My era, 1979!

Chapter 163 This time, the public intellectuals have really arrived.
The entire Wave Literature Society was working hard all day to publish the inaugural issue.

The hearts of the people are united, and the mountains move.

Xu Chengjun sat in the center of the Langchao Literature Society's office, which had been converted from a storage room, directing operations.

I'll check the distribution progress on campus in a bit.

I'll run out to the phone booth in a bit to contact various universities and the Shanghai Writers Association.

They were also working up a sweat.

But I found it very interesting.

This is the first time I've ever participated in the founding of a literary society and the publication of a literary magazine in such a comprehensive way, from my past life to the present.

Moreover, ideals and reality intersect.

It always generates many incredible forces.

Lin Yimin ran over from the direction of the printing factory carrying half a stack of magazines, shouting from afar, "Brother Demin! Take two less copies! The Chinese department is waiting to receive them, don't keep Mr. Zhu waiting!"

Xu Demin turned around, deliberately tightened his bag around his chest, and replied with a grin: "What's the rush? When Mr. Zhu reads our publication, he might even praise our layout. Besides, your article '2023' is printed so clearly, the old professor is sure to pat you on the shoulder and say, 'You're a promising young man!'"

His "2023" is indeed unique in the field of Chinese science fiction in this era.

Of course, Xu Chengjun's involvement is also significant.

The price was being made a godfather!

These words struck a nerve with Xu Demin. He paused, a smirk creeping onto his face, but he still retorted, "Stop being so glib! Where's Xu Wei? I sent her to deliver the magazine to the Foreign Languages ​​Department, but I haven't seen her all day."

No sooner had she finished speaking than Xu Wei came running from the direction of the girls' dormitory carrying a stack of copies of "The Wave": "Here it comes! Zhou Yun from the Foreign Languages ​​Department was clamoring for it just now, and even asked me if I could have a couple more copies, saying she wanted to send them to her classmates in Beijing. By the way, Lin Yimin, Zhou Yun said your science fiction story is even more exciting than her translation of Xike!"

Lin Yimin immediately perked up and leaned over to pat Xu Wei's arm: "Really? She didn't say that my 'time loop' was too outrageous?"

Xu Wei rolled her eyes at him: "Stop with the nonsense, you've got your eye on another girl, haven't you!?"

"How could I be as unreasonable as President Xu?"

"Pshaw, if you were that capable, you wouldn't be 2023, you'd be fucking 233333!"

"Hey! Don't say that! I call it a promising future! A promising future! Say something nice!"

"Alright, from now on you're Fudan's number one science fiction writer! Comrades! The number one science fiction writer will treat everyone to braised pork from the cafeteria later!"

Lin Yimin's face fell instantly.

The cramped, crowded space was instantly filled with laughter.

Xu Demin chimed in, "Don't brag yet! After we see the professors off, if Mr. Jia says your writing is bad, let's see if you'll still be able to laugh."

As everyone knows, this little old man with a hunched back has a bit of a "rogue" personality!
Apart from Xu Chengjun, he considered all the other freshmen to be "mediocre"!
Lin Yimin, in particular, who is a "connected person," is a major focus of attention!
Lin Yimin covered his face, but immediately straightened his neck: "Mr. Jia would never do that! Everyone praised my idea as novel. Besides, our publication has an inscription by Ba Jin. Who wouldn't give it some face?"

The group chatted and laughed as they divided the publications, then split into three groups and headed to various departments.

Lin Yimin was responsible for escorting the Chinese Department students. Just as he arrived at the gate of Mr. Zhu Dongrun's house, he saw the old gentleman sitting in a rattan chair, flipping through documents.

"Mr. Zhu, 'The Wave' has been printed!"

Lin Yimin carefully handed over the publication, feeling a little nervous.

After all, this is a publication with a preface written by the author himself. If there is even the slightest mistake, it will inevitably be criticized.

