Chapter Sixty-Three: The Essential Qualities of Graduates

After a moment of contemplation, Xu Chengjun steadied his gaze, looked at the professors, and began to answer, “I believe the study of Chinese literature can be divided into four progressive stages, realizing a complete path from textual comprehension to academic creativity.”

At his first words, several professors exchanged surprised looks, their expressions thoughtful.

In a single sentence, this young man had already demonstrated impressive logical ability.

“The first step is to read the texts. Grounding oneself in the works is fundamental; establishing a critical awareness of literary studies begins with the text. One must read extensively, distinguishing between broad reading and close reading. Masterpieces or research subjects require careful and thorough reading, while other works can be surveyed more generally. Literary histories and selected works—such as Zhu Dongrun’s selections of ancient literature, or Qian Liqun’s selections of modern and contemporary works—are useful as introductory references, but should not be taken as dogma.”

Flattery may be transparent, but it never goes amiss.

See, even Professor Zhu was nodding, and his student Yan Su-zhang followed suit.

Glancing at the professors’ expressions and sensing he was on the right track, Xu Chengjun swallowed nervously and continued, “The true value of reading is this: the more you read, the more you begin to question literary history. Why has a certain masterpiece been neglected? Why has another work been unduly exalted? Such questioning is the very beginning of independent thought, and the text itself remains the ultimate authority.”

The five professors, who had been leafing through Xu Chengjun’s manuscript, now set it aside, their attention wholly on him. Even Wang Shuizhao’s usually indifferent face had grown solemn.

Did you think Xu Chengjun’s remarks were simple? Not at all!

His view—that the heart of reading lies in “critical awareness”—was, in 1979, a remarkably courageous statement.

The academic world had only just begun to break free from the mindset that “every word is truth.” To question the verdicts of literary history was, in essence, to call for an end to doctrinal idolatry and to restore the text itself as the core of research.

Even Jia Zhifang was nodding; such an emphasis on “independent thinking” was precisely the spiritual awakening the academic world so desperately needed.

“The second step is to learn theory. Theory is the tool; to move beyond surface interpretation of texts, one must employ theoretical frameworks for analysis. University—and even graduate-level—literary research cannot remain at the level of ‘central ideas’ or ‘main points,’ but must master the analytic logic of literary theory. Both Chinese classical literary theory and twentieth-century Western theory are valuable resources. More importantly, one should focus on theoretical threads that directly serve textual analysis. Theory is a ‘scalpel,’ not a dogma; its essence is to illuminate dimensions of the text yet undiscovered.”

At this, even Su Liancheng, who had always looked askance at Xu Chengjun, softened his gaze. Yet, for some reason, he still appeared as though he’d been duped by a smooth-talking youth.

What was going on?

Zhang Peiheng shot him a glance and cleared his throat. He approved of this answer.

In 1979, young scholars lacked foundational training, while the scholarly methods of the older generation could not be systematically passed on.

Literary research had become fragmented and anecdotal, lacking a clear sense of methodological direction.

What Xu Chengjun was articulating was precisely what was needed.

“The third step is to study academic history. With scholarly context as your compass, you can properly position your research. Academic work is a relay—a dialogue with predecessors. One must trace the history of scholarship: from generational lines, such as Zhu Ziqing, Wang Yao, Qian Liqun, and so on, to research fields—authors and works, literary trends, school evolutions, studies of academic history itself.

“Three core questions must be understood: What has already been accomplished? What methods and approaches did earlier scholars use? What gaps remain in the field? The value of academic history lies in this: it enables our generation to build upon existing achievements, avoid redundant labor, and discover our own research directions amid the unfinished work.”

Zhu Dongrun’s lips twitched; he glanced at Jia Zhifang. The two elders exchanged a look of tacit understanding, tempted to say something but ultimately unwilling to interrupt this “lecture.”

No one understood better than they what the academy currently lacked. They had pondered these issues themselves, yet had not expected a rural youth who wasn’t even an undergraduate to explain it so clearly.

Xu Chengjun’s remarks about “generational lines of scholars” and “research gaps” went straight to the heart of the era’s academic succession crisis. After a decade of rupture, young scholars no longer knew “what their predecessors had done” or “what they themselves could do.”

This notion of “thinking atop existing achievements” offered a rational path for the reconstruction of scholarship—one that avoided repetition and pinpointed breakthroughs.

“The fourth step is to practice writing. Expression is the goal, the final transformation of accumulated abilities. Mastering basic norms is the foundation, but more importantly, through continuous practice and revision, one must refine one’s understanding of texts, theoretical application, and grasp of academic history into clear, rigorous scholarly writing. Writing is not the end, but the measure of whether the previous three layers are solid, and it is also the ultimate presentation of academic thought.”

By this point, Zhang Peiheng had begun to realize what Xu Chengjun was constructing—a methodology for literary scholarship!

Xu Chengjun had linked the four as a progressive sequence: foundation, tool, compass, and transformation—defining the complete chain “from input to output,” “from inheritance to creativity.”

This boy had audacity!

Zhang Peiheng now abandoned any trace of earlier condescension toward the recommended candidate, and even felt a measure of admiration. After all, this was someone who dared to claim Jin Yong surpassed “Li Zicheng.”

Outrageous? That was exactly what he wanted!

“These four stages build upon one another: the text as the foundation, theory as the tool, academic history as the compass, writing as the transformation. Ultimately, this points to a metamorphosis—from passive absorption of knowledge to active creation of knowledge.”

The “Five Titans” were all authorities in literary theory; to put it bluntly, if any of them stamped their feet, the entire field of Chinese literary theory would tremble.

Xu Chengjun’s argument was not complicated.

The professors present fully understood what he was saying.

But it was precisely because they understood that they were shaken.

In this era, writing a brilliant work might not astonish them; after all, every age has flashes of genius, works that dazzle a generation.

Especially in the literary golden age of the 1980s, it was no exaggeration to say that masterpieces were being born at every moment!

But what truly surprised these professors was this:

A twenty-year-old youth, attempting to chart a theoretical path?

In 1979, what the academic world lacked most was not knowledge itself, but a logical framework for scholarship and the independent spirit to pursue it.

Xu Chengjun’s answer, though plainspoken, was like a surgeon’s scalpel—excising the disease of dogmatism, suturing the wound of academic discontinuity, and building a bridge between tradition and modernity.

His “four-stage progressive method” essentially offered a practical, principled, and generative paradigm for scholarship to a lost academic world.

It was precisely the “methodological enlightenment” needed in an era of both destruction and renewal.

His response transcended the realm of a mere examination, becoming a subtle revolution in academic thought.

As for Xu Chengjun himself, he had no idea what he had just done.

What was the big deal?

Wasn’t this just the basic quality of an excellent graduate from a top-tier university’s Chinese department?

Hey, why are you all looking at me like that?