Chapter Sixty-Nine: Faint Glow of the Firefly, Once Illuminated Sun and Moon

Undergraduate level?

Never mind Fudan.

Would even a current Peking University master's student in Chinese literature reach this level?

Isn’t this exactly the future “prodigal son” of Fudan’s Chinese Department?

As for the procedures?

The formalities aren’t complete yet, but what does it matter? Just go through the motions.

Talk about the writing concepts behind “Barn” and “The Fitting Mirror,” introduce yourself, and write an essay for the records?

Is that important?

Not to the professors. Are these things anywhere near as important as that solid, gold-worthy insight into literary research?

What really matters next?

Which “Grand Master” will this future prodigal son choose as his mentor?

Didn’t you see the elderly department head itching to get involved?

Meanwhile,

Director Sun was beside himself with anxiety.

Couldn’t anyone spare a thought for his feelings?

After Professor Zhang was satisfied with his questions, he smiled and looked at the other four “Guardians of the Gate.” “Do any of you have further questions?”

Everyone shook their heads.

What would they ask? Wang Shuizhao was already waiting for this young man to join him in genealogical research! Su Liancheng was eager to privately ask about his daughter’s connection with the boy. With this talent, even if he came from a rural background, he seemed worthy of his daughter.

Zhang Peiheng glanced around, saw everyone agreed, and nodded with satisfaction.

“Then let us—”

“Excuse me, Professors.”

What’s this?

The four “Guardians” narrowed their eyes.

At this crucial moment, what trick is he about to pull?

You’re not about to show off and tell us that another top university is vying for you, are you?

Xu Chengjun took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping across the five professors, finally settling on Zhu Dongrun. His tone carried the frankness and determination of youth: “We’ve discussed so many academic ideas, but there’s one more thing I’d like to ask your approval for.”

“I want to apply to skip undergraduate studies and go straight to graduate school!”

The room fell silent at once; even Director Sun forgot his worries and looked up sharply.

What on earth are you doing?

Yet… it actually made sense.

Before the professors could respond, Xu Chengjun continued, “It’s not that I’m arrogant, nor do I look down on Fudan’s undergraduate courses.”

“These past two years in the countryside, I earned work points by day, and at night, under the dim glow of a kerosene lamp, I pored over ‘The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons’ and ‘Selections of Refined Literature by Prince Zhaoming.’ I won’t claim mastery, but when it comes to the core threads of ancient literary theory and the framework of modern literature, I’m confident I’ve grasped the essentials covered in an undergraduate program.”

He opened his notebook, pointing to the dense annotations. “Professors, I’ve analyzed the ‘Fu, Bi, and Xing’ of the Classic of Poetry in comparison with the poetry of educated youth. I’ve dissected the ‘Realm’ theory from ‘Words on Poetry from the Human World’ in the context of Mao Dun and Ba Jin’s works. I haven’t neglected Western theory either—I’ve compared everything to Mr. Zhu Guangqian’s ‘History of Western Aesthetics.’”

“More importantly, I know what I want to research: the modern transformation of traditional literary theory. The current academic world either talks tradition in the abstract or copies the West. What I want to do is bridge the two, as I mentioned, to use the concept of ‘Hidden Refinement’ to interpret scar literature, to view literary evolution through the theory of ‘Comprehending Change.’ I already have a preliminary framework for these ideas.”

“I understand your concerns about my foundation, but I’m willing to undergo any examination you wish.”

Finally, he looked at Zhu Dongrun with earnest eyes. “Su Shi said, ‘This is why sages value opportunity.’ Right now, I’m inspired and driven to pursue literary studies. But opportunities like this come only once in life, and inspiration only lasts for a season. If I let this slip, I don’t know if I’ll ever have such insight again. I don’t want to wait. I dare not wait.”

“Time is affectionate, but the years are ruthless in their concealment.”

Inspiration, in truth, was the knowledge and insight carried from a previous life.

