Chapter Fifty-One: The Modern Transformation of Traditional Chinese Literary Theory

As for what to write?

The thesis topic had long been decided.

"The Modern Transformation of Chinese Traditional Literary Theory: From 'Literature as a Vehicle for Truth' to the Indigenous Path of Realism"

Most of the content had already been drafted on scratch paper even before this moment; he was only stuck on the references and some expressions particular to this era.

He found a seat by the window in the reading area, quietly placed his scratch paper and pencil from the canvas bag onto the table.

A few students who had stayed on campus were scattered around, their page-turning and the soft scratching of pen on paper blending into a gentle background noise.

The auspicious hour had come; time to begin the thesis in earnest!

Xu Chengjun spread out his thesis draft. Beneath the title, he had already outlined three chapters:

"Contemporary Translation of Principle, Evidence, and Rhetoric"

"The Beauty of Harmony and the Tension of Realism"

"The Revival of Figurative Tradition in Reform Literature"

He pulled out the 1963 edition of "Selected Works of the Tongcheng School" and underlined the phrase, “Principle as the trunk, evidential study as the branch.”

Beside it, he annotated, “Corresponds to the ideological core and empirical spirit of reform literature.”

“It’s precisely these ancestral words that are missing,” he mused.

These documents, so easily accessible in later times, now had to be dug out piece by piece from dusty archives.

He didn’t find it tedious, though. On the contrary, it lent his argument a sense of solid weight.

It was just that, in terms of time, for someone accustomed to the speed of computers, mouse, and keyboard, this process was hard to accept.

Efficiency—ah, efficiency!

But then again,

At this time, the concept of efficiency was yet to take hold.

It wasn’t until 1981 that a banner bearing “Time is Money” was first hung in the Shenzhen Special Economic Zone, heralding the first miracle of the Reform Era’s economic construction.

Back to the thesis.

The thesis structure was nothing extraordinary.

The abstract sets the tone, the introduction aims at the target, the literature review lists the adversaries, the theoretical framework sets the bones, case analyses fill in the flesh, strategies and conclusion draw the net.

This ancient formula for a university graduation thesis is universal, no matter the era.

The fundamentals are often the most classic, and the most effective.

Where was the challenge in this thesis?

The difficulty lay in how to enter the research trends of Chinese literature in 1979, incorporate Zhang Peiheng’s perspectives on “classical literary theory,” and transform traditional frameworks into contemporary tools for realist creation—demonstrating academic insight that transcends specific historical contexts!

The theory must be innovative, yet grounded in the soil of 1979.

He had no intention of becoming a Bruno, posthumously celebrated fifty years later; if he was to be anyone, he would be a Borges who could stand firmly in his own time.

Who to list as opponents in the literature review?

In 1979, the academic world was in the midst of a craze for introducing Western theories.

Freud’s theory of the unconscious had yet to be digested, and now Sartre’s “freedom of choice” had become the latest fad.

At present,

Magical realism—which even García Márquez himself disavowed—was being held up as a literary gospel, and a crowd of theorists wielded Western frameworks like measuring tapes, eager to brand all Chinese literature as “Theater of the Absurd.”

How preposterous and laughable.

No one said “applying Western learning to Chinese contexts” was wrong,

But their rigid application of Western frameworks to Chinese literature ignored indigenous traditions, and their research into traditional literary theory rarely went beyond textual criticism or outright dismissal;

They focused on “breaking ideological taboos,” discoursed endlessly on reflection and wounds, yet failed to realize the importance of “building an autonomous Chinese system of literary theory.”

No wonder so many professors in Chinese departments of this era cried out, “The bones of literature must be Chinese!”

A fine target indeed.

What did Xu Chengjun want to write?

He wanted to pierce the academic world’s hollow fervor with his pen, to hone this needle to a fine point and drive it into the very fabric of realist literature.

What theoretical framework and strategies could Xu Chengjun offer?

He would clearly state, “Western realism cannot fully explain China’s reform literature,” advocate “rooting in traditional literary theory and employing Western theory as a tool,” and propose that “traditional literary theory is not a historical relic but a living creative methodology.”

