1978 Synthetic Writers

Chapter 293 "Red Sorghum"

As soon as Zhang Shouren entered the room, he shouted, "Jiang Xian, I read your article. It's good! Really good!"

"What's good?" Jiang Xian, who was about to check the manuscript, asked curiously.

"What do you say?"

Zhang Shouren slapped a magazine on the table and said, "This article you wrote returns to national traditions and realistic language!"

Jiang Xian glanced at the journal on the table. On the plain back cover, the words "Literary Theory Research" were written vertically with a brush.

He immediately understood that the article "Return to National Tradition, Return to Real Language" given to Xu Huaizhong had been published in "Literary and Art Theory Research".

"Reflection on history and cultural inheritance."

Zhang Shouren sat on the sofa, recalling the content of the article, "What a great root-seeking slogan you put forward, it is really eye-opening!"

Zhang Shouren told Jiang Xian that he had just seen the article last night.

Although the "seeking roots" proposed by Jiang Xian in the article seems a bit "heretical" in the face of orthodoxy and mainstream, his call for attention to Chinese cultural traditions is undoubtedly an extremely loud "slogan" in today's cultural circles.

"I didn't expect that you are not only a good novelist, but also have such high theoretical attainments." Zhang Shouren exclaimed.

“It can’t really be considered a theoretical article. It’s just some insights I gained from writing novels,” Jiang Xian said modestly.

"not that simple."

Zhang Shouren said, "I'm afraid your article will attract the attention of many comrades in the future."

Jiang Xian chuckled and did not answer.

Zhang Shouren has been engaged in literary work for many years and has a keen sense of many things.

In another time and space, once the slogan of "seeking roots" was put forward, it caused a huge stir.

I don’t know if Jiang Xian’s article can replicate that grand scene again this time.

"This is?"

Zhang Shouren glanced at the piles of manuscripts scattered on the desk, and his eyes lit up when he saw the familiar font.

“Is this your new novel?”

"Yes."

Jiang Xian nodded and admitted generously, "I just finished the first draft and didn't have time to read it again when you showed up."

"Doesn't this mean that your manuscript is meant for me?" Zhang Shouren became excited.

"This"

Jiang Xian looked a little embarrassed, "Lao Zhang, I have already made an appointment with People's Literature for this manuscript."

"People's Literature"

A trace of regret appeared on Zhang Shouren's face. He sighed, "It seems that I am still not destined to be with this novel."

After a pause, he asked tentatively.

"Jiang Xian, can I take a look?"

After Zhang Shouren said this, Jiang Xian felt a little PTSD.

None of these editors have any moral integrity.

Last time, Liu Yin from Contemporary Magazine wanted to go and see Furong Town, saying she just wanted to take a look, but in the end she forcibly took it away, and it was only when he and Wang Fu went together to ask for it back.

This incident is still vivid in my mind.

If this novel caught the attention of Zhang Shouren again, he wouldn't want to create any rift between them since they have such a close relationship.

Zhang Shouren saw his concerns and said, "Don't worry, I'll just take a look. Since you've already agreed with People's Literature, no matter how much I like the manuscript, I can't let you go back on your word."

Seeing that Zhang Shouren had said this, Jiang Xian nodded and agreed, "Then you can take a look at the manuscript, Old Zhang. It's just right for you to give me some suggestions for revision."

He was more confident in Zhang Shouren and believed that Zhang Shouren could behave "decently".

Of course, if he doesn't want to be "decent", Jiang Xian can lead the editors of "People's Literature" to make him "decent".

What's more, Jiang Xian didn't mind showing the manuscript to Zhang Shouren.

He always felt that he could gain something from showing the manuscript to Zhang Shouren.

The last time I gave "The Garland under the Mountain" to Zhang Shouren, he carefully pointed out the different usages of "的" and "得".

Jiang Xian helped Zhang Shouren to sort out all the manuscripts scattered on the table.

All large green grid manuscript paper.

Zhang Shouren took a look and asked, "Why is it the manuscript paper from Renwen Press again?"

In his memory, both the manuscript of "The Wreath under the Mountain" and the creative talk written by Jiang Xian seemed to be written on this kind of manuscript paper.

"Their manuscript paper is easy to use, and I have a special liking for this kind of manuscript paper." Jiang Xian explained with a smile.

Zhang Shouren wiped his nose and understood what he meant.

He is an editor, so he naturally knows that some authors like to "embezzle" manuscript paper.

Renwen Press has run into Jiang Xian.

The two of them sorted out a thick stack of manuscripts, which was about ten centimeters when piled together, and had less than 300 pages.

Zhang Shouren calculated in his mind that it was probably around 120,000 to 130,000 words.

"A novel?"

He glanced at the first page of the manuscript, on which was written the title of the novel.
——Red Sorghum

“Sorghum.”

