Chapter Sixty-One: Did You Write It Yourself? (With gratitude for the reward, please vote for the monthly ticket)

Xu Chengjun knew that he had the chance to come to Fudan for an interview thanks to Zhu Dongrun.

Zhu Dongrun—Old Zhu—was almost certain to come.

But, no matter how he imagined it, he never expected that Jia Zhifang would also be present!

This was...

A celebrity who had been to prison four times in his life!

If contemporary Chinese academic research were divided into seven generations, this gentleman would likely be considered a central figure of the second generation.

His main achievement was pioneering the discipline of comparative literature in China, asserting that "Modern Chinese literature is a tributary of world literature," nurturing scholars like Chen Sihe, and promoting the formation of the concept of "20th-century Chinese literature."

The "Collected Works of Jia Zhifang" stands as an unavoidable summit for domestic comparative literature research.

What moves people is the thirty-year unwavering devotion of his wife, Ren Min, who searched far and wide for Jia Zhifang during his four times in prison.

There was no formal marriage certificate, yet the two fulfilled the promise of marriage with their actions, persevering through countless hardships and ultimately growing old together.

As for criticism—from those who survived that era,

How can one discuss humanity?

Let a funeral couplet teach later generations to judge.

Just as Jia Zhifang himself once said: "A ghost, not a man, but now a man."

In short, though the gentleman endured many trials, he always aspired to his beliefs and ultimately achieved much.

...

A few minutes later, the first professor to arrive was Old Zhu.

When Zhu Dongrun pushed open the door and entered the meeting room on the third floor of Fudan's Department of Chinese, the morning light slanted through the carved wooden windows, casting a gentle glow over his silver-white hair.

He walked with light, measured steps; the soles of his leather shoes made subtle sounds against the wooden floor, yet he carried an innate, quiet authority.

Upon sitting, he placed his cloth bag beside his chair.

From the bag, he took out a thread-bound copy of "The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons," on whose cover he had inscribed in small, elegant script: "Literature is the vessel that carries the Way."

The ink had blurred somewhat over the years, but still bore the weight of careful reverence.

He wore a navy Zhongshan suit, washed pale with age, the collar buttoned neatly, the cuffs frayed but still crisp.

Sun, the academic affairs officer, whispered to Xu Chengjun that it was an old garment worn for over ten years.

Clearly, he lived simply.

He was slender, yet his back was straight as a rod.

Much like bamboo or stone—having endured wind and frost, his character remained steadfast.

A pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses rested on his nose; behind the lenses, his gaze was gentle yet sharp. As he glanced at the spread-out manuscript of "The Granary," a knowing smile played at his lips.

Upon seeing the draft titled "The Modern Transformation of Traditional Chinese Literary Theory," and the four characters "Literature as a vehicle for the Way," his movements slowed.

Noticing Xu Chengjun rise to greet him, he spoke first, smiling, his voice softened by a Jiangnan accent: "Comrade Xu, don’t be nervous. Arriving early isn’t as good as arriving at the right time. Do you mind if I take a look at your manuscripts first?"

Xu Chengjun quickly replied that he did not mind.

Old Zhu paid no attention to ceremony, waving his hand and saying simply, "Sit down, don’t fuss over formalities."

With that, he picked up a few poems and read them carefully, then leafed through the rest, his gaze returning to the academic paper.

He lingered.

Zhu Dongrun’s expression grew serious, and his gaze toward Xu Chengjun was no longer gentle, but rather searching.

"Did you write this paper yourself?"

Xu Chengjun replied honestly, "Professor Zhu, I wrote it myself. The manuscript is right here."

After examining for some time, Zhu Dongrun finally shook his head and smiled.

This paper was a rare thing; who wouldn’t want to publish such excellent content themselves?

Who would give material like this to a rural educated youth—a mere lad!

This boy...

Not only Pei Heng underestimated him—it seems he did so himself.

He saw the line, "Traditional literary theory is not a historical legacy, but a living creative methodology," and without noticing, his reading glasses slipped to the tip of his nose.

He looked up at Xu Chengjun and said, "In ‘The Granary,’ you write about Old Xu forging keys and casting ploughshares, saying, ‘When molten copper washes over the engravings, it’s as if old accounts are poured into new seedlings.’ The idea of ‘transformation and continuity’ in this sentence aligns with the ‘classical transformation’ you discuss in your paper."

