Literary Master 1918: Starting with New Youth

The next morning.

Wu Zhu only slept for an hour, and his wrists are still sore.

In order not to waste time, he handed over the novel he had finished writing to Yang Huaizhong, and then headed to Yenching University with his graduation certificate and thesis.

The scenery along the way was quite different from yesterday's. The morning in Yanjing was full of the lively atmosphere of the city, and the food was mostly the same as in later years, but the filter of the times still made him stop frequently.

Ultimately, considering he had an interview today, he gave up the classic combination of douzhi (fermented mung bean juice) and jiaoquan (deep-fried dough rings) and obediently ate a bowl of yangshuangtang (mutton soup).

Overtaken by rickshaw pullers one after another, he finally arrived at Yenching University. Having learned his lesson from yesterday, he didn't bother talking to the gatekeeper again, but instead walked straight into the campus, asking students for directions until he found the president's office.

Boom, boom, boom!

Wu Zhu knocked on the door.

"Please come in."

A slightly aged voice came from inside.

I just pushed the door open.

The office serves both as a workspace and a meeting place. The bookshelves and magazine racks are filled with classics and periodicals, and there are also wall clocks and radiators on the walls, making it both practical and elegant.

Behind the desk sat an elderly man wearing a long robe and mandarin jacket, with deep-set eyes, a high nose, and blond hair braided into a small braid. He was drinking tea and reading a newspaper while wearing reading glasses.

Beside the old man stood a servant serving cigarettes and tea. The two were dressed identically, but their attire seemed very out of place in the Yenching University president's office.

In Wu Zhu's memory, throughout Yenching University, the only professor dressed like this was that eccentric, absolutely conservative Manchu remnant and famous pedantic scholar who, in addition to being the most cultured foot fetishist, taught English literature at Yenching University.

Gu Hongming...

No one can deny his erudition, nor can anyone deny his stubbornness.

After all, it's rare to find someone who openly has a preference for "thin, small, pointed, curved, fragrant, soft, and straight" even in later generations. The conservative older generation was unusually unrestrained in terms of sex.

"Damn it." Wu Zhu had only this one thought.

If he had known that Gu Hongming was supposed to be filling in for him today, he would have preferred not to have come at all...

His prepared thesis and his areas of expertise were perfectly tailored for the New Culture Movement. He had expected to meet someone like Hu Shi, but instead, he encountered this person right away…

If you were to talk at length about vernacular Chinese, opposing feudal ethics, or literary reform in front of this person...

The outcome was predictable!

After all, Gu Hongming was known for his unruly and rebellious nature. Hearing these things, he couldn't help but make a few sarcastic remarks. And he himself was no pushover either, so a fight was bound to break out!

Wu Zhu shivered and thought about leaving; it was better not to study here.

"Your face is unfamiliar; why are you placed here as a door god?"

Gu Hongming put down his teacup and looked up to meet Wu Zhu's gaze.

Whether you stick your neck out or not, you'll get stabbed anyway...

Wu Zhu gritted his teeth and walked into the house:

"I am Wu Zhu, a student from Lingling. I graduated from the Second Provincial Normal College of Hunan. I heard that Yenching University was recruiting researchers, so I came to Yenching University to study and hope to enter the Institute of Chinese Literature."

Gu Hongming sat up straight and gestured for Wu Zhu to sit down:

"Please sit down, and share your views on Chinese literature."

Wu Zhu plopped down in his seat, pondered carefully, and finally decided to tell the truth:

"I believe that Chinese literature has reached a point where it needs reform and innovation..."

"Um?"

"...In my opinion, Chinese literature should have fewer obstacles like the teacher in order to break down and rebuild."

"?"

The most intense argument in Yenching University's history erupted in the president's office on the north side of the east side of the second floor of the Red Building. The argument was a mix of classical and vernacular Chinese, drawing the attention of passing students who stopped to listen.

......

at the same time.

No. 9, Jiangan Hutong, Beichizi Street, Sichuan.

This is Chen Zhongfu's address, which is also the address of the editorial office of "New Youth".

The three rooms on the north side of the alley have a wooden sign with the words "New Youth Editorial Department" written in black ink hanging in front of the door. Inside, there are rows of desks pieced together, with piles of letters and manuscripts waiting for the editors on duty to select and use them.

Qian Xuantong, who was in charge of this shift, was visited by his colleague early in the morning, who brought him a letter.

It was said to be a young man's submission of a vernacular novel, which perfectly met the needs of "New Youth" magazine. He was still somewhat reluctant to leave before he went.

Judging from Yang Huaizhong's posture, if he didn't accept the submissions, it seemed he intended to snatch them back for his own evaluation.

to be frank.

Qian Xuantong did not believe it and suspected that Yang Huaizhong was acting on his behalf.

He despised this kind of behavior of getting into "New Youth" through connections!

If you really have the skills and knowledge, you can just come to us directly!

It's one thing to not accept external submissions, but we can't just send you away if you come here, can we?

They'll at least give you some face, why bother with a middleman?