Zhang Shouren muttered something.

People of their age can be said to be full of affection for sorghum.

As we all know, our country has experienced days of austerity, and some other things have made the already poor life even worse.

In order to solve the problem of food and clothing, sorghum, a high-yield crop, has become a common guest on the tables of ordinary people.

Therefore, sorghum has another nickname in the hearts of ordinary people:
Life-saving food!
Zhang Shouren repeated the title of the novel "Red Sorghum" several times.

Looking at the title of this novel, a red sorghum field filled with rural atmosphere suddenly appeared in Zhang Shouren's mind.

"On the ninth day of the eighth month of the lunar calendar in 1939, my father, a bandit, was a little over fourteen years old. He followed the troops of Commander Yu Zhan'ao, who later became a legendary hero, to ambush the Japanese motorcade on the Jiaoping Highway.

Grandma, wearing a jacket, walked them to the village. Commander Yu said, "Stand still." Grandma stood still. Grandma said to my father, "Douguan, listen to your godfather." My father didn't say anything. He looked at Grandma's tall body and smelled the warm fragrance from her jacket. Suddenly, he felt a chill. He shuddered and his stomach rumbled. Commander Yu patted my father on the head and said, "Let's go, godfather."

The world was in chaos, the scenery was shadowy, and the sound of the troops' footsteps could be heard far away. A blue-white fog hung in front of my father's eyes, blocking his sight. He could only hear the footsteps of the troops, but could not see their shapes or shadows. My father tightly grasped the corner of Commander Yu's clothes and moved his legs quickly. Grandma was like the shore getting farther and farther away, and the fog was like the sea water getting closer and more turbulent. My father grabbed Commander Yu like he was holding on to the side of a boat.

My father ran to the blank bluestone tombstone that belonged to him, standing in the red sorghum field of his hometown. There was withered grass on his grave. Once, a naked boy led a snow-white goat here. The goat nibbled the grass on the grave leisurely. The boy stood on the tombstone, urinated angrily, and then sang loudly:
The sorghum is red—the Japanese are coming—fellow countrymen, get ready—fire your guns and cannons—

"

Red, Zhang Shouren's eyes were filled with a fiery red.

The endless expanse of sorghum turned as red as a sea of ​​blood.

Teams of dark red people shuttled back and forth among the sorghum plants, pulling nets, performing a heroic and tragic dance drama.

With a "click" sound, the scene in front of Zhang Shouren's eyes quickly dimmed.

It was as if the power to the TV was cut off and everything returned to nothingness. He pulled himself out of his fantasy and looked towards the source of the "click" sound - the cup of water that had just been placed on the table.

He slowly moved back and looked at Jiang Xian who brought him the glass of water.

"Did you finish reading it? How was it?"

The light in the room was a little dim at this moment, and Jiang Xian asked with some anticipation.

Zhang Shouren was stunned for a second before he came to his senses and shook his head at him. "How can I finish it? I've only been reading for a while. Your novel is so long, and I've only finished the first few chapters."

Jiang Xian took a quick glance and saw that the manuscript, which was more than ten centimeters thick, was still more than half left on the table.

"how are you feeling?"

"."

After a moment of trance, Zhang Shouren finally spoke: "Words taken out from the pit of my heart!"

Although his evaluation of Jiang Xian was not a direct compliment, it fully expressed his appreciation for Jiang Xian's "Red Sorghum".

Zhang Shouren took a sip of water, savored the contents of the novel, and added another sentence.

"Your novel is really wild."

The story of "Red Sorghum" takes place in a fictional place: Gaomi Northeast Township.

As Zhang Shouren was reading, the primitive, wild, and fanatical spirit of life that grew out of the soil of Northeast Township leaped out from the paper and reached the depths of his soul.

So when he watched it, he felt as if there were tiny electric currents generated in his heart from time to time, making him feel numb and tingling, and spreading throughout his body, as if he had been electrocuted, with a feeling of being frozen.

However, the difference is that when you are electrocuted, the current is outside, while when you read, the throbbing spreads from the inside to the outside, which is a kind of uneasiness and excitement.

"It's getting late, I'm going back first."

Zhang Shouren glanced at the sky outside and felt embarrassed to stay at Jiang Xian's house for dinner. "I'll take your novel back first. I'll bring it back to you after I finish reading it."

Jiang Xian nodded and had no objection.

Red Sorghum is a novel of about 13 words, which is definitely not something Zhang Shouren can finish reading in a short time, so he did not invite Zhang Shouren to dinner.

Besides, he has a mission today.

Zhu Lin finished filming "Shaolin Temple" and took the train back to Beijing tonight. He wanted to pick up his wife at the train station.

Zhang Shouren put the manuscript into his bag and stood up to say goodbye.

