Chapter Sixty-Four: "The Art of Rambling" (With thanks for your generous support, and a humble request for monthly votes)

He had merely articulated the fundamental methods of modern Chinese studies, never expecting that in Fudan University of 1979, such words would cause a tremor. The air within the conference room seemed to freeze.

Zhu Dongrun’s thin fingers tapped lightly on the table, the force reflected in the surface betraying his unease.

Wang Shuizhao’s hand, holding an enamel mug, paused mid-air; the tea he was about to drink remained untouched.

Su Liancheng’s tightly pressed lips twitched slightly—this young man wasn’t just making a point, he was dismantling the whole field. This was not easy to handle.

Jia Zhifang looked up and smiled, finding the young fellow rather amusing.

Zhang Peiheng’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and he suddenly let out a self-deprecating chuckle.

He had assumed that students recommended by workers, peasants, and soldiers could at best pen sentimental essays. He had specially prepared the most obscure chapter from “The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons” to embarrass the candidate. Unexpectedly, before he could deploy his trick, the young man had already thrown out a complete academic framework.

He glanced at the expressions around him.

Elder Zhu’s fingers twitching as he stroked his beard; Su Liancheng scribbling furiously in his notebook; even the notoriously critical Wang Shuizhao had set aside his casual demeanor.

This wasn’t a surprise—it was a thunderclap!

A thunderclap out of a clear sky, shaking the literary world of China in 1979!

“Comrade Xu,” Zhu Dongrun broke the silence, his aged voice wavering with rare emotion, “You claim theory should be a scalpel, not dogma. In your view, how should classical literary theory be used to dissect modern works?”

Zhu Dongrun had just finished reading Xu Chengjun’s thesis and now had only one thought: the young are to be feared.

Xu Chengjun straightened his back, his tone steady: “Take Wang Guowei’s ‘theory of realms’ from ‘Words on Poetry in the Human World’ as an example. In analyzing the tragedy of Wu Sunfu in Mao Dun’s ‘Midnight,’ we must observe the transitions between the ‘realm with self’ and the ‘realm without self’ in character construction. More importantly, we should escape the shackles of theory and ask: Why does the struggle of the bourgeois entrepreneur remain valid within the classical critical framework? Because the universal dilemma of human nature is the root of literature.”

At these words, Zhang Peiheng suddenly sat upright.

In 1979, the academic world was still debating whether modern literature could be interpreted through classical theory.

And this guy had just laid out a practical path!

What perspective!

What vision!

What caliber!

And he was just a sent-down youth?

He spotted Su Liancheng furtively taking notes.

Really—couldn’t he be more straightforward? He mused that this old fellow was usually so composed; what had gotten into him today?

Wang Shuizhao suddenly put down his teacup: “So, for the history of scholarship, where do you think we should start? Surely we can’t expect students to chew through the entire ‘Complete Library of the Four Branches.’”

Xu Chengjun was taken aback—was Wang the lecturer or was he? Wang Shuizhao also sensed something amiss. This question was a bit beyond the scope; just as he was about to retract it, “Professor Xu’s Little Lecture” began.

“First, construct an academic genealogy map,” Xu Chengjun traced an imaginary diagram in the air. “Take modern and contemporary literature, for instance: leftist literature, the Beijing and Shanghai schools, the seventeen-year literature—each branch should mark representative scholars and points of contention. For example, to trace Mr. Qian Liqun’s breakthroughs in Lu Xun studies, one must compare Li Changzhi’s ‘Critique of Lu Xun.’ Only then can students see the steps of academic development.”

Wang Shuizhao snapped his notebook shut, his face flushed: “That method is excellent! The department can use it to compile textbooks!”

Halfway through his sentence, he remembered he was an interviewer and restrained himself.

“To be a model teacher!”

He thought for a moment and added, “Once you enroll, let’s co-author a paper—I’ll borrow your theory!”

Borrow, indeed!

That was a direct admission of approval for the interview, offering his own name as a guarantee for Xu Chengjun’s future research.