Xu Chengjun was about to respond, but Zhu Dongrun motioned for him to continue, his eyes focused on the manuscript.

"Zhang Peiheng says you ‘haven’t seen the original work, so it’s hard to judge depth.’ But I think every word in ‘The Granary’ beats with the pulse of the land and has the essence literature should possess."

"I arrived early, so I’ll test you a bit. Don’t be nervous—it’s not an interview, just a conversation."

Could I really treat it as a conversation?

Would anyone believe it when a leader says they just want to chat?

Listening intently, Xu Chengjun straightened his posture, as Zhu Dongrun spoke with a lingering cadence:

"Comrade Xu, in your paper you state, ‘Traditional literary theory is a living creative methodology.’ Liu Yanhe writes in ‘The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons—Transformation and Continuity,’ ‘If one follows tradition, nothing will be lacking; if one changes, longevity is ensured.’ ‘Continuity’ and ‘transformation’ are the principles behind literary change. Yet, nowadays many either treat the classics as mere piles of old paper, or abandon their roots to chase Western methods. You brought the countryside alive in ‘The Granary’ and discussed ‘transformation’ in your paper, so I must ask: In contemporary literary creation, how should we ‘connect’ to the roots of classical theory, and how should we ‘transform’ to create new vitality for this era?"

Old Zhu’s question was masterful.

Firstly, it responded directly to the focus of Xu Chengjun’s paper, piercing the era’s dilemma with a critical edge.

In 1979, the world of literature had just shaken off "instrumental theory," urgently needing to rebuild the "ontology of literature." Zhu Dongrun’s question essentially meant: "Theory must not be detached; it needs to explain creation. Creation must not be rootless; it must resonate with tradition."

This eighty-three-year-old truly possessed clarity and vision befitting his era.

Moreover, the question directly probed Xu Chengjun’s depth.

Could he not tell if Xu Chengjun wrote it himself?

Secondly, its brilliance lay in testing Xu Chengjun’s "insight" rather than "knowledge," quietly revealing his expectations.

Where was the expectation placed?

And what permission was granted?

Xu Chengjun understood Old Zhu’s thoughtful intentions, pondered for half a minute, and answered in a steady voice:

"Professor Zhu, as a student, I dare to think that ‘continuity’ is not about clinging to the words of the ancients, but about preserving the foundational spirit of ‘setting the heart through writing’ found in classical theory. Liu Xie says, ‘Literature carries the Way,’ and this ‘Way’ was never dead dogma."

"In the Book of Songs, it is the ‘July’s fire’ of the people’s lives; in Du Fu’s poetry, it is the worry over ‘the stench of meat and wine behind vermilion gates.’ Today, it should be the breath of the earth beneath our feet and the new voices of ordinary people’s days. Just as Old Xu forges keys and casts ploughshares in ‘The Granary’—he never studied the ‘Record of Artisans,’ yet he understands that ‘tools serve use.’ That is ‘continuity’ with the ancients’ principle of ‘making tools for practical use,’ and continuity is sincerity toward life."

At this, Professor Zhu nodded slightly, his clouded eyes showing some satisfaction.

"And ‘transformation’ is certainly not abandoning the roots to chase novelty. Liu Yanhe says, ‘Transformation ensures longevity,’ but it is the form that changes, not the spirit. The ancients wrote ‘Picking chrysanthemums by the eastern fence’ to express retreat from society; today, writing ‘the plastic film on the ridge gleams in the sunset’—is that not poetic?"

"When I wrote ‘molten copper washes over the engravings’ in ‘The Granary,’ what I meant was: the old engravings on the keys are the days of the elders; the sharp edge of the new ploughshare is the hope of reform. Just like the ‘analogy’ and ‘transformation’ in traditional theory, we don’t need to wrap them in the old shell of ‘fragrant herbs and beautiful women,’ but let them come alive in the story of ‘melting the old to forge the new.’"

"Therefore, I believe that classical literary theory was never meant to be a museum exhibit—it should be the plough in the writer’s hand."

"Like Old Xu’s ploughshare, it must turn up fresh soil in today’s land and sow crops that belong to this era. That, I think, is ‘continuity’ of its soul, ‘transformation’ of its form, letting the wisdom of our ancestors grow with the days."

In a few words, he actually outlined the embryonic form of what would later be called "root-seeking literature."

In Zhu Dongrun’s view, Xu Chengjun’s answer was superb.

Where lay its brilliance?