Chapter Seventy-Three: Love Needs No Declaration, Suffering Demands No Proclamation

On July 25th, thanks to Zhu Dongrun's recommendation, this essay was published in the Morning Blossom supplement of Liberation Daily within seventy-two hours.

In 1979, amid the wave of returned educated youth, the supplement was planning a column titled "Youth in the Countryside." The forbearance of Axiu and the resilience of the wild rose in the essay perfectly embodied the theme of "hope amid suffering." At the time, deputy editor-in-chief Qin Shaode was implementing a policy of "short, concise, and fast" manuscript review, and pieces about educated youth could go through the express lane. Coupled with the endorsement of a mentor...

Well...

Mainly the mentor's recommendation!

So why did Xu Chengjun seek to enter the sect and cultivate immortality?

You may not mingle in the Daoist circles, but you must have an in.

Jade in hand, virtue in speech and deed! A true gentleman is versatile, not a mere vessel; he associates with all, but flatters none!

Strive on!

Following the publication of this short piece, it had a widespread impact across the country, attracting a flurry of literary criticism.

Among them,

Professor Wang Shuizhao of Fudan's Department of Chinese published a literary critique titled "The Deep Resonance of..." in the commentary section of the Fudan Journal, sparking a wave of reflection.

He wrote:

"This essay, threading the needle with the perspective of the educated youth and weaving with the wild rose of the Xu family village, embroiders a long scroll of suffering, resilience, and hope within the river of 1977 to 1978. The meaning it reflects is far weightier than the surface of its words.

Rooted in the rural society on the eve of reform and opening, every line carries the warmth of its era. The conscription of laborers to build reservoirs, the martyrdom notices for 'sacrifice in the line of duty,' the heavy footsteps of the team leader—these details sketch out a collective memory of a special time. Individual fates are often swept along by the tides of history: Zhuge's sacrifice and Axiu's endurance are the microcosm of small people in great times. Yet, the essay does not simply catalog suffering, but hides the undercurrents of change.

Details such as the team leader calling for topdressing at Qingming in 1978, the carpenter's arrival, and Axiu's return with her child, all hint at the loosening of the old order and the return of daily life’s warmth, signaling a subtle shift of the times—like new shoots of wild rose breaking through frozen earth, signaling the fine tremors of social transformation.

The image of the wild rose runs throughout, serving as the key to the theme: the brambles are the thorns of life—Zhuge's sacrifice, Axiu's grief, the oppression of a special era; the new shoots are undying hope—Axiu's persistence in counting the buds, her serenity after remarriage and childbirth, the wild rose that sends forth new branches year after year. This dialectic between bramble and sprout is precisely the portrait of ordinary people's vitality.

Axiu's portrayal is especially moving. She does not wail or tear at her hair, but transforms the pain of loss into steadfastness for life through silent acts: 'counting new shoots,' 'touching petals,' 'pressing a bud to her chest.' Her stoic endurance, 'sorrowful but not broken,' is not numbness, but the most unadorned survival philosophy of rural society: hard days will pass, just as roots that do not freeze will always push out new sweetness.

The essay uses abundant realistic detail to deconstruct the emotional logic of rural society. Zhuge quietly sharing sweet potato vines, Axiu staying up late to make cloth shoes, Aunt Zhang chatting with Axiu—these unembellished slices of daily life conceal the Chinese way of 'love shown through action': love need not be declared, care need not be ostentatious, suffering need not be broadcast.

The wild rose, as a vessel of emotion, witnesses the budding of love, the unfolding of tragedy, and the continuity of life. It is no longer a mere plant, but has become the 'totem of emotion' for rural society, carrying unspoken longing, lingering pain, and undying hope.

The essay’s humanistic concern transcends the common tropes of 'accusation' or 'nostalgia' in educated youth literature, regarding the land and its people with an even gaze. It neither exaggerates suffering nor romanticizes the countryside, but faithfully records Axiu’s focus in counting buds, the frost on the wild rose’s thorns, the new shoots breaking through frozen soil—finding strength in the ordinary.

This technique of 'revealing spirit in the smallest details' inherits Shen Congwen’s tradition of 'rural narrative,' while also respecting the value of ordinary people. Axiu is not a symbol of tragedy, but a living individual growing through hardship; the wild rose is no ornament, but a natural metaphor resonating with humanity. Ultimately, all points toward an ode to the philosophy of 'endless life': no matter how times change, the land and its people will always nurture new hope.

The wild rose still grows in the twilight, just like the stories within the essay that remain untold. Suffering leaves its mark, but hope is always more tenacious than brambles. This is the essay’s most moving resonance: life may be full of thorns, but there are always new shoots striving for the sun through every crack."

And at that moment, the storm surrounding Xu Chengjun was only just beginning.

...

The afternoon of the interview,

Department of Chinese, Dean’s Office.

"Sit."

Zhu Dongrun pointed to a wooden bench and took a seat in the wicker chair opposite.

No sooner had Xu Chengjun sat down than Zhang Peiheng placed the thesis draft on the table.

"Don’t be too happy yet, Chengjun."

The sunset glinted off the black frames of Zhang Peiheng’s glasses. "It’s settled that you’ll be admitted to graduate school exceptionally, but if you want this thesis published in the Journal, you’ll have to shed a layer of skin."

Old Zhang’s expression was wry and playful.

So you want to be my junior, eh!

Zhu Dongrun sipped his tea slowly, tapping the literature review page. "You only cited Huang Kan’s annotated edition of The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons. How could you omit Fan Wenlan’s annotated version? And you didn’t even mention the comparison between Liu Xie and Western formalism."

Well, guess what?

I couldn’t find them!

But it was true—he’d cut corners on the literature review in his rush.

"Professor Zhu, Professor Zhang, honestly, when I was writing this thesis, I didn’t have enough books to consult. The conditions during my time in the countryside were rather poor."

"Just call us teachers."

"Teacher Zhu, Teacher Zhang..."

Zhu Dongrun laughed. "Call him Senior Brother Zhang—that’s fine. He’s guiding you, but he’s also my student!"

"Senior Brother... Zhang?"

It actually rolled off the tongue quite well, didn’t it?

Surprisingly so!

Zhu Dongrun watched on with a cheerful smile, while Zhang Peiheng’s face darkened. At Zhu’s age, Xu Chengjun would likely be his last student, his final disciple. For an old scholar like him, it wasn’t just about teaching and nurturing, but the transmission of a philosophy.

And Xu Chengjun happened to be such a gifted student.

One who could carry on the vision.

Old Zhu was gentle, but Zhang Peiheng was all thorns.

"I don’t want you just piling up references."

"You criticize others for blindly applying Western theory, yet you didn’t even cite Wellek’s Theory of Literature. Isn’t that self-contradictory?"

"Three days." Zhang Peiheng suddenly stood. "Hand in a revised draft in three days, with at least twenty core references added to the review."

Xu Chengjun agreed.

Hard?

Not really.

Newton’s mentor—apples, I’ve eaten them by the kilo.

Zhang Peiheng stuffed a note into Xu Chengjun’s hand, listing several reference titles. "Go to the archive tomorrow and look for these books. Old Zhang, the librarian, will give you the green light."

Who could say this wasn’t well-intentioned?

"Fudan Journal is a bimonthly," Zhu Dongrun’s voice was far gentler. "If your references hold up, I’ll get you a front-page slot."

Fudan Journal?

A front page, no less?

How could you not enter this sect?

Allow me to introduce—walking toward you is Zhu Dongrun, one of the top three editors of the Fudan Journal!

My mentor!