Was Wang Shuizhao some obscure figure in history?

A gesture of support from a luminary!

Zhu Dongrun gazed out the window; summer sunlight filtered through the plane tree leaves, casting dapples upon the table, illuminating Xu Chengjun.

Suddenly, Zhu recalled the ancient texts that had been burned, his eyes faintly moist. “Did you develop these ideas during your time in the countryside?”

Xu Chengjun scratched his head and gave a shy smile: “During the day, I earned work points; at night, under the kerosene lamp, I read the few books I’d brought. If I didn’t understand something, I wrote it down. When the news of the resumed college entrance exam arrived, I dared to connect these scattered thoughts.”

He pulled out a notebook from his canvas bag, its corners worn, densely filled with reading notes.

Where did it come from?

If you have new ideas and no corresponding notes or sources, isn’t that just nonsense?

He had started preparing for today long ago.

Zhang Peiheng took the notebook, gave the table a gentle tap: “I think Comrade Xu, this sent-down youth, is far more impressive than some of our formally trained ones!”

A veiled jab from a heavyweight.

Just then, before Zhang Peiheng could continue, Jia Zhifang, who had been silent the whole time, suddenly spoke, his voice stiff: “How does one research traditional culture, and does the development of comparative literature conflict with it?”

His words landed like a stone in a lake, silencing the conference room.

Zhang Peiheng frowned slightly; he knew this was a deep question.

The situation now was that the study of traditional culture had been severed, the nation’s doors were opening, and many believed the ancestors’ teachings had long become obsolete.

Moreover, asking a sent-down youth to discuss comparative literature was certainly a bit much.

Yet, the question wasn’t actually difficult for Xu Chengjun, especially since he had witnessed the flourishing of Chinese culture and tradition in the twenty-first century.

The challenge lay in how to strike the right balance in his answer.

What is comparative literature?

Comparative literature, simply put, uses cross-cultural and interdisciplinary perspectives to systematically compare and analyze literary phenomena across countries, peoples, cultures, or academic fields, seeking universal laws, distinctive differences, and deep connections.

Sounds impressive?

Like a bridge connecting cultures, exploring depths through relationships?

But such approaches often fall prey to blind alleys and personal agendas.

In many eyes,

Comparative literature’s proudest “comparative” method is essentially a “suspended logic” lacking ontological foundation.

Unlike national literature, which has a clear subject—like Chinese classical literature centered on Chinese texts—nor like literary theory with stable core concepts, such as narratology focusing on “narrative structure,” or aesthetics on “aesthetic experience.”

“Comparison” itself is only a methodological tool, yet it is forcibly elevated to the discipline’s core, turning theory into a “universal key.”

Want to discuss influence? Invoke the “transmission school.” Want to discuss parallels? Apply “theme studies.” Want to discuss cross-civilization? Pull in “postcolonial theory.”

Absurd?

It gets worse.

For example, seeing Daiyu burying flowers in “Dream of the Red Chamber,” and forcibly linking it to the “natural melancholy” found in Western Romantic poetry, claiming both “express compassion for life,” while never mentioning that Daiyu’s “flower burial” is rooted in China’s agrarian philosophy of “unity between object and self,” and the existential anxiety of women in feudal families, whereas Western Romantic “melancholy” stems from the destruction of nature by the Industrial Revolution and individual spiritual alienation.

These are flowers blooming from entirely different soils; to insist “the fragrance is alike” equates to common origin is pure academic colorblindness.

More absurd is the forced matching of “numbers” and “images.”

Li Bai writes, “The Yellow River flows from Heaven,” and this is compared to Shelley’s “If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” claiming both use nature imagery for lyricism.

“Journey to the West” has “seventy-two transformations,” and this is linked to the “myth of shapeshifting” in “The Homeric Epics,” stating “both East and West have supernatural imagination.”

Such “press-gang comparisons” are like saying “apples and moons are both round, therefore they are essentially the same,” using the most superficial similarities to cover up fundamental differences, resulting in conclusions that are not even worthy of “banal literature.”