Chapter Sixty-Six: What Should You Do When the Leader Criticizes You?

At this moment, the professors’ state was much like Li Xiaolin’s—born with innate knowledge? In this era teeming with prodigies, the ideological core distilled from forty-five years of relentless exploration and practice was still formidable—almost too powerful for this time. It made Xu Chengjun seem like an anomaly, a marvel among mortals.

The room was silent. Although Xu Chengjun had deliberately sidestepped the issue of comparative literature, no one minded; his attitude was evident to all. In truth, except for Jia Zhifang, every professor present was engaged in classical literary theory. It was hard to say none of them held reservations about comparative literature. But even Jia Zhifang—well, wasn’t he also bound by the honorable tradition of majority rule?

Zhu Dōngrun’s thin, withered hands were the first to applaud, his excitement barely contained. The Department of Chinese needed visionaries like this young man. As Zhu Dōngrun gazed at him, he seemed to see the future of the department itself, and an irrepressible idea began to form in his mind.

The elderly Zhu’s applause instantly lit up the atmosphere in the conference room. Wang Shuizhao abruptly set down his enamel mug, the crisp sound ringing out as the cup struck the table, his usually languid eyes now shining with brilliance. He didn’t mind taking in a promising student ahead of time—after all, Old Zhu was getting on in years, Su Liancheng had to avoid any hint of favoritism, and as for his greatest rival, Old Zhang, hadn’t he just been bested? Glancing at Zhang Peiheng’s expression, Wang couldn’t help but smirk.

Clinging to tradition, keeping one’s word, unwavering in both speech and action, consistent inside and out… How had Zhang Peiheng ever researched classical literary theory? Now Zhang stood up, his broad palm striking the table with a resonant hum, his earlier self-deprecation gone, leaving only undisguised appreciation in his eyes. At this moment, he no longer saw a student to be tested, but a new force bringing fresh perspectives to the field—a true talent.

What did it matter to lose face? Zhang Peiheng cared nothing for that! Don’t mistake his exuberance for instability; his earlier reservations were only because he’d objected to Xu Chengjun’s “pulling strings.” Now the situation had changed.

After all, this was the man who drank openly in class and proclaimed, “Even if summoned by the emperor, I won’t board the boat”—a truly carefree soul. Su Liancheng, too, had already forgotten his earlier grievances; at last, his tense expression relaxed.

As the applause faded, Jia Zhifang, who had been holding back, couldn’t keep his face from darkening. He tapped his fingers on the table. “Comrade Xu, your ideas are sharp, but too absolute.”

Comparative literature was his foundation, the axis of his scholarly pursuits. To deny its value was to challenge the very path of learning itself! Even if Xu was destined to be the department’s “favored son,” as the “grand elder,” Jia had to debate with him.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, his tone brooked no argument. “You call comparative literature a ‘floating logic,’ yet Buddhist tales from the Dunhuang manuscripts only entered Chinese literature through cross-cultural transmission. To deny the value of comparison is no different than smashing the Confucian temple’s signboard in the old days!”

The excitement on the other professors’ faces faded—especially among Zhang, Wang, and Su, the three who, in their forties and fifties, were still considered “young.” It wasn’t fear, but respect for their elders.

Xu Chengjun was bewildered. When had he ever directly called comparative literature “floating logic”? Was Jia even being reasonable?

He was about to respond, bracing himself, when Zhang Peiheng nodded in agreement, a hint of mischief in his smile. He picked up Xu’s notebook and flipped through a couple of pages. “You say we must ‘find our roots and soul,’ but what about the concept of ‘adaptation and transformation’ in The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons? If we speak only of inheritance and never of learning from others, beware becoming nothing but bookworms gnawing on old paper. Young people today haven’t even read the Selected Works of Emperor Zhaoming, yet talk endlessly about One Hundred Years of Solitude. That’s wrong, but clinging only to tradition—can that produce great works?”

Why did Zhang nod along? Next year, he was up for promotion and would likely succeed Zhu Dōngrun. And Jia Zhifang’s standing in literary research? If Jia opposed him, would anyone accept Zhang as the new chair? Besides, he hadn’t even finished his prepared remarks before being interrupted—wasn’t that frustrating? Did Zhang Peiheng have no pride? He simply wanted to gauge Xu’s true ability.

Su Liancheng, meanwhile, was secretly amused: Old Jia went first—none of my doing! Private grudge or not… well, mainly private grudge! He joined in: “I agree with your criticism of forcibly applying Western theory to Chinese literature. But to say ‘scar literature’ has no future—that’s too hasty. Literature must first confront real wounds before seeking its roots. Now that ordinary people can finally speak their minds, you’d sentence them before they’ve even begun?”

Zhu Dōngrun coughed gently, wishing to smooth things over, but loath to embarrass Old Jia. His voice, gentle and subtly suggestive, said, “Xu, passion is no substitute for argument. You say traditional culture is a living tree, but how is it to be watered and nourished? Slogans alone won’t do. Take the Fengyang Flower Drum—saying it’s vital isn’t enough; you must explain how to make young people want to learn and watch it. That’s the real challenge.”

Wang Shuizhao stayed silent—what did this conscripted assistant have to do with him? He couldn’t afford to offend Jia Zhifang! And this kid hardly seemed ordinary—why get involved? He was still waiting for a chance to “take on a disciple”!

The room fell quiet.

All eyes turned to Xu, the pressure immense.

Xu Chengjun recognized the scene—it felt all too familiar. A stress interview, not unlike the civil service exams and selection interviews he’d faced in his previous life.

Interview question: If your boss criticizes you over a work issue, what do you do?
Answer: First reflect, then apologize, next make corrections, and finally review the outcome.

Start with reflection and apology—can’t go wrong!

Xu Chengjun stood, bowed slightly, and said sincerely, “Your criticisms are well-founded. I am young and impetuous; my words were too harsh. I should indeed reflect.”

His thoughts were clear. Under pressure, his mind spun even faster.

He addressed Jia Zhifang first, earnest and forthright: “Professor Jia, I fully agree with your point about Buddhist tales in the Dunhuang manuscripts spreading across cultures.”

Secure the foundation first.

“My objection isn’t to comparison itself, but to the misapplication of Western theory as a rigid measuring stick for Chinese literature—a kind of reckless comparison.”

I’m not against you!
I’m against thoughtless comparison!
Against the parasites of comparative literature!

“As with your research into transformative Buddhist texts—Buddhist stories took root and became our own literature. That’s good comparison, a kind of grafting, not force-fitting. My poor phrasing—warning against hegemonic comparison—came across as dismissing comparative literature entirely. That’s my fault.”

Jia Zhifang’s expression remained stern, but his lips softened a bit. Who could strike a smiling man?

Zhang Peiheng’s mouth twitched at this—truly material for officialdom.

Turning to Zhang, Xu met his gaze directly. “Professor Zhang, your point about ‘adaptation and transformation’ is precisely what I hoped to address. Liu Xie said, ‘Transformation ensures longevity, adaptability ensures abundance.’ My call to ‘find our roots’ is to make adaptation more secure; warning against blind Westernization is to avoid rootless transformation.”

“When we use the concept of ‘spirit and character’ from The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons to analyze contemporary fiction, we must first understand its core of integrity and uprightness, then examine the spiritual temperament of current works. That’s true adaptation and transformation—not clinging lifelessly to dusty texts.”

What marks a remarkable person? The ability to paint a grand vision—and to show how you can truly partake in it.

Right now, Xu Chengjun was just such a person.