My era, 1979!

Chapter 159 Those of you present should have been standing tall and discussing literature.

Günter invited writers from Shanghai to a salon after the lecture.

Xu Chengjun was also invited.

He didn't want to come.

However, some things during the lecture did make him feel frustrated and uncomfortable.

But at certain moments, there is a helpless feeling of distress.

Glass's lecture was in its second half.

When a Fudan University student asked about Chinese literature and world literature.

When the topic circled back to "the breakthrough path of modern Chinese literature".

Actually, at this time...

Xu Chengjun was already reluctant to listen.

He could predict the direction the lecture would take even with his eyes closed.

They also knew how the students sitting below would react.

In the late 70s, the gap between us and the Western world was obvious, or rather, the gap was so large that no one present could have any hope that China could surpass the West.

This trend of worshipping foreign things and fawning over foreigners is even more serious, especially in the cultural field.

Let alone a foreigner who won a Nobel Prize in Economics! A West German!

They stood in front of me.

The question Lu Xinhua asked was: "Chinese literature lags far behind world literature. What are your views on Chinese literature?"

He was secretly pleased to have the opportunity to speak, and even more proud to have the chance to speak directly with Western Nobel laureates.

As for Chinese literature?

It's just an old, battered blue-and-white porcelain vase.
His novel "The Wound" could give rise to a genre called "The Wound".

In his eyes, he was different from the people sitting below; he was pursuing a more advanced, civilized, and free literary world!

At that moment, he felt that he had achieved "leaving Asia and joining Europe," just like a certain country in the East!
As for belittling one's own country?
Please! That's not belittling! That's telling the truth!

Ah!
Lu Xinhua glanced around disdainfully. He was an established writer, the leading figure of the younger generation!
Upon spotting Xu Chengjun, he curled his lip, thinking, "A fame-seeker."

After listening to the translation, Glass looked deeply at the young man in front of him.

In his youth, he had a stronger spiritual belief than anyone else; he believed in the "Nazi Squad." But at all times, he loved his country and despised such people.

But in his eyes, or rather in the eyes of the West as a whole, Chinese literature was indeed inferior.

them--

Only classical literature.

Glass suddenly raised his hand and tapped the words "Western Modernism" on the blackboard, his tone carrying the confidence of someone who had been through it all.

This was his well-considered opinion, but it opened a sharp crack in Xu Chengjun's heart.

It rekindled the light in Lu Xinhua's heart.

“I must be honest,”

Grass spoke in German, and Zhang Weilian's translation played in unison: "In the eyes of Western academia, for modern Chinese literature to gain 'global' recognition, it needs to more proactively embrace Western modernist techniques. For example, your writers could try 'absurd narratives,' like Oscar's 'refusal to grow up' in 'The Tin Drum'; or borrow from 'fragmented structures,' like Faulkner's 'The Sound and the Fury.'"

These techniques can help you break free from the constraints of traditional narratives, allowing the world to understand China's voice more quickly.

He reached for the "Qingming" magazine on the table. It was a currently popular novel that Zhang Weilian had introduced to him before he came, and Zhang Weilian had translated a few paragraphs and explained some of the plot to him.

However, a simple translation fails to reveal Xu Chengjun's narrative structure, nor does it show the classical imagery elements he employs.

So he said, “Xu’s ‘Red Silk’ is very moving, but if more ‘grotesque elements’ were added, such as having the wooden comb suddenly talk or having the red silk float to the battlefield on its own, wouldn’t it be more ‘avant-garde’?”
Western readers are more familiar with this kind of 'surreal' expression and are more likely to resonate with it.

Xu Chengjun looked around, feeling a sense of sadness despite knowing the reality.

Upon hearing this, the audience almost unanimously agreed.

Mr. Dong Wenqiao from the German Department nodded and wrote in his notebook, "Western techniques = bridges".

Luo Luo from the Shanghai Writers Association leaned close to Wang Yuanhua's ear: "What he said makes sense. When we translated Rilke before, didn't we rely on Western 'symbolic techniques' to get readers to accept it?"

Even the young teachers in the Chinese department whispered among themselves: "Maybe we should really give it a try. We can't keep writing about 'realism' all the time; it seems too traditional."

Having used connections to attend the class, Yan Geling quietly planted a seed of longing for the Western world in her heart.

Don't be surprised.

At that time, the literary and cultural circles were so weak.