Zhu Dongrun put down the book, took the magazine, and first looked at the cover. The two words "Wave" written in red ink made his eyes flash with approval. Then he turned to the title page.

When the old gentleman saw the small characters "Ba Jin wrote the inscription" and the eight characters "Use the pen as a blade, use truth as a tide," his fingers paused, and he looked up at Lin Yimin: "Old Ba actually wrote an inscription for you? This is a big deal."

Lin Yimin quickly nodded: "It was Xu Chengjun who asked Editor Li to pass on the inscription to Ba Jin. Ba Jin also said that he hoped that we young people could 'stay true to ourselves and observe the times'."

Zhu Dongrun didn't say anything more. He turned to the inaugural issue's editorial and read, "Is the true meaning of openness to abandon oneself and flatter others?"

He raised an eyebrow slightly, then nodded slowly.

"That Cheng Jun kid put this in a campus magazine, really."

"Alright, let me see. Yimin, you go ahead and do your thing. Don't waste your time on this old man!"

At the same time, Xu Demin was standing in Mr. Jia Zhifang's study, watching the old gentleman flip through "The Tide".

Jia Zhifang ran his finger over the preface he had written and suddenly laughed out loud: "Look at my handwriting, it's still a bit better than Lao Zhu's?"

Xu Demin dared not speak and could only stand aside and listen.

"Hey, this inaugural address, this Xu Chengjun, you guys at Inspur are really bold!"

"No way!"

"I wasn't talking about you, why are you trying to make yourself look good!"

Old Jia looked at Xu Demin with a mocking expression, and Xu Demin's face fell.

Damn it, that piece of shit Lin Yimin!
If you won't do it yourself, give me this job!

“However, Xu Chengjun’s three poems are well written. The line ‘dappled light and shadow’ in ‘The Unopened Window’ has the flavor of Rilke when I was young.”

Jia Zhifang pushed up her glasses.

I recall the scene when Xu Chengjun and I debated comparative literature during the interview.

This kid.

They really know how to cause trouble!
In the study of the old Western-style house on Wukang Road, the afternoon sun, carrying the fragrance of osmanthus, wafted in and fell on the stack of manuscripts of "Random Thoughts" on Ba Jin's desk.

He had just finished proofreading the chapter on "telling the truth" when he heard Li Xiaolin gently knock on the door: "Dad, Xu Chengjun asked someone to send you a copy of 'The Tide,' saying it's the one you inscribed, and he specially kept a sample copy for you."

"Oh? Comrade Cheng Jun?"

This is one of the young writers he currently favors the most.

However, even he couldn't quite grasp some of the younger generation's writing philosophies.

But based on his experience, it's clear that he's a talented young man who writes with dedication and truly loves his country.

Ba Jin put down his pen and looked at the magazine his daughter handed him.

The two characters "Tide" written in red ink stand out against the plain white mimeograph paper, like a cluster of leaping flames.

"Zhu Dongrun and Jia Zhifang also wrote prefaces?"

Turning to the title page, Ba Jin's reading glasses slid slightly as he leaned closer to the paper to read it carefully. A smile gradually appeared on his lips. "Brother Dongrun's writing is still so insightful, while Brother Zhifang has a touch of gentleness. This young man, Xu Chengjun, has managed to bring together two old gentlemen with such different temperaments. It's clear he's put his heart into it. This literary society is not just a group of idle people who only know how to dabble in writing."

Zhu Dongrun is a master of literary history, and his skill is evident in just a few strokes of his pen.

"May this journal uphold its original literary aspirations, maintain its critical edge, use the pen as an oar to carry Chinese stories, cross the rivers of time, and flow on endlessly."

Jia Zhifang's writing is even more straightforward, and when placed alongside Zhu Dongrun's preface, it further highlights his personal style.

In fact, judging from his writing style, Jia Zhifang's writing has always been unadorned, adept at using colloquial expressions, and often expresses his thoughts directly from the perspective of "I," avoiding any air of pedantry.

