My era, 1979!

Chapter 174 "Black Keys" Part 1 (Riddle Mode)
Before the lecture ended.

Xu Zhongyu's student, Zhou Xishan, asked Xu Chengjun one last question: "Comrade Chengjun, do you have any new works recently? We are all looking forward to them."

Sun Yong's fellow disciples are quite good!
They have the same keen eye.

Could Xu Chengjun possibly miss such a publicity opportunity?
He smiled and said, "I do have two short stories about to be published recently. One novella will be published in the sixth issue of Harvest at the end of December, and the other novella will be published in Shanghai Literature in January next year. Both of them are novels that have taken me a lot of effort to write, and they are different from any other type of domestic literature you see now, including Red Silk."

The teachers and students present were immediately impressed.

Another ingenious idea?
Xu Chengjun truly gave them so much enjoyment and anticipation regarding modern literature.
"Could you please disclose what type of novel it is?"

Xu Chengjun shook his head: "It's a type that none of us have ever seen before."

Wu Jinhua, who was sitting in the third row, stood up and asked, "Professor Xu, do you have any new poems recently? I really like your 'Walking Towards the Light,' and do you have any experience in poetry creation to share with us?"

"Poetry?"

Xu Chengjun was slightly taken aback: "Now may be the best era for poetry. I don't know what experience is needed to create poetry. Compared to novels, poetry may rely more on talent."

It is the combination of four abilities—keen perception, unique language transformation ability, deep emotional empathy, and mastery of rhythm and cadence—that transforms abstract emotions, observations, and thoughts into text that possesses beauty, rhythm, and resonance.

Wu Jinhua was filled with questions.

Simply put, when the emotions were there, I wrote it naturally.

Xu Chengjun looked at the bewildered students below the stage.

He turned around, grabbed a piece of chalk, and scribbled several lines of large characters directly onto the blackboard.

The professor and students looked at each other in bewilderment.

Does he seem to be showing off?
Vast Sea and Deep Clouds

Author: Xu Chengjun

Shouts are the prelude to the waves.
Silence is the prelude to a storm.
Regardless of the surging
Or clear
I long for it, as long as it doesn't stagnate.
/
If the tides sing in the distance
I then followed the undercurrent.
If light rises on the horizon
I tore through the fog barrier
/
Knee injured by a reef

Let the blood droplets turn into pearls.
Eyes filled with salty tears
And allow salt grains to crystallize into a star pattern

/
There is no sea wider than a boat.
There is no wind stronger than a sail.
The chalk tip finally landed at the end of "There is no wind stronger than a sail." Xu Chengjun put down the chalk, wiped the white dust off his fingertips, and smiled at the audience: "That's how it is. When the emotion is there, the words follow."

"impromptu?"

"Yeah~"

As soon as he finished speaking, the lecture hall fell silent for a full three seconds.

The falling leaves outside the window rustled in the wind, becoming the only sound in this moment of silence.

Wu Jinhua was the first to break the silence.

He had been frowning and pondering the confusion of "four abilities superimposed," but now he suddenly stood up from his seat, looking completely bewildered: "Professor Xu... is this what you just came up with?"

Are we playing the same version?

Are you Earth Online?

He stared at the poem on the blackboard, unconsciously tracing the line "blood beads staining pearls" on the seam of his trousers.

Xu Chengjun said, "When the feeling comes, write it down."

He admits.

But you're just going to be so arrogant?

The energy in these lines is even more solid than the poem he revised repeatedly for half a month.

The words "reef," "blood droplets," and "pearls" not only depict "injury" as something less bitter but also carry an upward momentum, offering a much broader perspective than the warmth of "Walking Towards the Light," making it seem completely unlike an impromptu work.

mmp~
who?

Professor Xu Zhongyu, sitting in the front row, pushed up his reading glasses, tapped his fingers lightly on the table, and murmured, "If the tide sings in the distance, I will follow the dark current."

Suddenly turning to Qian Gurong beside him, he smiled and said, "This Xu Chengjun, even his impromptu poems are full of the spirit of breaking the deadlock."

Qian Gurong nodded: "Others write about the vastness of the sea, but he writes about the sea as 'tearing through the fog,' even turning wounds into pearls. This kind of imagery is something that many people can't write no matter how long they ponder it."

Shih Tsun-che: "Couldn't he have done it before?"

Xu Zhongyu: "He is very arrogant. If it wasn't done on the spot, it will be exposed sooner or later."

Shi Cunzhe: "The younger generation surpasses the older generation!"

Qian Gurong nodded, his pen flying across the lesson plan as he jotted down the poem: "The key is 'improvisation'! We were just talking about our new novel, and then he can write a poem like this. This kind of perception can't be acquired through rote learning."

The students in the back row were no longer confused. Some quickly took out their notebooks, their pens scratching loudly on the paper, afraid that the chalk writing on the blackboard would be blown away by the wind.

This is a brand new poem!
Jay Chou sings a new song in front of you, can you resist recording it?

