Chapter Eighteen: Thunder Awakens the World, Raindrops Soothe the Heart

In this era, the most fragmented sense of emptiness is this:

My work is about to be included in the "Thirty New Poets' First Anthology"?

What?

That really famous one?

Xu Chengjun felt unreal the entire afternoon!

His "Time" would be competing on the same stage as the famous works in history!

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From the first day he wrote the two characters, "Granary," he had already made up his mind.

In this final era in Chinese literary history when great writers still emerged, he would speak about his creative ideals to "Lu, Guo, Mao, Ba, Lao, Cao, Wei," and spar with Wang Meng, Wang Zengqi, Liu Xinwu, Jiang Zilong, and others in literary contests.

He had a vision forty years ahead of his time, a prophetic approach to literary creation, and twenty years of honing his craft.

Who was afraid of whom?

Would he fail an open-book exam?

As for that nonsense about "if you time-travel and don't plagiarize, it's a waste of crossing over," Xu Chengjun couldn't even be bothered to retort.

Just because you've read a masterpiece, does that mean you can write one? Do you have the context the original author had? Do you possess their skill with words? Can your mind recall tens of thousands of words across two worlds?

Do you really think everything in the world revolves around you?

Don't make me laugh~

Be logical!

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At noon, Lin Xiuya greeted him, wanting to chat about ideas for writing poetry.

He barely registered it.

Still in a daze!

...

At this special moment in Chinese history, the year 1979, the "Thirty New Poets' First Anthology" planned by Liu Zuci was indeed a thunderclap.

It was not merely a literary event, but a cultural microcosm of China's social transformation at the end of the 1970s.

As Gu Cheng would recall in 1983, "If it weren't for this breakout by Anhui Literature, we might have groped in the dark much longer."

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Clearly, time didn't offer Xu Chengjun much opportunity for bewilderment.

The revision meeting continued in the afternoon, but with a new topic.

Zhou Ming poured a third round of tea, while Su Zhong tapped his pipe: "This morning, we've picked apart the specifics of each submission. This afternoon, let's talk about the big picture. Where is the literary river heading next?"

Xu Chengjun spun his pen between his fingers.

He knew this was the real test.

To discuss specific works, one relies on detail; to discuss the direction of literature, one relies on vision. And he happened to have a broader vision than others.

But in today's setting, it was clear he wasn't the one to dominate the conversation.

Whatever they asked, he would answer!

"I'll toss the first stone," said Gong Liu, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray.

"But literature can't just keep weeping, can it? After the tears, what then?"

Liu Xianping opened his notebook, its pages full of densely written outlines: "I've been writing about the countryside lately, but I keep getting stuck between 'the collective' and 'the individual.' If I focus on collectivism, it feels fake; if I focus on individual aspirations, I'm afraid of crossing the line. How do you find the right balance?"

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"Today's protagonist is Comrade Chengjun; let's hear from him first," Zhou Ming said with a smile, nodding toward Xu Chengjun. Though Zhou Ming had spoken little today, it was clear he appreciated Xu Chengjun most.

Xu Chengjun hadn't expected to be called on so quickly.

But Comrade Xu wasn't about to let the opportunity slip by.

To discuss creative ideals with these literary giants—what was there to fear?

If nothing else, he could debate!

In his previous life, he had been the third speaker and a mainstay of his university's debate team!

"Mr. Liu, don't you feel that today's literature resembles a river just thawed, the ice not yet fully melted but the current already seeking a new course?"

He leaned forward, his gaze sweeping across the assembled elders.

"After pain, one must cry out. But when the crying is done, one must go deeper: it's no longer about 'who harmed me,' but about 'how should I live.'"

Su Zhong raised an eyebrow, amused, turning his pipe in his palm: "Oh? What exactly do you mean by 'going deeper'?"

"To delve into the depths of human nature."

Xu Chengjun's pen made a crisp sound on the paper, his words landing with conviction.

"For example, when writing about rural cadres, don't just portray them as rigid; write about their sighs over the account books at night. Good people aren't wholly good, bad people aren't wholly bad—that's what real people are like."

He looked at Gong Liu. "Just as when you wrote 'Oh, Great Forest,' wasn't it about wrapping anger with a hope for humanity?"

Gong Liu paused, then burst out laughing: "You're an interesting young man! That hits the mark! Lately, revising my poems, I felt something lacking but didn't realize it until you, a twenty-year-old, pointed it out."

"Sharpness alone isn't enough; it must be carried by warmth."

At this time, Gong Liu was experiencing a creative lull, moving from earlier enthusiastic praise to deep reflection on history, humanity, and social reality.

Having read The Selected Poems of Gong Liu, Xu Chengjun knew exactly what was on his mind.

He laughed inwardly.

Liu Zuci suddenly smiled: "What you said about the 'river turning' reminded me of something."

"I've recently received manuscripts from some young writers—no political movements, no collectives, just moonlight at a girl's window, or a mother darning socks. Some call this 'petty-bourgeois sentimentality.' What do you think, Xiao Xu?"

"That's not petty-bourgeois; it's literature coming home."

Xu Chengjun pondered for a few seconds, then spoke boldly:

"In recent years, literature has always carried the banner, writing about nation and ideology, forgetting that people are first and foremost individuals who eat, sleep, and think."

"In the future, there will be more works about the joys and sorrows of 'this one person,' not just the labels of 'this type of person.' Rivers, as they flow, always branch into countless small streams, irrigating every specific field."

Qian Niansun adjusted his glasses, his pen swift across his notebook: "So, you're saying literature will move from 'grand narrative' to 'individual narrative'?"

"Not a shift, but a complement."

Xu Chengjun shook his head.

"No matter how wide the river, it cannot do without the streams that flow into it."

