My era, 1979!

Chapter 158 Günter Grass
On the 18th, Fudan University was filled with the sounds of gongs and drums and the crackling of firecrackers!
As the morning mist dissipated, the sycamore leaves in front of the Fairy Boat Pavilion rustled softly underfoot.

This "Günter Grass Literature Lecture," spearheaded by the German major of the Department of Foreign Languages ​​and co-organized by the Department of Chinese Language and Literature, had already become the focus of Shanghai's literary circles three days prior.

As soon as the notice from the Shanghai Writers Association was posted, writers such as Wang Yuanhua, Luo Luo, and Bai Hua asked people to contact the Department of Foreign Languages ​​at Fudan University, hoping to secure a prominent position.

Let's celebrate together at the forefront of culture!

The Shanghai Writers Association also contacted Xu Chengjun to ask if he was interested in participating and if they could offer him a seat for observation.

Xu Chengjun politely declined.

But one can also sense the curiosity of writers of this era about the Western literary world.

Students from the German Department, Class of '77, even brought their German editions of "The Tin Drum" and lined up at the classroom door before dawn, clutching the "key reading passages" handwritten by Mr. Zhang Weilian.

The lecture hall was simply furnished, with two old-fashioned tape recorders on either side of the podium. These were borrowed from the international student dormitory by the Department of Foreign Languages, and the machines were labeled with red tags that read "Department of German Studies, Fudan University".

The blackboard was polished to a shine, and in the upper right corner, it was written in chalk "German-Chinese Bilingual Edition," which Mr. Zhang Weilian had marked in advance.

Zhang Weilian, originally named Zhang Chuanpu, also known as Weilu, was born in Wuxing, Zhejiang Province. He was a leading figure in the field of German language and literature in China and was known as "Feng in the North and Zhang in the South" along with Professor Feng Zhi of Peking University.

In 1984, he was awarded the Goethe Medal by East Germany.

In 1988, he became the first Chinese person to receive the Grand Cross of the Order of Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany.

At the same time, his love story and selfless dedication are also widely known to later generations.

The name of a master is etched on one's body.

The old gentleman stayed up all night last night translating key passages from "The Flounder" into Chinese, copying them onto manuscript paper, and pinning them next to the blackboard with thumbtacks.

Dong Wenqiao, the head of the German studies department at Fudan University, accompanied the old gentleman, looking helpless: "At your age, shouldn't you take a rest?"

"Death brings peace, why should I rush it!"

"Hey! What are you doing here!"

"And you're only seven years younger than me, what do you mean by 'my age'? Are you asking for a beating?"

"You're 80! I'm 70! That's a big difference!"

The two of them were talking back and forth, making the German major students around them afraid to even breathe. What were they going to do?
Zhang Weilian was born in 1902, and Dong Wenqiao was born in 1909. Zhang Weilian was 7 years older than Dong Wenqiao.

Among the second generation of German scholars, Zhang Weilian was mentioned alongside Shang Chengzhu, Feng Zhi, and others, while Dong Wenqiao was regarded as a "later generation".

Therefore, Dong Wenqiao showed Zhang Weilian more respect.

Their academic research also differs somewhat.

Zhang Weilian's translations and research cover German classical literature, East German literature, and Sino-German cultural relations, while Dong Wenqiao's research focuses on Goethe.

Back then, we had quite a few verbal battles because of academic issues.

"Alright, stop moving and let the students do the work!"

"I'm not at ease!"

"Speaking of which, Glass is quite a bit younger than you, so don't worry about him!"

"One must be devout in pursuing knowledge! Those who achieve mastery come first!"

"Tsk~!"

Just after eight o'clock, people from Shanghai's literary circles began to arrive.

Wang Yuanhua was wearing a dark gray Zhongshan suit and carrying a cloth bag containing a copy of "German Classical Aesthetics," which he had bought during his early years as a visiting scholar in Germany. The annotations from that time were still on the title page.

