Chapter Sixty-Seven: Offering a Brick to Attract Jade, Not Throwing Stones

As Su Liancheng was about to speak, Xu Chengjun looked at him and spoke first: “Professor Su, I take back my rash comment about ‘not being long-lasting.’ Scar literature is far too important.”

Take it back?

Su Liancheng thought to himself: Do you think I believe you?

“The people have been holding their words in for ten years—they need to let them out freely. This is the conscience of literature. What I meant by ‘seeking roots’ comes after that. Naturally, people will ask: Where did these wounds come from? What is the spiritual foundation of our nation? It’s like tending to a wound first, then restoring vitality. There’s no contradiction.”

After Xu Chengjun finished, Su Liancheng nodded; these words made sense.

No matter his personal grievances, Su Liancheng had to acknowledge it in this moment.

This young man was someone to be reckoned with.

Damn it, he’s right!

Lastly, Xu Chengjun turned to Zhu Dongrun—his true mentor at Fudan.

“Mr. Zhu, you asked how to make traditional culture come alive. I thought about this when I was sent to the countryside. Take the Fengyang Flower Drum, for example. It shouldn’t just keep singing the old tunes. New pieces can be written—sing about the household responsibility system in the village or innovations in the city factories; schools can offer interest classes letting children first learn the drum rhythms, then tell the stories behind them. Just like your research on the Songs of Chu—in the old days, they were sung aloud. Now, if we give these ancient arts new voices, they won’t wither.”

Zhu Dongrun stroked his beard and nodded.

Wang Shuizhao wrote “new pieces for the flower drum” in his notebook, paused, and added “a grounded example of adaptation.”

Jia Zhifang stayed silent, but when Zhang Peiheng glanced at his softened expression, he knew the matter was settled.

With a tone both cautionary and kind, he said, “You’re good at making up for things. But in scholarship, one must have both sharpness and a measure of restraint.”

Xu Chengjun smiled and nodded, pushing his notebook forward: “All your criticisms, I’ve taken to heart. I’ll make sure to be more thorough in my words from now on and seek your guidance on the true scholarship of adaptation.”

Yes, that was the final summary.

He had answered every question!

Done and dusted!

All those interview skills weren’t for nothing!

The atmosphere in the conference room relaxed.

Looking at the expressions of the “Five Great Elders,” Xu Chengjun was quite satisfied.

To spar with the luminaries of literary research—isn’t this the very road of the great writers?

Well, perhaps more like being sparred with.

But before Xu Chengjun could savor his triumph, he saw the professors exchange glances.

So, you think you’re something special?

Let’s see just how capable you are!

As for the so-called interview procedure?

With these five together, you almost had the entire backbone of three generations of Fudan’s Chinese department assembled.

It was practically half the academic world.

Would they care about procedure if they were interested?

Only poor Director Sun suffered—his lips twitching, wanting to interject several times, but ultimately not daring to interrupt the professors’ enthusiasm.

Procedure! There’s a process to follow in interviews!

But!

If Mr. Zhu and Mr. Jia had not spoken, was it even his place to worry?

Then Zhang Peiheng spoke up: “Gentlemen, Mr. Jia, Professor Su, Professor Wang—I think young Xu’s level is very high. Let’s set aside the interview procedure for now. If we have questions, we can ask, and if Xu has questions, we can help clarify for him!”

He instinctively ignored Director Sun’s darkened expression, and seeing the professors nodding, the room reached a consensus—leaving only Director Sun as the lone casualty.

Director Sun: Aren’t we supposed to keep a record of the interview? Shouldn’t this go on file?

With everyone in agreement, Professor Zhang indulged himself in playing “department head,” his face now bearing a smile: “Then let me set the ball rolling.”

“Xu, in the ‘On the Hidden and the Manifest’ chapter of The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, the debate over the authenticity of supplementary passages, and the dialectic between ‘hidden’ and ‘manifest,’ even Huang Shulin of the Qing dynasty dared not make a rash judgment. You say we must seek our roots in tradition—so what’s your view on this hardest nut to crack? Don’t just recite platitudes.”