A boy in a blue cotton jacket ran out of ink in his pen and frantically patted his pocket. A girl next to him quickly handed him her pen, and the two of them huddled together to copy the ink.

They didn't even dare to make a mistake with the "/" for line breaks.

This is a poem that Xu Chengjun wrote on the spot; if it gets out, it could be told as a "literary anecdote".

The two looked up at each other and smiled.

The girl smiled and asked, "Excuse me, what's your name?"

The boy blushed: "Liu Zhenwei, a freshman in the Chinese Literature Department."

"Teacher Xu! Could you please read this poem aloud?"

"Yes, we've never heard you recite poetry yourself before!"

"Give me a chance~"

Xu Chengjun smiled and nodded, cleared his throat, and slowly began to recite: "A shout is the prelude to a wave / Silence is the brewing of a storm..."

He read slowly, leaving a lingering impression with each line. When he read the line "His knees were injured by the reefs / Let the blood stain them into pearls," many people in the audience read it quietly along with him.

Showing off?

If you're good at pretending, that's fine too~
That's what you call the ability to "create poetry when emotions arise"!

After copying the last sentence, Wu Jinhua suddenly remembered the "poetry creation experience" he had asked earlier, and his face turned a little red.

I just asked a casual question, and you immediately went all out.

They truly have instilled a deep sense of perception into their very being.

Cao Zhi would take seven steps when composing a poem.

You turn around and write?
He hesitated for a moment, then stood up again: "Teacher Xu, could you keep this poem for us? We want to copy it down and study it carefully."

"Of course."

Xu Chengjun pointed to the blackboard, "As long as you don't mind the messy handwriting, you can copy as many copies as you like."

These words made everyone laugh, and all the previous restraint and confusion disappeared, leaving only their enjoyment of the impromptu poem.

One of the boys seized the opportunity to shout, "Teacher Xu! Please write another one! Write one related to 'Red Silk'!"

Xu Chengjun waved his hand: "I can't write anymore, or no one will look forward to my new works in Harvest and Shanghai Literature."

These words immediately stirred up the atmosphere again. Someone shouted, "We're all looking forward to it!"

Some people asked, "What kind of genre is the new work?"

Even Professor Xu Zhongyu laughed and said, "Cheng Jun, you're deliberately keeping us in suspense!"

Xu Chengjun didn't reveal anything further, but picked up a piece of chalk and added a line of small print next to the poem's title, "Vast Sea and Deep Clouds": "Impromptu at a lecture at Huazhong Normal University in the winter of 1979." Then he turned around and bowed to everyone: "That's all for today. Thank you all for your patience. We'll talk again when my new work is published."

When the lecture ended, the students lingered around the blackboard, and a few of the bolder ones even took out their notebooks and asked Xu Chengjun to sign them, and also asked him to sign his poems.

Wu Jinhua, holding the copied poem, discussed the imagery of "salt grains crystallizing into a star map" with Professor Xu Zhongyu, his eyes filled with excitement.

Xu Zhongyu looked at Xu Chengjun, who was surrounded by students, and then glanced at the poem on the blackboard. He suddenly said to Shi Cunzhe, "This kid will probably be more famous in the literary world than us old guys in the future."

"Isn't he already older than us?"

"Hmm~ It seems that's really true~"

The setting sun shone through the window, casting its light on the poems written on the blackboard.

The lines, “There is no sea wider than a boat / There is no wind stronger than a sail,” shone brightly in the sunlight.

The students didn't want to leave.

They surrounded Xu Chengjun, asking him all sorts of questions.

My hand went numb from signing so many autographs.

As Xu Xiaomei watched her second brother bustling about, a thought that seemed to be called ambition began to sprout in her heart.

He wanted to be like his brother.

On a larger stage, they can demonstrate their knowledge and insights with great flair.

When September 8th comes next year, my flowers will bloom and all others will wither away.
'We must take down this tiny China Textile Factory!'

offstage.

Everyone is waiting for the December issue of Harvest and the January issue of Shanghai Literature, eager to see how many more surprises this 20-year-old writer can bring.

By this time, the sun had long since set, and the petals of the magnolia I was cultivating fell onto the windowsill like a layer of scattered snow.

Xu Chengjun was surrounded by students and teachers. Some asked about the follow-up creation of "Red Silk", some sought advice on the combination of theory and practice, and a young teacher pulled him aside, wanting to take "polyphonic narrative and reflective literature" as a research topic.

Xu Chengjun agreed to each one. When signing autographs for his students, he would write a sentence on the title page: "Literature is a bridge, connecting life on one end and the future on the other—don't just stand on the bridge and look at the scenery, help people cross the bridge."

When it was the girl's turn to mention "defamiliarization," he took her copy of "A History of Western Aesthetics," turned to a blank page, and wrote: "Theory is not a shackle, but a ladder—it allows people to stand higher and see life more clearly beneath their feet."