In the 80s, a large number of young cultural figures with education and insight, such as Lu Xinhua, Chen Chong, and Yan Geling, joined the "Pretty Country" group.

In 1979, the Chinese literary world was in a period of "confusion after the revival".

After a long period of isolation, in the face of the impact of Western modernism, most people assumed that "the West = avant-garde" and "tradition = conservatism." Grass's views precisely hit this anxiety of "eager to integrate."

"Progressives" all believe that only by learning Western "grammar" can Chinese literature go abroad and be seen by the world.

Glass continued to introduce Western theories to everyone.

Finally, in a concluding statement: "China will need at least 100 years to catch up with the Western world, both culturally and economically."

The audience remained silent.

When it came time for the Q&A session, it turned into a shepherding speech by a group of Western-leaning progressives led by Lu Xinhua.

Is everyone in the West free and equal?

"Can democracy give rise to a more modern literature?"

"In the lighthouse, can everyone have enough to eat and wear, and enjoy equal rights?"

Some people who care about Chinese literature say, "What Western theories should Chinese literature learn first, and what Western culture should it learn next, in order to make progress?"

Grass naturally shared his views from the perspective of a Western democratic and liberal thinker and a leader of the Industrial Revolution.

The person on stage had an arrogant attitude.

The piety of the people in the audience resembled that of a group of believers.

Catholicism or Eastern Orthodoxy?

Xu Chengjun listened and watched.

Huh~
He wants to use contemporary Chinese literature to refute Grass's remarks, but can he do it?

The answer is obvious.

Can future Chinese literature achieve this?
The answer remains obvious.

He now writes "Hope," "Red Silk," "The Fitting Mirror," and "The Music Box," and spends time publishing "The Wave," all in the hope that Chinese literature will break free from its clichés.

To confidently step onto the world stage, to stand before Western scholars like Grass, and to declare that Chinese literature is part of world literature—

But it is ahead of world literature.

He had nothing to say to Glass at that moment, but he did have something to say to the students, writers, and scholars present.

He first raised his hand, and Zhang Weilian, upon seeing Xu Chengjun, readily agreed to his statement.

Xu Chengjun stood up, his gaze first falling on Zhang Weilian, his voice calm yet weighty: "Sir, I need not say more about Mr. Glass's views. But I have a few words from the bottom of my heart that I would like to say to every compatriot present here—"

This part does not need to be translated.

Before he finished speaking, the entire room was so quiet you could hear someone breathing.

A look of surprise flashed across Zhang Weilian's eyes, and after a moment of contemplation, he finally nodded.

Ru Zhijuan, who was beside him, hurriedly tugged at his sleeve, her eyes full of "don't be impulsive," but Xu Chengjun simply raised his hand and steadied her.

He then turned to the audience, his gaze sweeping over the breathless students and whispering scholars, finally settling on the arrogant face of Lu Xinhua.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Chinese literature has never been an 'extra' of world literature, but rather a branch that has always been in its bloodline!" His voice suddenly rose, making the air seem to tremble. "I admit that our literature is still climbing uphill. Western theories may be able to build a ladder for us, but a ladder is ultimately a tool, not a direction! If we take the tool as the foundation, what we learn is nothing more than an empty shell of imitation!"

"What we stand upon is a civilization that has endured for five thousand years! The spirit of Tang poetry, the profound meaning of Song lyrics, the romance of Chu Ci, the grandeur of Han Fu—aren't these all literary genes etched into our very bones? What kind of literature we should write has long been determined by the history of this land—"

It depicts the joys and sorrows of the Chinese people and conveys their spirit; it has never been about pandering to anyone's aesthetics, much less seeking anyone's approval!

"I don't want to argue with you about how fast China's economy will grow in the future, or whether it will catch up with the West within a hundred years."

I have only one question: If today we are to discard our own cultural roots like worn-out shoes, and to depend on the West for everything, can our 'future' still be considered China's future? Can such literature still be considered Chinese literature?

His question was forceful and resounding. Some people in the audience instinctively gripped their pens, while others lowered their heads in shame.

Xu Chengjun's voice gradually deepened, becoming more earnest and fervent: "I was born on this land, grew up on this land, and have witnessed its scars, but I believe even more in its strength. I wrote 'Red Silk,' 'The Fitting Mirror,' and founded 'The Wave,' not to chase after any empty title of 'avant-garde,' but simply to fight for Chinese literature—to fight for the spirit of not bowing to the West, to fight for the spirit of telling our own stories!"