Only a writer with mediocre skills would be so insecure about their own work!

The thought that the contributor was a young person, most likely a student, filled him with inexplicable fear, lest he be disgusted by it.

But as an editor, what kind of articles haven't I seen? Otherwise, what's the point of having editors?

It's just a matter of letting the readers taste the blandness first, only occasionally plunging headfirst into a pile of shit...

With some time to go before the September issue of "New Youth" was published, and having nothing else to do, Qian Xuantong didn't just throw the letters aside. Instead, he opened them while eating breakfast, including soy milk and steamed buns, and read them over the course of his meal.

In the latter half of an autumn night, the moon had set, the sun had not yet risen, leaving only a dark blue sky; everything was asleep except for nocturnal creatures.

The soup spoon fell into the bowl with a "clatter," and he solemnly picked up the manuscript paper.

This handwriting is different from my old friend's messy but vigorous handwriting; instead, it is neat and almost rigid.

But why are their writing styles so similar?

The writing is so precise, it's hard to believe it's written by a beginner!

He turned his attention back to the headline.

"medicine"

A single-word title, yet it carries profound meaning, leaving ample room for reflection.

Qian Xuantong put on his round-framed glasses, went to the window, and continued reading by the morning sun.

Old Man Quan, hearing that his son had fallen silent, assumed he was asleep and went out into the street. The street was dark and empty, except for a clearly visible gray road...

Old Man Quan was startled again. He opened his eyes and saw several people walk past him. One of them even turned to look at him; his features were indistinct, but his eyes gleamed with a predatory light, like a starving person seeing food. Old Man Quan glanced at the lantern; it was extinguished. He pressed his pocket; the hard stuff was still there…

Old Shuan also looked in that direction, but all he saw were the backs of a group of people; their necks were stretched out very long, like many ducks being held up by an invisible hand...

His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and it was getting worse.

He had only ever seen such words in the writings of his old friend!

"Imagine an iron house, utterly without windows and impossible to break down, where many people are fast asleep and will soon suffocate. They will die in their sleep, unaware of the sorrow of their impending death. Now, if you were to shout and awaken a few of the more conscious ones, forcing these unfortunate few to suffer the unbearable agony of their final moments, would you consider yourself to have done right by them?"

"However, now that a few people have risen up, you cannot say there is absolutely no hope of destroying this iron house!"

Qian Xuantong still remembers the details of the debate at the end of last year.

He once forcibly overcame his fear of dogs and sat in the Shaoxing Guild Hall from day to night, finally waking up the person who was pretending to be asleep while copying inscriptions in the iron house. He also successfully made a splash in the literary world this May. Now that person has returned to the Bushu Study and announced that he will stop writing permanently.

Even when he went there, he was turned away by the gatekeeper.

The literary world lamented that an assassination attempt had destroyed the sharpest sword of modern literature, and some critics even asserted that modern literature was doomed.

Not also!

It seems that's not the case now!

Qian Xuantong was very curious about what "Old Shuan" was going to do.

Until he read about the blood-soaked bun.

Hey, cash on delivery!

A man dressed entirely in black stood before Lao Shuan, his eyes like two knives, making Lao Shuan shrink in half. The man held out one large hand; in the other, he held a bright red steamed bun, the red juice still dripping down...

Who is this for?

Old Quan seemed to hear someone asking him, but he didn't answer; his mind was now solely focused on the bag, as if he were cradling a precious, only-born infant, and everything else was forgotten...

His scalp tingled; he stared intently at the story until...

Eat this, and you will be cured.

[Take a nap, and you'll feel better.]

Qian Xuantong was so shocked that he was in a daze, blankly scrolling through the numb and ignorant discussions in the teahouse.

That grave and Xiao Shuan's grave were in a row, separated only by a small path.

Their eyesight had deteriorated significantly over the years, but they could still clearly see the red and white flowers. There weren't many flowers, arranged in a round circle, not very vibrant, but neat and orderly.

A grave! Xia Yu's grave, with a wreath appearing out of nowhere!

There will always be successors!

Is this an implication from the author?!

This implies that he can take up Lu Xun's pen!

The manuscript slipped from Qian Xuantong's fingertips, scattered sparsely on the ground, the black characters stinging his eyes.

He bent down to pick it up, and only when his fingertips touched the paper did he realize that his palms were ice-cold. He also saw on the last page the author's plea for payment for his writings, explaining that he was struggling financially and needed the money to make ends meet.

"Tree Man... Tree Man..."

"No! This isn't a tree person!"

Qian Xuantong muttered to himself, his forehead turning white and his lips trembling. Like Lao Shuan, he picked up the manuscript paper, his heart filled with overwhelming excitement.

Amidst the cries of street vendors, the crow described in the text, which "flew away like an arrow," flew straight out of the courtyard of the editorial office of "New Youth."

Ignoring the strange looks from passersby, tears welled in his eyes as he waved the manuscript paper in his hand:

"Zhongfu! Medicine! There's hope for modern literature!"