclusion, Xu articulated the paper’s original value and contemporary significance: “The theoretical innovation of this study lies in positing that traditional literary theory is not a mere historical legacy, but a living methodology for creation, thus breaking the stereotype that tradition equals conservatism. In practice, it offers creators a path rooted in native soil and beyond Westernization, proving that the fusion of grassroots experience and traditional wisdom can yield outstanding works. Academically, it answers the call for literature to have national roots, fills the research gap on the modern transformation of traditional theory in 1979, and lays the foundation for future localization of literary theory, ensuring the continued growth of cultural roots amid social change.”

With the structure of the thesis clear in his mind, Xu rubbed his eyes, pulled a stack of grid manuscript paper from his bag, and began to copy the final draft.

At that time, academic writing and formal manuscripts were typically composed on standardized grid paper—usually in 16 or 32 mo format, with 16 mo commonly used for official documents. Each page was printed with uniform squares, one character per square, making counting and typesetting easy and meeting the strict requirements for manuscript formatting.

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Xu picked up his fountain pen, letting the nib hover over the first square for a moment before he began. This task required no mental effort for argument, but there was no room for even a hint of carelessness. Mistakes had to be crossed out with a proper diagonal line; new lines had to align perfectly with the vertical columns; even punctuation had to take up its own square.

The pen made a gentle scratching sound as it moved across the paper, pausing occasionally as he checked the draft against the original. Only when his stomach gave a faint, hungry growl did he realize he’d already stacked a thin pile of manuscript pages. The final period fell in the last square just as the lunch hour arrived.

People are iron, food is steel!

There was a playful poem from later years that seemed apt for this moment, titled “Phoenix Hairpin: Nothing to Eat.”

“Braised pork, cheap spirits, the tavern’s full of fried chicken and spring rolls; midnight’s cold, no food in stock, a cup of cool water, half an apple—hungry, hungry, hungry!”

...

He was bent over, packing up his canvas bag, when the faintest footsteps reached his ears, mingling with the camphor scent of old books, as if a cloud had quietly drifted into the room.

He instinctively looked up, his gaze threading through the gap in the shelves, colliding directly with the source of the sound.

A girl stood in the backlight. Her moon-white cotton blouse was illuminated by the sun, the bow at her collar loosely hanging. Her skin was as white and fine as premium rice paper, glowing delicately under the sunlight of 1979. Straight, jet-black hair draped over her shoulders, the ends lifted gently by the breeze from the window, forming a natural arc.

She was tall and slender, with bright apricot-shaped eyes whose slightly downturned corners gave her an innate gentleness. Now, facing the light, her eyes sparkled with scattered starlight—shining just right. Beneath her high, graceful nose, cherry lips were softly pressed together, her oval face gentle in the play of shadows, as if painted in ink and wash.

She possessed both the unadorned beauty of “a lotus emerging pure from clear water” and the scholarly grace of “poems carried in her sleeve.”

“Sorry to disturb you,” she said, meeting his gaze, her eyes apologetic.

Her voice was gentle, the final note as soft as a feather brushing the heart.