"My lifelong wish has never been to become a writer 'recognized worldwide,' but to be a 'scavenger' for my motherland: crawling on her land, wiping away a century of humiliation bit by bit, and picking up her scattered glory piece by piece. China's future should be one of standing tall among the nations of the world; those of you here should be discussing literature with your backs straight—not as you are today, mistaking 'learning from the West' for 'progress' and 'belittling yourselves' for 'wakefulness'!"

"Remember: Only by recognizing our own roots can we write Chinese literature that the world will remember. This is not stubbornness, but the stance we, as Chinese intellectuals, should have!"

As the last word fell, the entire room fell silent. After a moment, someone started clapping, and then a wave of applause swept over the room, drowning out all the previous whispers.

Lu Xinhua remained dismissive.

However, this did not prevent many young students from reflecting on these words and feeling regret.

That's enough~
Hidden in the corner, Jia Zhifang said nothing, only her eyes were filled with relief.

He didn't have to come, nor did he want to come.

But Zhu Dongrun told him: Go and see the future of Chinese literature.

He had already given up hope, but at least for now he saw the light.

He agreed to write a preface for "The Wave".

Glass looked at the scene with surprise in his eyes, and asked Zhang Weilian why he wasn't translating.

Zhang Weilian paused for a moment, then shook his head: "This child shared some insights about our Eastern world, mostly about the spirit of literature."

Glass shook his head and didn't ask any further questions.

This was an incident that occurred during the lecture.

Although Xu Chengjun resonated with the audience, he himself was unwilling to mention it.

In discussing literature, this time it was a dialogue between Eastern and Western literature. He couldn't use his own theories, but he used national righteousness instead.

They had already lost too much.

Mr. Zhang Weilian had just finished putting away the manuscript of Günter Grass's "Cat and Mouse" when he saw Günter Grass walk over with a cup in his hand, his gaze falling on Xu Chengjun with a hint of inquiry.

The lounge was quiet. Wang Yuanhua, Luo Luo, and others sat to the side, tacitly refraining from speaking.

They could tell that this conversation was the "main event" of the day.

"Xu, I'm sorry we couldn't have a deeper conversation during the lecture."

Glass spoke first, his English tinged with a slight German accent, “To be honest, before coming to China, my understanding of Chinese literature was limited to classical works: Li Bai’s poems, Du Fu’s melancholy, and Lu Xun’s ‘The True Story of Ah Q’.”

Western academia rarely mentions modern Chinese literature. We always assume that your literature is still 'looking back to the past' and hasn't formed its own modern voice.

These words weren't harsh, but they were like a pebble thrown into calm water.

Rollo paused, his pen still in his hand. Having translated Rilke for many years, he was well aware of the Western academic community's indifference towards modern Chinese literature.

Wang Yuanhua frowned slightly, recalling when he went to Germany for an exchange last year, a German professor asked him, "Does China have any modernist works?" At that time, he could only awkwardly mention "Diary of a Madman".

Xu Chengjun put down his enamel mug and said in a calm but firm tone, "Mr. Glass, your understanding is very frank, and this is also the consensus of many Western friends."

But I want to tell you that modern Chinese literature is not without a voice; it's just that our 'voice' has taken a different path from the West—we didn't deliberately pursue the deconstruction of 'modernism,' but rather sprouted modern buds from the roots of tradition.

He looked up at Glass, his eyes showing no eagerness to defend himself, only the certainty of a statement: "You mentioned Lu Xun, but in fact, after him, there have been too many writers in China writing modern stories. Mr. Mao Dun's 'Midnight' depicts the industrial predicament of Shanghai in the 1930s, using the 'struggle of national capitalists' to illuminate the times;
Ba Jin's *Family*, through the collapse of a feudal family, depicts the awakening of youth—these works are all "voices" of modern Chinese literature, only their "grammar" differs from that of Western modernism. The West uses "absurdity" to deconstruct history, while we use "reality" rooted in life; the West uses "fragmentation" to express anxiety, while we use "story" to convey warmth.

He knew in his heart that what he said was somewhat weak.

But when it comes to private conversations, you can't lose face!

Does Hegel understand Chinese literature?

Definitely not!

To be fair, now is the era in which Chinese literature has the best chance of catching up with the world.

But if literature is equated with novels.