Li Xiaolin chimed in, "I really like this kid. His book, 'The Box of Hope,' has recently caused quite a stir in the editorial department."

"Hmm? In what way?"

"Some people say that his writing techniques are too bold, that he is moving too fast, and that writing about abstract things like high-speed rail and smartphones is not conducive to current economic development."

"What about those who say he's good?"

"Then there's no limit! It will be the first time for a new form of realism in China!"

Old Ba looked up at his daughter, then smiled and asked, "Could it be that Editor Li said it himself?"

Li Xiaolin: "."

It really was her who said it~
Ba Jin smiled without saying a word, his fingertips sliding down. When the three characters “Ba Jin’s Inscription” and the inscription “Use the pen as a blade, use truth as a tide” came into view, Ba Jin’s movements paused.

He recalled the scene half a month ago when Li Xiaolin mentioned the publishing philosophy of "The Wave," and he wrote it down.

Seeing these words printed in the publication now evokes a sense of solemnity, a feeling of passing on the torch.

"At the time, I only hoped that they could uphold the word 'truth,' but I never expected that this child would actually write 'truth' into the inaugural issue's message."

He spoke softly to Li Xiaolin, his tone filled with expectation.

Turning to the inaugural issue's preface, the opening line, "On the occasion of the founding of this Fudan University campus journal, I wrote the single character 'Wave' to name it," immediately caught Ba Jin's eye.

“Single-character naming, concise yet powerful, is very much like Mr. Wen Yiduo’s writing style when he wrote ‘Dead Water’—using small things to reveal big things, hiding profound meaning.”

He read on word by word, and when the phrase "hoping it can break out of its circle and become the first ice-breaking wave in the field of modern Chinese literature" came into view.

His finger suddenly paused on the words "breaking the ice." "This 'ice' is well said! It represents the shackles of thought and the inertia of the literary world. Young people who dare to mention 'breaking the ice' have the same vigor we had when we started 'Beacon Fire' back then."

Upon reading the lines, "The steel guns at the front line protect the land, forming the defense line of the territory; the pen at the rear stands firm, forming the Great Wall of the soul," Ba Jin's breathing quickened slightly.

He recalled that in Wuhan in 1938, he had written in "Beacon Fire" that "the pen is a weapon, and paper is a battlefield." Now, more than half a century later, he found the same sincerity in the words of a young man.

He looked out the window and seemed to see students holding up signs that read "Rather die than be a broken jade" on the streets of Kunming in 1941.

"Some people say that young people avoid talking about their country and its people, but this inaugural address tells me that our passion has never cooled down."

When his gaze fell upon the fact that "Western classics were regarded as the ultimate standard, while the Book of Songs and the Songs of Chu were regarded as dusty old papers," Ba Jin's brows furrowed slightly.

It can be passed down.

But we can't become bookish pedants!

But then I thought about the three pieces, "The Fitting Mirror," "Red Silk," and "Hope," and realized that they not only had a path of inheritance but also a desire for innovation.

Hopefully, this is just overthinking.

He picked up the warm water on the table, but forgot to drink it, repeatedly rubbing the words "flattering others" and "dismantling the soul."

"Those words were sharp, but they hit the nail on the head."

He said to Li Xiaolin with a heavy tone, "This young comrade still needs more attention. Even the most fertile seedlings need care."

Li Xiaolin shrugged helplessly: "They're too noisy."

Turning to the chapter "The roots of literature are deeply embedded in the soil of civilization," Ba Jin's gaze softened.

Upon reading the line, "No matter how exquisite Kafka's castle is, it cannot contain the Chinese people's deep attachment to their land," Ba Jin couldn't help but nod in agreement.

