Chapter Sixty-Two: Have I Offended You?

What made it so remarkable?

China in 1979 stood at a crossroads of destruction and creation. What was being broken was the cultural disconnect and stagnation of thought left by a special era; what was being established were new academic norms and fresh creative directions. Zhu Dongrun’s question, at its core, was an inquiry into what should be built and how, after the old had been dismantled. Xu Chengjun’s answer provided a concrete path: rooting the tradition and opening up to the new spirit of the times.

Was it stunning? Absolutely—it was astonishing, the kind of words you’d never expect from a twenty-year-old.

But genius was in vogue these days; Old Zhu, from his days in the late Qing era to now, had seen his fair share of prodigies. He would not be easily surprised. Did that diminish the brilliance of the answer? Not in the least.

He seemed to want to say more, to ask more, but considering it was before the interview, he decided to keep the rest to himself.

Changing the subject, he picked up the manuscript and turned to the section on “colonization by Western theories,” his tone growing heavier. “These days, scholars love to borrow frameworks from the West, but you, out in the countryside, thought to use ‘analogy and symbolism’ instead of ‘the unconscious’—and wrote something far more moving. That’s remarkable.

“It’s like the carved wooden windows in this meeting room—the latticework is the wisdom of our ancestors, but the light that pours in is of the present. Tradition and reality are meant to be symbiotic.”

Xu Chengjun replied with a soft “yes.”

But that left him no room to speak further. What could he say? Director Zhu clearly wanted to talk to himself, not to hear Xu’s thoughts. Why make things awkward? When the leader reaches for food, do you spin the lazy Susan? When his cup is empty, do you pour the wine?

Seeing Xu Chengjun’s nervousness, Zhu took off his glasses and polished them with a corner of his shirt, his smile deepening. “Relax. Fudan’s recommendation process is for those who can let ideas grow in the soil, not for bookworms who only memorize literary theory.”

“In your poem ‘Foxtail Grass on the Hillside,’ you wrote, ‘No need to bloom, nor to bear fruit; they stand in the crevices of time.’ That respect for ‘the power of the ordinary’—I believe you have more confidence than I do that you’ll pass this interview.”

More confidence than you? So you have a lot of faith in me, then.

Xu Chengjun couldn’t help but smile.

“Just speak freely during the interview. Remember, the bones of literature must be Chinese, the confidence must come from the land beneath your feet—you already hold the key to this.”

Cultural confidence! That, I understand!

The second to arrive was Professor Su Liancheng.

In his previous life, Xu hadn’t known him well, but according to Dean Sun, he was also a great scholar of traditional Chinese literary theory.

He was around forty, with a fair complexion and striking features, standing over six feet tall, no less imposing than Xu Chengjun himself. He truly was a gallant and elegant figure.

By coincidence, just as he entered, Su Manshu also came in to deliver a page of annotated notes.

Her cheeks flushed, she spoke softly, “Some academic notes from Mr. Zhang—I organized them at home last night and hurried to bring them to you.”

Xu Chengjun was about to thank her, but the young woman darted away.

He was puzzled. That didn’t seem like her usual self—what was she afraid of? Maybe with so many famous professors around, she felt ill at ease.

Then, looking up, Xu saw that Professor Su’s previously fair face had turned as dark as the bottom of a pot, and his gaze toward Xu was anything but friendly.

Now Xu was even more bewildered. Had he offended him somehow? Did they even know each other?

Zhang Peiheng and Wang Shuizhao had accompanied Jia Zhifang. By the time the wooden door of the meeting room opened once more, morning light had crept halfway up the wall.

First in was Zhang Peiheng, dressed in a dark gray Zhongshan suit, buttoned all the way to the top, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He stood ramrod straight, exuding an invisible sense of pressure. His brows hadn’t relaxed since entering, his expression severe. The black-framed glasses on his nose gleamed, and his gaze swept over the manuscripts on the table, especially the one in Zhu Dongrun’s hands, his eyes as sharp as a blade.

Following closely was Wang Shuizhao, whose relaxed demeanor was the complete opposite of Zhang’s rigidity. He wore a slightly worn, off-white shirt, sleeves casually rolled up to his forearms, showing a scuffed Shanghai-brand wristwatch. Slightly plump, he carried a genial smile. When his eyes landed on Xu Chengjun, there was a lazy curiosity, as if looking at an interesting exhibit rather than an interviewee.

He carried a dog-eared copy of “Selected Annotations of Song Poetry,” which he tossed carelessly onto the table corner before sitting beside Zhu Dongrun, crossing his legs as if at a tea party, not a review panel.

Last came Jia Zhifang.

His back was even more hunched than Xu had imagined, every step heavy and sluggish. His faded blue jacket was frayed at the cuffs and crooked at the collar, but meticulously patched. He looked at no one, only at the cracks between the floor tiles, shuffling to the innermost seat, gripping the table edge as he sat, his back arching, hands folded on his knees.

Jia Zhifang, after his years in prison, had grown so stooped in his later years.

“You’re early, teacher,”

Zhang Peiheng was the first to speak, his voice low. “Is this the paper by the educated youth? Is there anything new in it?”

When he said “anything new,” his brows remained furrowed—clearly scrutinizing.

Zhu Dongrun smiled and waved a hand. “Peiheng is still the same—treats every manuscript as a rival. Come, let me introduce you. This is Xu Chengjun from Fengyang, author of ‘Granary’.”

Like a gentle breeze, the introduction eased much of Xu’s tension.

Wang Shuizhao looked up from his book, twirling his pen with a smile. “I’ve heard of you. Your poem reprinted in ‘Guangming Daily’ was well done. The line ‘Moss flowers are as small as rice grains’—my daughter copied that several times.”

His eyes swept over Xu, then dropped back to his book, as if even speaking another sentence took effort.

Professor Su, sitting nearby, said nothing, but for some reason seemed a bit ill at ease.

Zhu Dongrun turned to Jia Zhifang, his tone softening, “Zhifang, your presence completes this interview panel.”

Jia Zhifang finally lifted his eyes—clouded yet with a glimmer of light. He didn’t speak, only nodded slightly.

Standing at the end of the table, Xu Chengjun had thought he was well prepared, that nothing could move him. But actually seeing, in person, the names he’d only encountered in literature theory classes and academic exhibitions in his past life, he felt a surprising wave of nervousness.

He cursed himself quietly: “Pathetic.”

Zhu Dongrun seemed to sense his anxiety and tipped his chin at him. “Xu, don’t just stand there. Sit down, let’s begin.”

When the clock struck nine, all eyes turned to Old Zhu.

He chuckled, “Let’s have Peiheng chair this interview! If anyone has questions, feel free to direct them to Comrade Xu.”

At this time, Old Zhu was already grooming Zhang Peiheng as his successor for the Chinese Department at Fudan. In 1980, Zhang would be promoted to professor and soon take over Zhu Dongrun’s position.

Zhang Peiheng didn’t hesitate. His expression was stern, his gaze scrutinizing as he began, “Then let’s officially start the interview.”

“Before we go through the formalities, I want to ask you a simple question.”

“As a student majoring in Chinese literature, what exactly should you learn?”

It sounded simple, but was it really?

Not at all. To those in later generations, for whom literature became almost metaphysics, it might seem so. But that was only after methodologies had matured.

In 1979, even the revision of contemporary literary history had barely begun. Literary research was polarized—either left or right. For many at the time, what was writing?

To feel pain, face pain, and write pain.

How to write? Pain itself was enough.

Was that reasonable? Certainly—great works often arise from suffering.

But could you really answer an interview question this way?