Only a handful of Chinese vernacular novels are qualified to stand on the world literary stage, and many of them are imitations of the style of world masters.

Especially in novels published after the reform and opening up, you can find traces of French, Russian, and Latin American literature, but you can't see any trace of Chinese literature. Where has our own unique style gone?

When these novels are placed alongside the works of masters who carved out their own era in the grand garden of the world, how can one not chuckle in disbelief?

Contemporary vernacular novels borrow rhyme rather than create their own soul, but comparing a century of vernacular literature with six hundred years of Western novel history is essentially comparing a sprint to a marathon.

In fact, Wang Zengqi's "down-to-earth charm" and Acheng's "Zen-like philosophy of chess" are things worth mentioning.

But that's too little.

Glass raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly: "But why are these works rarely mentioned in the West? Is it a problem of dissemination, or do they lack 'global' resonance?"

"Both are present, but more importantly, our 'globality' is not measured by Western standards."

Xu Chengjun picked up the Qingming magazine on the table, turned to the excerpt of "Red Silk", and said, "For example, in my article 'Red Silk', I didn't learn from Márquez's 'magical realism' or your 'grotesqueness'. I only wrote about the wooden comb that Huang Siyuan hid in the red silk and the handkerchief that Chunyan had only embroidered halfway."

These 'small items' contain the patriotism and love for their country held by Chinese soldiers.

In the West, it might be considered "not avant-garde enough," but in China, veterans were moved to tears, saying it reminded them of their fallen comrades; students said they finally understood that "defending the homeland" is not just a slogan. Isn't this kind of "local resonance" a kind of "global" resonance?

Zhang Weilian suddenly interjected, feeling that Xu Chengjun seemed to be carrying too much on his shoulders at this moment.

When everyone thought it was time to back down, he went against the tide.

Why are you?
Do you want to be a hero?
Are you capable of doing it?
He laughed, “Günter, Xu is right. Chinese literature has never been ‘closed’; it’s just that our modernity is ‘modernity with roots’.”

Just like this sycamore tree, it must first take root in the soil before it can grow new branches. Xu's "The Dressing Mirror" uses a "mirror" to depict the desires of ordinary people, reflecting both Lu Xun's critique of reality and the Song Dynasty's tradition of using objects to express emotions—this is our modern voice.

Glass did not respond immediately. He lowered his head, took a sip of tea, and his gaze fell on the cover of the Qingming magazine.

After a long pause, he suddenly asked, "When do you think modern Chinese literature will truly 'go global'? How long will it take for Western readers to understand your 'voice'?"

"We don't need to 'go global,' because our world is already in the story itself."

Xu Chengjun's answer was unexpected, but it impressed everyone present: "After the college entrance examination was reinstated last year, in the Chinese Department of Fudan University, some students wrote about their time as educated youth and others wrote about the changes in factories."

Young writers are using new methods to depict reality—these stories don't need to deliberately 'please' the West; as long as they thoroughly portray the lives of Chinese people, people will naturally understand.

Just like your novel *The Tin Drum*, which didn't deliberately cater to non-German readers, it allowed the world to understand Germany's trauma. Modern Chinese literature is also following a similar path.

The writers and scholars listening to the conversation were somewhat at a loss.

Is that offensive?
Did I offend the Nobel laureate?
They were a little uneasy.

Glass was silent for a moment, then suddenly smiled, reaching out to pat Xu Chengjun on the shoulder: "Xu, you remind me of myself when I was young—"

Back then, I always refuted the argument that "German literature is only about Goethe." You're right, the "voice" of literature isn't heard by others, but by standing firm on its own.

Xu Chengjun wanted to say something, but was interrupted by Glass.

“What you said to the students, the translator I brought later told me, is that with young people like you around, I believe that modern Chinese literature is not without a voice, it’s just that we haven’t listened carefully.”

"I'm sorry if my comments have offended you. If you don't mind, you can send me some of your works."

Xu Chengjun shook his head: "It has nothing to do with you. We still have a lot to improve on."

Günter laughed heartily, “Your English is very fluent, and you have a nice accent.”

He turned around, took out a German edition of "The Tin Drum" from his briefcase, turned to the title page, and wrote a line with a fountain pen: "To Xu Chengjun—the root of Chinese literature."

As he handed it over, he said earnestly, "When I get back, I will suggest to the German publishers that they import more modern Chinese literary works."

(End of this chapter)