Luo Luo followed closely behind, wearing a faded blue cotton shirt and carrying a copy of "Foreign Poetry Anthology" with his translations of Rilke's poems tucked inside.

I'd like to talk to Grass about "historical memory in poetry".

Bai Hua was wearing a military green jacket, which he had kept from writing a military-themed script. He was holding a notebook in his hand, in which he had copied down the People's Daily's introduction of Grass, with a small question mark drawn next to it: "What exactly does the 'grotesque' nature of Nobel Prize-winning works look like?"

The other writers also took their seats in turn.

They were seated according to their assigned groups.

They began exchanging pleasantries.

Mr. Zhang Weilian arrived the earliest.

Leaning on his cane, he slowly walked to the podium, first checking the tape recorder's wiring, then neatly arranging the translated manuscript, muttering to the translator for the day: "Glas loves to use metaphors, so the translation must be accurate and we can't miss his 'bitterness'."

Just as he finished speaking, Fujii Shozo accompanied Günter Grass into the room.

The latter was wearing a dark gray trench coat with a small Iron Cross badge pinned to the collar, a World War II relic from his father.

Xu Chengjun followed behind, carrying a stack of German editions of "Tom and Jerry".

"Mr. Zhang, how have you been?" Grass greeted him in German as soon as he entered, his voice carrying a Heidelberg accent.

When Zhang Weilian was studying in Germany in 1956, the two talked about Goethe at the Frankfurt Book Fair. They never expected to meet again at Fudan University 23 years later.

The two missed each other when Glass gave a lecture at Peking University.

So Zhang Weilian chased after him all the way from Nanjing University to Fudan University.

Zhang Weilian smiled and nodded, responding in German: "It is my honor to be able to talk about literature again at Fudan University. There are many writers and students from Shanghai in the audience. Please talk more about 'how to confront history with words' later."

The lecture began with an opening remark in German by Zhang Weilian.

The old gentleman first introduced Grass's creative experience. When he mentioned "The Tin Drum," he paused for a moment and added in Chinese: "This work is like a mirror, reflecting the reflections of German youth after World War II. Aren't our Chinese writers also trying to reflect the marks of that era when they write about 'the wounds'?"

These words prompted Wang Yuanhua, who was sitting in the audience, to nod slightly and write in his notebook, "Common ground between German and Chinese literature: reflection."

Luo Luo then took out his pen and drew a horizontal line under the word "mirror," recalling how he often used "mirror" as a metaphor for the reflective power of poetry when translating Rilke.

Ru Zhijuan nudged him: "Actually, Xu Chengjun's 'The Fitting Mirror' is very close to this feeling?"

"What kind?"

"Magical realism".

Luo Luo didn't say anything, but he was somewhat disdainful.

He had heard of Xu Chengjun's great reputation.

However, it only remained popular for about six months.

Young people still need to be tempered and refined, to be honest.

Glass stood on the podium, first took out a manuscript from his trench coat pocket, and pressed it against the blackboard with a magnet.

The above is an excerpt from "The Flounder," with some hastily written Chinese characters mixed in with the German handwriting. These are keywords such as "oil star" and "church ruins" that the translator helped him mark.

He spoke slowly in German, and Mr. Zhang Weilian immediately substituted the translator from Fudan University and began translating into Chinese simultaneously.

"When I was writing 'The Flounder,' I was living in a basement in Hamburg, and outside the window was the ruins of a church that had been bombed during World War II."

Every morning when I fry fish, oil splatters onto my apron, and I'm reminded of the rust on Nazi medals—literature shouldn't shy away from these 'undignified' memories; instead, it should fry them until they're scalding hot, letting readers taste the bitterness of history.

The reactions from the audience gradually became more segmented.

The German department students nodded frequently. Zhou Yun, from the class of '77, drew a star next to "oil star = rust," recalling what Mr. Zhang Weilian had said in class about "the influence of environment on creation."