"One day, literary history will record: 1979 had not only the thunder of denunciation, but also the raindrops beneath the eaves. Thunder awakens the world, raindrops nourish the heart; without either, there is no climate."

This was, in fact, the trend of literary development.

A gleam appeared in Liu Zuci's eye. "What a phrase—'thunder awakens the world, raindrops nourish the heart.' You're a born writer!"

"I think these 'raindrops' might just wash away the dikes," Su Zhong suddenly said, shaking his head, his tone deepening.

"Literature has never been a matter of self-indulgence. If you write about a mother darning socks, who will write about the factory smokestacks or tractors in the fields? Young people easily get lost in their own petty joys and sorrows, forgetting literature should serve as a trumpet call."

He tapped the table, his jujube-wood pipe making a muffled sound. "Back in 1958, when we wrote 'New Songs of the Huai River,' every word pulsed with 'the collective moving forward.' But now, everyone wants to burrow into 'wrinkles.' Too many wrinkles, and won't we end up in a quagmire?"

Well said, but not everyone would indulge him.

Gong Liu snorted, blue-rimmed glasses sliding to the tip of his nose: "You're being too rough, Su Lao. Only in the mud can good crops grow!"

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"Qu Yuan wrote 'Lament for the Hardships of the People,' pulling the pain of the nation from the wrinkles of the individual. But you, Su Lao, always think of 'the trumpet call' when writing criticism—be careful not to become just a drum-beater."

"Now you're just arguing for the sake of it!" Su Zhong's face darkened. "I'm saying literature needs backbone, not just tales of romance and moonlight!"

"And only in romance and moonlight is true backbone found!"

Gong Liu suddenly stood up.

"When I wrote 'Meditation,' and put 'the bloodied head on the scales of life, so all who cling to mere existence lost their weight,' wasn't that backbone harder than your slogans?"

Zhou Ming hurried to mediate: "Let's all cool it a bit. Xiao Xu, carry on. In your view, how will literature develop ten years from now?"

Xu Chengjun waited for tempers to settle, then said, "I think all the teachers here make sense. Literature is meant to embrace all rivers and seas. Let me offer my humble opinion."

"In ten years, some will find realism too bland and start experimenting with form, using nonlinear timelines, fragmented dialogues, even deliberately making things hard to understand; overall, literature will go in two directions."

"One will delve deeper into the particulars. Take land division, for example. In the future, someone will focus on the boundary marker at the edge of a field—"

"'Zhang's wife thinks the marker is half a foot crooked; Old Li squats nearby, smoking a pipe, and finally pulls a sweet potato from his coat, splitting it in half to share.'"

"No one writes 'how important land division is,' but instead who threw away the sweet potato peel first, who quietly gave the bigger piece to the other. These fragments, piled together, are sturdier than shouting 'Reform is good' a hundred times."

He looked around, his voice firm.

"The other direction will broaden things. For instance, someone enters the city, sees a hiring notice at a factory gate, and writes about who carries new cloth shoes sewn by his mother, who has ration tickets saved up for half a year, who counts on his fingers for news in the crowd."

"The text might not mention 'policies have changed,' but the stitches on the cloth shoes, the creases on the ration tickets—all are real changes."

"As for technique, that will change too."

Xu Chengjun smiled. "Right now, stories are mostly told in neat order—'the rooster crows, we go to the fields, work ends.' In the future, writers might use reverse order: start with the mud on the pants after work, then flash back to the mother slipping roasted soybeans in his pocket in the morning."

"Or they might intertwine several people's stories—one family's plow hits another's basket, which leads back to a half sack of wheat borrowed three years ago. It looks messy, but actually reveals all the twists and turns of the human heart."

He turned to Su Zhong, his tone respectful: "But the 'backbone' that Su Lao mentioned must never be lost. When it's rooted deep, no wind can topple it."

Su Zhong's fingers relaxed on his pipe; he didn't speak again, but clearly approved.

Qian Niansun suddenly closed his notebook: "Let me add something. The 'individual narrative' Xiao Xu talks about must avoid becoming 'refined self-interest.'"

"In the nineteenth century, Russian literature wrote about individuals—Tolstoy, Dostoevsky—which of them didn't reveal the times through the personal? If you only write about 'moonlight at the window' and forget the land that moonlight shines on, that's missing the point."

Liu Zuci mediated: "In my view, it's like planting wheat: you need solid roots in the earth, but also blooming flowers in the wind. Xiao Xu, this seed of yours, has the scent of soil and the vigor of a new shoot. Let's not shackle it with old frames."

Zhou Ming nodded in agreement: "There are so few young intellectuals like Xiao Xu who can write these days—whether in his work or his vision, he hardly seems like a twenty-year-old."

"He’s given us old fellows a real lesson in literature!"

"Let’s make it official: 'Granary' will be published in the September issue, and I hope all you senior writers will support it."

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The afternoon passed quickly.

Zhou Ming, Liu Zuci, and Gong Liu could barely contain their admiration for Xu Chengjun's work and vision.

Others, though holding some disagreements, kept them within the realm of literary discussion.

Most asked Xu Chengjun for his address, saying they'd write to him if they needed anything.

In Xu Chengjun's eyes, people, farmers, and writers of this era were all so sincere that it was hard to harbor ill thoughts.

Judging from today's meeting—though small in number—it represented the essence of Anhui's literary world.

No matter how limited his own vision, Xu Chengjun could sense their irrepressible passion for the development of literature.

Though there was personal interest, the public spirit could not be concealed.

As the setting sun bathed the meeting room in gold and red, Xu Chengjun walked out, hugging a stack of books given to him by the elders.

Su Zhong called after him, his tone softened: "Come to next month's youth writers’ workshop. Prepare a manuscript—not just pretty words, but examples that cut to the bone."

Such was his character.