“Every nation’s literature has its own soul. Kafka wrote about the confusion of Europe, while we write about the mountains and rivers and the human heart of China. If we insist on imitating the Western model, we will only lose our own soul. In the 1950s, some people advised me to learn from the writing style of Soviet literature, but I insisted on writing about the joys and sorrows of the Chinese people. Now it seems that Xu Chengjun’s views coincide with mine.”

When the sentence "China's peace has never been won by 'kneeling,' but by 'fighting'" came into view, Ba Jin's hand gripped the publication tightly, his knuckles turning white.

He recalled seeing students reciting "We, the sons and daughters of China, will never submit to foreign enemies" amidst the ruins when he was hiding from bombing in 1941. This spirit reappeared in the inaugural address.

"Cowardice cannot buy dignity, and compromise cannot protect our land."

He said in a deep voice, his tone firm with the experience of life's trials, "Understanding literature is not valuable, but understanding the backbone of a nation is."

Upon reading "Upholding righteousness means preserving the roots of civilization and the soul of the nation; innovation means taking our own steps and walking our own path," Ba Jin breathed a long sigh of relief, as if a knot in his heart had been untied.

In his "Random Thoughts", he also wrote, "We should look forward, but also look back."

Finally, I read, "Don't be a spineless coward who fawns over foreigners; be a strong backbone who upholds its roots."

Ba Jin slowly closed the publication.

He suddenly stood up: "Bring me paper and pen, I want to write a few words to Chengjun."

Li Xiaolin quickly fetched Xuan paper, whereupon Ba Jin wrote: "Reading the inaugural address of 'The Tide' is like hearing a thunderclap. Young people should uphold their original intentions and observe the times when they speak out. This is a blessing for literature and a blessing for the nation. May the 'Tide' surge forward, wash away the superficiality, and protect the roots of our civilization. Ba Jin, Autumn 1979."

After putting down his pen, Ba Jin carefully folded the calligraphy and put it into an envelope: "Send this to Cheng Jun and tell him that the older generation is waiting to see how this 'wave' will set off a new trend in the Chinese literary world."

Xu Chengjun, far away, seemed to hear a game notification: Protection from a literary giant +1!

Under the sunset.

After a long silence, Ba Jin finally turned the phone on: "Brother Yan Bing, it's me."

Heavy snow weighs down the green pine, yet the green pine stands tall and straight.

Good seedlings need to be tempered by fire, but they must not be harmed by undercurrents.

"We're getting old, and all we can do is build bridges and shield young people from the storms, so they can write with peace of mind and not suffer the kind of unfair treatment we did back then. What do you think?"
-
With the continued release of "The Wave".

The phrases Xu Chengjun frequently mentioned in his inaugural address—"Down with public intellectuals," "national self-confidence," and "cultural self-confidence"—have quickly spread.

Suddenly, everyone was afraid of being labeled a "public intellectual".

Everyone in Shanghai's cultural circles is on edge.

This also caused the undercurrent of "Xu Chengjun talking about Glass" to quietly subside during the first three days after the inaugural address of "The Wave" spread on the Fudan University campus.

There was always someone muttering in the department building corridor: "He recently spoke at a literary salon about Tigras's 'The Tin Drum,' saying that 'we should learn the critical spirit of Western literature.' Isn't that trying to become a 'public intellectual'?"

But when Ba Jin's inscription on the title page of "The Wave" and the prefaces by Zhu and Jia appeared, along with the firm words "not flattering foreigners, but guarding our roots" in the inaugural address, it was a sight to behold.

In a short time, it had a miraculous effect of purifying the entire universe.

Surprisingly, no one kept harping on the word "Glass".

But this calm didn't last even a week.

An unsigned short article appeared in the Shanghai literary circle’s internal publication, “Literary Newsletter,” implying that “some campus publications, under the guise of ‘preserving roots,’ are actually ‘worshipping the West,’ superficially criticizing ‘public intellectuals’ but actually hiding the shadow of Western theories.”

This time, the public intellectuals have really arrived.

(End of this chapter)