The writers from the Shanghai Writers Association fell into deep thought. Wang Yuanhua adjusted his glasses and wrote "Seeing the big picture from small details" next to "Fried fish = Historical reflection," comparing it with his research on "literary theory."

Bai Hua whispered to Luo Luo beside him, "When we write about war, we usually describe the smoke of gunpowder directly. But he's different. He uses the oil from frying fish to hide his thoughts. It's a bit like when I wrote 'The Stars Are Bright Tonight,' I used starlight to describe the soldiers' worries."

"Alright, stop patting yourself on the back. He won the Nobel Prize, what do you have?"

The two were acquainted and often met at the Shanghai Writers Association, exchanging jokes, which neither of them minded.

"I've won the title of the best husband my wife has ever given me!"

"Tsk!~"

The most confused are the Chinese literature majors.

A boy quietly tugged at Xu Chengjun's sleeve and whispered, "Isn't it a bit strange to use fried fish as a metaphor for Nazis? I don't quite understand."

Just as Xu Chengjun was about to explain, he saw Grass stop and ask Zhang Weilian in German, "Was my analogy too personal?"

After translating, Zhang Weilian added, "Mr. Günter, could you tell me about Oscar in 'The Tin Drum'?"

Chinese readers are familiar with the 'child's perspective,' such as Yingzi in 'My Memories of Old Beijing,' who writes about adult matters through a child's eyes.

Oscar is the protagonist of Glass's "The Tin Drum" and one of the magical themes in the book.

"The Tin Drum" tells the story of the protagonist, Oscar Matzerat, from a first-person perspective.

He was born in Danzig. When he was three years old, he witnessed the absurdity and filth of the adult world and decided to stop growing, retaining only the body of a child. He also has the ability to scream that can shatter glass and his beloved tin drum.

The novel, told from Oscar's perspective, connects the turbulent German society between 1924 and 1954.

From the ruins after World War I and the rise of Nazis, to the outbreak and defeat of World War II, and then to life after the war.

With a rebellious attitude of "refusing to grow up," he coldly observes the hypocrisy, violence, and distortion of humanity around him.

Using the rhythm of a tin drum to record the absurdity of the era, and through the "non-adult" perspective of a child's body, it profoundly criticizes the historical crimes of the Nazi era and the spiritual desolation of the post-war society.

Glass's eyes lit up, and he immediately began to recount in German the details of Oscar's refusal to grow up, with Zhang Weilian providing simultaneous translation.

"Oscar's drumming and refusal to grow up isn't just being willful; it's because he doesn't want to become the person who blows up churches or become a 'liar adult.' That's what literature is about—it allows us to preserve the version of ourselves we don't want to become through the eyes of children."

This remark brought a sigh of relief to the audience. The boy who had asked the question nodded and copied "Oscar = Yingzi" into his notebook.

As soon as the Q&A session began, a whole classroom of hands shot up.

Luo Luo was the first to stand up: "Mr. Zhang, could you please ask Mr. Grass what the difference is between the 'grotesque' in his writing and the 'loneliness' in Rilke's poetry? When I translate Rilke, I always feel that his loneliness is 'quiet,' while Grass's grotesqueness is 'noisy.'"

After listening, Grass smiled and replied to the text: "Rilke's loneliness is 'inward,' like the tolling of church bells, a dialogue with oneself."

My eccentricity is 'outward-facing,' like the drums of the Oscars, meant to be played for everyone to hear—but we all want our readers to hear the voice that history should not be forgotten.

Just then, Xu Chengjun raised his hand.

There was nothing he could do; he didn't want to lift it either.
It was a child pre-arranged by the organization!

Fortunately, he understood what Glass was saying.

Although Xu Chengjun doesn't like to use the term "school of thought," it can indeed help people make some judgments.

From the perspective of schools of thought.

Günter Grass does not belong to a single school of thought in Western literature, but is a cross-genre writer who is "based on critical realism and integrates various modernist techniques".