Human memory weathers away with time.

So when he said he didn’t know if he would have inspiration again, he wasn’t lying.

Who could know how desperately he wanted to bring those tried-and-tested ideas from his past life into this era?

“So I sincerely ask the professors to give me this chance—to break convention and allow me to enter the graduate program at Fudan’s Chinese Department. Allow me to bring to life the ‘integrity,’ ‘hidden refinement,’ and ‘understanding of change’ buried in dusty tomes, to let the wisdom of ‘The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons’ illuminate today’s literary wounds, to let the ‘passionate expression’ of the ‘Songs of Chu’ nourish the creative soil of our time.”

He took a deep breath, his voice rising with passion: “You all agree, do you not, that culture is the root and soul of a nation? Today, as we speak of national rejuvenation, it’s not just about building tall towers and laying down railways—we need to strengthen the spirit as well.”

“What I want to do is excavate, from the texture of traditional culture, the strength that can support the nation’s spirit.”

At this, all five professors nodded. They had already sensed it during the conversation.

This young man had a pure heart, but also a deep sense of responsibility for his country.

“I want young people to realize that in the ‘Airs, Elegance, and Hymns’ of the Classic of Poetry lies the foundation of our aesthetic sensibility. I want the world to see that Chinese literature is not merely a footnote to Western theory, but possesses its own integrity and wisdom.”

“This isn’t empty sloganizing. I want traditional literary theory to truly become a light for our times, so that literary research can add a brick, lay a tile, to the spiritual edifice of national renewal.”

“I’m just a young educated youth from the countryside. My abilities are limited, but I hope to contribute my small light to the great current of scholarship.”

“I do not seek empty fame—my only wish is that our literary studies may stand tall on the world stage, that the flame of our national culture will burn brighter in our generation’s hands, bringing glory to literature and forging a soul for our nation’s revival!”

“A single mote of dust may aid the mountains and seas; even the faintest candle can shine alongside the sun and moon.”

Did it move them?

It did!

Every professor present was deeply moved.

This young man had scored the highest in the province’s civil service interviews!

Don’t think it’s fake—this is an era when you’re expected to recite quotations at any meeting. If you couldn’t, you’d be reported…

Zhu Dongrun’s hand, which had been stroking his beard, suddenly paused. He hadn’t intended to let Xu Chengjun skip grades.

Young people who rise too quickly don’t always turn out well.

He’d seen too many “prodigies” who ended up ruined.

He had wanted to object, but when he heard Xu Chengjun speak of fleeting inspiration, he hesitated.

When he heard, “to bring glory to literature, to forge a soul for our nation’s revival,” he was moved.

With such talent and ideals, was it right for the older generation to stand in the way?

He, Zhu Dongrun, could never bring himself to do such a thing!

After a moment’s thought, he looked first at Zhang Peiheng: “Peiheng, what do you think?”

At that moment, Jia Zhifang suddenly spoke, his gaze landing on Xu Chengjun. “If you want to skip undergrad and go straight to graduate studies, you must be able to read foreign-language texts, right? Many Western theoretical works aren’t even translated yet. You can’t rely on secondhand accounts.”

He casually pulled an English copy of “An Introduction to Comparative Literature” from his bag. “Take this book—flip to any page, read the first paragraph aloud, and give us a brief summary.”

Xu Chengjun’s heart skipped a beat—he hadn’t expected this hurdle.

But!

In his past life, he’d scored 142 on the English college entrance exam, 81 on the graduate entrance English test, and read so much technical English.

Did they think he’d wasted his time?

He silently noted: Remember you, Great Elder!

He took the book, his fingers brushing the yellowed pages, and turned to a page in the middle. Clearing his throat, he read with clear diction: “Comparative literature is not merely a comparison of texts from different cultures, but a dialogue that reveals the universal spirit hidden in cultural differences…”

With just a trace of an American accent.

It couldn’t be helped—that was the flavor of the Columbia professor he’d listened to.