As soon as the question was posed, the other four professors all turned to look at him.

Set the ball rolling?

Wasn’t he afraid of crushing the young man under it?

Who didn’t know that “On the Hidden and the Manifest” was the most contentious chapter in The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, often called a “celestial text” in academic circles?

The core debate over the “authenticity of supplementary passages” was so difficult that even the great textual scholar Huang Shulin of the Qing dynasty hesitated to pronounce on it—it was the toughest bone in ancient literary theory!

One misstep, and you’d be trapped in the quagmire of textual criticism.

And you’re using this to test a young scholar?

Moreover, Zhang Peiheng didn’t stick to generalities; he went straight for the dialectic of “hidden” and “manifest.”

That’s the core issue in Liu Xie’s literary thought—testing not only understanding of the classic text, but also command of the deeper logic of traditional literary theory.

Stick to the literal explanation, and you’ll seem shallow. Get lost in theory divorced from the text, and you’ll reveal shaky foundations.

Is it hard?

Hard as hell!

And that wasn’t all!

Zhang Peiheng had set a hidden trap in his question—it was really asking: “You talk about seeking the roots and soul, but if traditional literary theory can’t solve contemporary problems, it’s just musty old paper.”

The question seemed to be about “On the Hidden and the Manifest,” but in reality, it forced Xu Chengjun to answer how ancient literary theory could be of use to literature in 1979.

It tested not only scholarly depth, but also sensitivity to the spirit of the times. Any misstep would expose one as a pedant, stuck in the past!

The old fox was claiming his territory!

How deviously calculated!

Xu Chengjun felt a chill—he really had come for the toughest academic challenge.

But it was all right.

He was ready to diagnose the problem.

He had actually studied this chapter before—ironically, through Zhang Peiheng’s own research papers.

What a coincidence!

Steadying himself and reflecting briefly, he said, “Professor Zhang, the core of this chapter lies in ‘Hidden is the profound meaning outside the text; Manifest is the outstanding element within the piece.’”

“‘On the Hidden and the Manifest’ is difficult, for three reasons. First, the debate over the authenticity of the supplementary passage; second, the tension between ‘hidden’ and ‘manifest’; third, how to make this millennia-old theory relevant today.”

A classic opening, straight out of the old essay tradition.

Gu Youguang, Fang Bao, Wang Ao would all approve!

“First, about the supplementary passage—”

He looked up at Zhang Peiheng, glancing at the other professors.

“Since the Song dynasty, there’s been debate whether the section ‘hidden as a literary mode’ was added later. But whether or not those are Liu Xie’s original words, I believe the line ‘Hidden excels in layered meaning, Manifest excels in striking brilliance’ is spot-on. It’s like reading Dream of the Red Chamber: the subtle narrative threads are ‘hidden,’ the scene where Daiyu buries flowers is ‘manifest’—without both, the work wouldn’t be great literature.”

Zhang Peiheng’s brows twitched, signaling him to continue.

Xu Chengjun thought: Then I’ll keep playing the part.

He shifted his tone, sweeping the room with his gaze.

“More importantly, this principle can cure the ailments of our present.”

“‘On the Hidden and the Manifest’ says, ‘Hidden means to conceal, Manifest means to reveal.’ When writing about suffering, there’s no need to shout out the pain in every line. For instance, in ‘Blessing,’ the look in Xianglin’s Wife’s eyes is ‘hidden,’ the line ‘I was so foolish, truly’ is ‘manifest’—it’s the interplay of concealment and revelation that gives depth.”

He paused, his tone firm: “Western theory speaks of the ‘iceberg principle,’ saying what’s visible is only a fraction of the whole. Isn’t this exactly the ‘profound meaning outside the text’ of ‘On the Hidden and the Manifest’?”

“But our concept of ‘hidden’ is not about being deliberately obscure—it’s about meaning arising beyond the words, rooted in our national aesthetic. Like the drumbeats of the Fengyang Flower Drum: what’s played is ‘manifest,’ but the nostalgia left in the silent spaces is ‘hidden.’”