Xu Zhongyu accompanied Xu Chengjun as they walked towards the school gate. The fragrance of magnolia blossoms, carried by the spring breeze, brushed against the hem of their clothes.

Xu Zhongyu sighed, “Chengjun, you’ve managed to combine ‘future theory’ and ‘present practice’ so tightly today, and you’ve left so many avenues for exploration. Even that old man Shi Cunzhe, who’s such an awkward person, said that you’ve brought the way of literature to life.”

"The gentlemen are truly too kind! I'll definitely visit them all next time I'm at East China Normal University!"

"No need~"

"I really don't know where you got that brain of yours from!"

Xu Chengjun laughed and pointed to his head: "This is full of theories that the masses gave me."

Their words, their lives, are the best literary theory. I'm merely sharing these theories with everyone, throwing out a brick so that future generations can build an even higher wall.

Sun Yong, who was standing by, was stunned.

He stared blankly at the person in front of him who was his age, no, two years younger than him.

High mountains, huh?
We admire the lofty mountains and follow the virtuous path.

Xu Zhongyu: "Doing research and creating literature really requires your kind of childlike enthusiasm. There aren't many young people who have this kind of thinking anymore."

As Xu Chengjun walked to the school gate, he looked back at the West Main Building. There were still students discussing in the classrooms, and their figures were reflected in the windowpanes.

He waved goodbye to Xu Zhongyu and his apprentice.

Turning and stepping into the darkness, the leather-bound notebook swayed gently in my arms, like holding a bunch of freshly picked magnolias, carrying both the warmth of the present and the fragrance of the future.

Xu Zhongyu looked at Sun Yong and sighed softly: "It's hard to say whether your generation is lucky or unlucky. There was someone ahead of you who paved the way, giving you something to follow, but you went too far. I'm afraid you can't even catch up with their shadow."

Sun Yong also smiled: "Sir, I know my own limitations. I am not suited to be a guide. If he walks faster, I will follow him more diligently. If I can't see him anymore, at least he has left some footprints. I will do my best. But if one day he can no longer walk, I will still have to try my best to keep going."

Xu Zhongyu laughed heartily.

'I don't have Zhu Dongrun's good luck, but having Sun Yong isn't bad either!'
-
Go back to dorms.

Jian Dan greeted Lin Yimin and the others.

Xu Chengjun then immersed himself in the inspiration for his novel writing.

Inspiration is fleeting.

Music Music
Lin Yimin and Hu Zhi exchanged a glance and shrugged.

They've long been accustomed to the world of geniuses.

wrong.

I'm already used to it.

Go ahead and write. After you finish, they can be your first readers.

The pen flowed slowly across the paper.

An opening statement was gently written on the paper.

"On a musical score, there are times when high notes rise and times when low notes fall. Life is the same. There are days when you can play a melody and times when you can't make a sound. It's just that, unlike a musical score, there aren't fixed high and low notes. Some people can play on bright keys all their lives, while others have to keep pressing black keys that can't make a sound. What people fear is that the music they can rely on will suddenly break, which is to say, they are very afraid of the sound that has sustained them through life disappearing."

This is the female protagonist's inner thoughts in reverse chronological order at the beginning.

Then came another paragraph.

Xu Chengjun pounded each word into his heart.

Sometimes, writing, especially when you're investing your emotions, is important.

You have to imagine yourself in the same scene as the protagonist.

The term used to classify actors is "method acting".

This is the male protagonist's inner monologue.

"I always carry two things in my hands: a clock gear that won't turn, and fragments of sheet music that can't be pieced together. The gear that won't turn is like how I can never escape the shadow of the Suzhou River in my life; the fragments that can't be pieced together are quite like my life with her—there is never a complete light, only a light that is pieced together."

They say clocks are the conscience that records time, but none of the clocks I've repaired are accurate. Just like the things I did to protect her—it was like walking blindfolded in the dark, yet I insisted on calling it helping her set the course of her life. When she played the violin on stage, the music illuminated the entire auditorium, but I knew that melody contained my darkness. It was a sound I painstakingly pieced together with screwdrivers, with the smoke of arson, with nights too dark to bear the light.

Some people spend their whole lives repairing more accurate watches, living in places where they can see the sun; but I can only repair broken watches, hiding in the shadows of the warehouse, watching her light seep in through the cracks in the door. I'm not afraid of gears rusting, not afraid of sheet music being torn to shreds by the wind, what I fear most is that her music will suddenly lose my 'blackness'—not that I'm afraid she won't be able to escape the darkness, but that my only purpose in this life will just be gone.

Actually, I knew all along that I wasn't patching her piano keys, but rather my own hole. Like those watches that can't be repaired, they tick away on the surface, but inside the gears are already rotten. But as long as she can still play the violin, as long as her melodies still contain my voice, I haven't lived in vain—even if in the end, I'm like a piece of junk, thrown onto the ice of the Suzhou River, without making a sound.

Black Keys

(End of this chapter)