When I thought about the content of Jiang Xian's "Red Sorghum", my legs became more nimble when I pedaled the bicycle.

After returning to the room, Zhang Shouren couldn't wait to open the manuscript, find the page he saw, and continue reading.

Today is Saturday. Although it is a day off on Sunday, Zhang Shouren, as the head of the novel group of "October", still has to go to the company to deal with many things.

If he wanted to finish reading "Red Sorghum" in the shortest time possible, he had to stay up late to read it.

However, staying up late at home to read manuscripts has become a common occurrence for Zhang Shouren.

Zhang Shouren's wife Chen Luo was also used to his work. She made him a cup of tea and considerately helped him turn on the desk lamp.

"The manuscript from the unit?"

"No, it's Jiang Xian's manuscript."

"Jiang Xian's?"

After listening to this, Chen Luo looked at the manuscript a few more times, then ignored Zhang Shouren, spread out the quilt and went to sleep.

I don’t know how long I slept.

When Chen Luo woke up again, he was woken up by Zhang Shouren.

She was in a deep sleep and probably guessed something. She sat up under the quilt and saw Zhang Shouren's face full of excitement.

"Great work! Chen Luo, it's definitely a great work!"

Zhang Shouren was so excited that he seemed to be dancing.

"Look!"

How could Chen Luo concentrate on this?

She is old, and her vision is blurry, so she can't see the words clearly.

"I can't see."

"Come, I'll read it to you." Zhang Shouren sat on the edge of the bed, his face flushed, as if he had just drunk two kilograms of Erguotou.

"Gaomi Northeast Township is undoubtedly the most beautiful and ugliest, the most detached and the most mundane, the most holy and the most filthy, the most heroic and the most bastard, the place with the most drinking and the most love on earth.

In late August, the endless fields of sorghum turned red like a vast sea of ​​blood. Teams of dark red people shuttled through the sorghum stalks, pulling nets day after day, for decades.

They killed and robbed people, and were loyal to their country. They performed heroic and tragic dances, which made us, the unworthy descendants who are still alive, pale in comparison. While they are making progress, I can truly feel the degeneration of our species.

Chen Luo had long been accustomed to Zhang Shouren's behavior, and helplessly listened to Zhang Shouren reading passages from the manuscript aloud to her.

Slowly, she listened.

Chen Luo didn't know the content of the novel, but after hearing these sentences, he just felt that this should be a novel with a fire burning throughout.

This text is too intense!

It was so powerful that no other text Chen Luo had ever seen could match it.

After hearing the last part, there was only one picture in her mind:
Blood-red sorghum, blood-red soil, blood-red wine, blood-red people, blood-red sun.

Chen Luo believed that if Jiang Xian could paint, he would definitely be a great artist.

He wrote the sentences in the novel in a bright and heavy, vivid and gloomy way, and he used these colors in large quantities without restraint.

After Zhang Shouren read the entire manuscript to Chen Luo, the fire in his heart finally burned out. However, the residual heat from the embers made him reluctant to let go. He held the thick stack of manuscripts in his hands, caressing and studying them for a long time.

"Oh." He let out a long sigh.

Chen Luo yawned, "I came across a good manuscript, why are you sighing?"

Zhang Shouren didn't say anything. He stood up silently and paced around the room with his hands behind his back for several circles. Finally, as if he had encountered something annoying, he sat down on the chair with his head down.

"Oh! This will definitely become a classic!"

"Isn't this good?" Chen Luo didn't understand. "Why are you sighing?"

Zhang Shouren spread his hands, "But, but Jiang Xian has already given the manuscript to People's Literature."

"I said so."

Chen Luo laughed in silence, "So you spent the whole night reviewing, but this is not the manuscript for October."

Zhang Shouren's face flushed, veins popping out on his forehead, and he argued:
"What do you know? With my friendship with Jiang Xian, I'll help him figure out what's going on."

As he was talking, he suddenly had a feeling.

Reading Jiang Xian's manuscript is like playing a game with the devil. It is like testing the bottom line of one's own humanity. If one is not careful, one will open the door to greed in one's heart.

When he and Jiang Xian made a promise during the day, he felt relieved.

But at this moment, he couldn't help but regret why he had said such confident words.

"Alas, this is harder than being Liu Xiahui."

Zhang Shouren fetched a basin of water, wiped his face, and reminded himself not to cross the line.

But as he thought about it, his eyes shifted to "Red Sorghum" on the table.

In the end, I had to push the manuscript of "Red Sorghum" on the table further away.

He lay down on the bed, covered his ears, closed his eyes, and tried not to think about the manuscript. He planned to return the manuscript to Jiang Xian as soon as he woke up tomorrow.

At this moment, it wasn't long before dawn.

But for Zhang Shouren.

This night was very difficult to endure.

(End of this chapter)