The core can be categorized as the intersection of "magical realism" and "post-war German critical literature".

It possesses characteristics of both "absurdist" and "socially critical literature".

Therefore, it is quite easy to make some judgments about his works.

Unlike the others who relied on Zhang Weilian for translation, he spoke directly in fluent English: "Mr. Glass, I'd like to add to your point. You said 'the grotesque is an outward drum,'"
This reminds me of Lu Xun's "Diary of a Madman"—the madman says "cannibalism," but he doesn't actually eat people; he uses his "madness" to wake up the numb.
Your Oscar drumming is a wake-up call to those who have forgotten history, a reminder of the refusal to grow up.

Both speak the most lucid words in seemingly abnormal ways. But the difference is that Lu Xun's madness hides despair, while your eccentricity hides hope.

Oscar ultimately chose to confront the adult world, just as Germany ultimately chose to confront the history of World War II.

These words silenced the classroom instantly.

Those who understood were pondering what Xu Chengjun said; for example, Wang Yuanhua remained silent at this moment.

The students, who couldn't understand, looked at Zhang Weilian.

I'd love to hear some insightful opinions from this star writer from Fudan University!
Mr. Zhang Weilian paused his pen on the paper, looked up at Xu Chengjun, and his eyes were full of surprise.

This young man is not only fluent in English, but he can also connect the creative logic of Lu Xun and Grass, which is the foundation of world literature and comparative literature.

If Xu Chengjun knew this, he would probably nod and sigh in dismay.

So you can't escape the circle of comparative literature, can you?
Zhang Weilian asked the translator beside him in a low voice, "Who is this?"

"Xu Chengjun is currently the best-selling young writer."

Zhang Weilian suddenly realized what was happening, whispered a few words to Glass, and explained Xu Chengjun's identity.

In quiet moments.

Wang Yuanhua put down his notebook and said to Bai Hua beside him, "This young man is amazing! He handles the 'reflection' between Chinese and Western literature so smoothly, he understands it better than those of us who have been studying it for decades!"

"What did he just say?"

"Listen carefully to yourself!"

Glass leaned forward and asked in English, "You've read 'Diary of a Madman'? Could you elaborate on Lu Xun's 'despair'?"

"of course."

Xu Chengjun's English was clear and steady. "Lu Xun wrote that the madman finally 'recovered' and returned to normal life, which was actually a kind of despair - he knew that he could not change the 'cannibalistic' ethics."

And your writing about Oscar growing up is a kind of hope—that he knows he can hold onto his original intention of 'not becoming an executioner'.

But the core of both is the same: literature must be "a person who is awake," even if all it can do is beat the drum, even if all it can do is speak nonsense.

After listening, Glass suddenly clapped and said to Zhang Weilian, "Please translate this for everyone—"

Chinese youth surprise me; they not only understand their own literature, but also world literature. This is more valuable than any award.

After Zhang Weilian finished translating, the audience erupted in enthusiastic applause. Bai Hua couldn't help but stand up and say, "Xu is right! Chinese literature has never been closed off. True strength lies in being able to engage in dialogue with the world!"

Glass looked at Xu Chengjun, wanting to say something more, but Xu Chengjun was already overwhelmed by the atmosphere that had ignited the scene.

They only intended to discuss it privately later.

By the time the lecture ended, the sun was already setting.

Grass was surrounded by students and writers, signing autographs and chatting, with the German department's translator helping to translate.

Xu Chengjun was pulled aside by Wang Yuanhua to talk about the similarities and differences between Lu Xun and Grass.

I listened for a long time.

The old gentleman patted him on the shoulder: "In the future, we should contact the Shanghai Writers Association more often. We can hold a 'Dialogue between Chinese and Western Literature' salon, where you can talk about how to integrate the good aspects of foreign literature into Chinese stories."

"It's done!"

(End of this chapter)