He would draw out the Tongcheng School’s “beauty of harmony” to cure the wailing malaise of scar literature—suffering need not always bleed, “grief can also be without harm.”

He would dissect the “timing theory” in “The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons.” When policy winds shifted, literature must adapt, just like farmers adjusting their wheat to the weather; what need was there to mimic Western “magical realism”?

Furthermore, with the status of a Fudan University graduate or doctoral student,

In the present he might suffer attacks and smears—open or covert—from those who could not distinguish right from wrong, but in the long run,

This would cement his place as a leading figure in Chinese realist literary studies, establishing his academic standing!

Besides,

How important is cultural confidence? It speaks for itself.

In later times, how many of our own bones did we break, how much blood did we shed, to forge a new cultural path?

What Xu Chengjun sought was to take root in the concrete context of Chinese culture ahead of time, playing the trump card of “cultural confidence”!

If he could preemptively suppress some of the budding “colonization by Western theory,”

Eradicate a batch of ungrateful “cultural traitors” and “sheepdogs,”

It would be immensely satisfying—not a wasted journey.

He aimed to spark academic thinking about a “Chinese autonomous system of literary theory,” sowing the seeds for the “search for cultural roots” movement of the 1980s.

In the future, he would walk further down this road, write more, and carry out deeper research.

What makes a literary giant?

Copying phrases, stringing together quotes, currying favor with foreign prizes for empty fame—is that all it takes to be a literary giant?

Absurd!

The oil lamps of the Shaoxing Guild Hall still burn; the cries from the Hundred Herbs Garden still echo in the ear.

If that were truly the case, wouldn’t Brother Xun rise from the depths of history, glaring in anger and slamming the table: “Such petty scheming—are these the deeds worthy of the title ‘literary giant’?!”

True literary devotion is the sincerity in Lin Zexu’s words, “If the nation’s survival demands my life, how can I avoid it for fear of disaster or fortune?”

True literary power is the sense of responsibility in Zhang Zai’s declaration, “To establish a heart for Heaven and Earth, to establish a destiny for the living.”

It is not about flattering foreign standards, but about seeking the soul of the nation’s roots;

It is not about wallowing in the mire of fame and profit, but about sowing new seeds of thought in the soil of the era.

When the pen flows with the strength of five thousand years of literary heritage, when between the lines pulses the heartbeat of national revival,

Even a spark is enough to ignite a prairie fire;

Even a faint glimmer adds luster to rivers and mountains.

Xu Chengjun was not so noble as all that, but he was a young man of the 21st century, born under the red flag, grown up in the spring breeze.

For the greater good, with a share of ambition and a touch of self-interest,

If he could bring to this era a measure of confidence rooted in the nation’s origins and plant new literary ideas,

If he could contribute even a tiny, insignificant force to the great revival of this country and nation—

Let his pen be a Longquan sword, his words a rallying trumpet.

This path, he was determined to walk!

...

As he wrote the modern interpretation of “literature as a vehicle for truth,”

The cicadas outside the window gradually fell silent, and as dusk crept up the windowsill, the library had long since emptied for the holidays.

The elderly woman who managed the library came to remind him it was nearly closing time.

Seeing him still writing furiously, she couldn’t help but remark, “You’re quite the hard worker, young man. Is your interview tomorrow?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Xu Chengjun looked up with a smile, not noticing the ink smudged on his face. “I just want to finish my thesis early so I can feel at ease.”

The old lady sighed, perhaps because Xu Chengjun was about the same age as her grandson, and said, “My grandson’s in the economics department. He got in last year and complains every day about how hard it is to write his thesis. But your draft... it looks pretty solid.”

“Just scribbling,” Xu Chengjun replied modestly.

Wang Zengqi: So you’re just scribbling, are you?

By now, the bibliography on his draft paper already filled an entire page:

From Liu Xie’s “The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons” to Zhang Peiheng’s “On the Nationalization Path of Realism,”

From the 1958 edition of “Studies in Ancient Literary Theory” to this year’s newly published special issue on literary theory in the “Fudan Journal.”