My era, 1979!

Chapter 46 The Last Pure Literati Writer in China
After getting off at the Huashan Road stop on Yan'an West Road, Xu Chengjun walked 500 meters to No. 238 Yan'an West Road – the Literary Federation Guesthouse.

The Shanghai Federation of Literary and Art Circles Guesthouse in 1979 still carried the simple and unpretentious atmosphere of a time when it was just recovering from a special era.

The old-style brick and wood building is covered with ivy, and the wooden floorboards in the stairwell creak slightly when you step on them.
Faint traces of lime remain on the walls, and occasionally a few faded paintings and calligraphy works can be seen adorning them.

After a brief questioning and verification by a local Shanghai girl,

Xu Chengjun arrived at his room—201.

It's a bit of a pity that we weren't accommodated at the East China Normal University Guesthouse this time.

But it doesn't matter, there's still a chance.

Room 201 is a double room; upon entering, one is immediately struck by its simple yet intimate atmosphere.

This can actually be considered a special privilege granted to Harvest within reasonable limits.

The Federation of Literary and Art Circles Guesthouse mainly serves visiting artists, editors, and conference attendees. Most rooms are standard rooms shared by two or four people.

As for single rooms
In the mid-80s, as resources gradually became more abundant, single rooms slowly appeared in some guesthouses. In 1979, single rooms were a rare feature.

New writer Xu Chengjun can forget about it.

Fortunately, there was no one in the room at the moment, so Xu Chengjun was able to have the room to himself for the time being.

inside the room,
Two identical wooden bunk beds were placed against the wall, with only enough space between them for one person to pass sideways.

The bed frame has a finely textured brown bandage, and a faded blue-gray coarse cloth sheet is laid on top. The quilt cover has a common peony print pattern, and the edges are slightly frayed.

Each bedside table had a low wooden cabinet with an uneven surface, on which sat an enamel washbasin and a mouthwash cup with the words "Guesthouse" printed on it.

The walls were simply plastered, with some patches of peeling paint revealing the underlying blue bricks.
Several old newspapers were pasted on the wall to cover up the damage.
The floor was made of cement, and there was a shallow crack near the window. A tin dustpan was placed in the corner.

A bare incandescent light bulb hangs from the ceiling, with a pull cord switch that makes a "click" sound when pulled.

It was already evening, and when Xu Chengjun turned on the light, the dim yellow light made him dizzy.

But it's still much better than a kerosene lamp.

Shanghai's status in China goes without saying; these days, at least the electricity for electric lights can be basically guaranteed!

Xu Chengjun had just put his canvas bag on the empty bed when he heard light footsteps coming from the corridor.

He turned around and saw a middle-aged man in a light-colored shirt carrying a net bag walking inside.

He looked to be around 50 years old.

He carried an enamel mug and two curled-edge books in his net bag, and walked with a slightly hunched back, yet exuding an air of refinement.

"Comrade, is this 201?"

The middle-aged man pushed up his round-framed glasses, his voice carrying a gentle Jiangsu accent.

This person doesn't seem like an ordinary person, Xu Chengjun thought to himself.

He nodded: "Yes, you're staying in this room too?"

"That's right, the comrades from the Federation of Literary and Art Circles said there's still a vacant room."

He placed the net on the bedside table, and the enamel mug made a soft sound as it tapped against the wood. "My name is Wang Zengqi, and I come from Beijing."

Wang Zengqi?
Xu Chengjun was taken aback: "Are you Mr. Wang Zengqi, the author of 'The Novice'?"

Wang Zengqi was amused by his reaction: "Young comrade, do you know me? I thought my name had been forgotten long ago."

"how come!"

Xu Chengjun placed the washbasin against the corner, his voice trembling with excitement. "Both 'Encounter Collection' and 'Shajiabang' are classics! It's safe to say everyone in the world knows you!"

Wang Zengqi sat down on the edge of the bed and said with a smile, "This is just some random writing, I hope the young man will forgive me. And you? You look quite young, are you also a writer?"

“My name is Xu Chengjun, a sent-down youth from Fengyang.” Xu Chengjun scratched the back of his head, a little embarrassed in front of the famous writer. “I just published an article in Harvest, and the editor asked me to stay here for a while.”

Actually, in his previous life, Xu Chengjun's favorite contemporary writer was definitely Wang Zengqi, who was in the top five.

For Chinese people, this name is by no means unfamiliar. Works such as "Duck Eggs for the Dragon Boat Festival" and "Rain in Kunming" have been included in primary and secondary school Chinese textbooks, allowing the poetic and warm sentiments of "Wang Zengqi" to be integrated into the national literary memory.

His unwavering belief in kindness, his sensitivity to beauty, and his love for life transcended the limitations of his time, becoming a source of spiritual comfort for generations of readers.

If one had to say, Wang Zengqi bridged the literary divide between "modern" and "contemporary" times, being both an inheritor of Shen Congwen's rural literary tradition and a pioneer of a pluralistic literary landscape in the new era.

What Xu Chengjun admires most is his proposition to "return to national traditions and realism" in his creative work, emphasizing that literature should "write about life, people, and emotions."

In the 80s, when Western literary trends flooded in, they upheld the path of nationalistic creation for Chinese literature!
He can be called "the last pure literary writer in China"!
During the Bilibili era, Wang Zengqi chose to "remain steadfast in silence" and temporarily left the literary scene because he opposed the instrumentalization and politicization of literature.

This year, Wang Zengqi returned to the literary scene with "Receiving the Precepts." In an era when scar literature and reflective literature dominated, his work broke the stereotype of literary creation with a completely different style.

This is what a true literary writer is like!

They have integrity, vision, and perseverance.

Wang Zengqi chuckled and said, "You're so young, and you've already had your articles published in Harvest. Young people these days are quite something."

"Which young person would dare to say they're not remarkable in front of you! You are a role model!"

After chatting for a few minutes, Wang Zengqi was about to pick up the thermos on the table to fetch water when Xu Chengjun quickly snatched it away.

Wang Zengqi was 59 years old this year. The water bottle was usually shared by the two of them, so Xu Chengjun would never let someone else fetch water for him.

"Teacher Wang, I'm coming! Please sit down and rest."

Wang Zengqi smiled as he looked at the young man, and without much hesitation, simply thanked him.

The public water tap in the corridor was dripping water, and Xu Chengjun was still in a daze when he filled it with water.

I was just lamenting that I never had the chance to be photographed with a celebrity, and now they've given me a nasty surprise.

Hey, what do you say?

The author I repeatedly analyzed in my Chinese literature class in my past life is now living in the same room as me!
After tidying up the house, Wang Zengqi filled the enamel mug with hot water and started chatting with Xu Chengjun.

"I just heard from Comrade Xu that you published an article in Harvest. What is it about?"

Xu Chengjun was wiping the enamel mug on the table when he heard this and laughed: "Teacher Wang, my article just passed the review, but it hasn't been published yet. It's a story about a saleswoman and a mirror."

"A mirror?" Wang Zengqi pushed up his glasses. "This object is interesting. Is it also part of what we now call 'scar literature'?"

Xu Chengjun chimed in: "It's not exactly 'scar literature.' You see, I wrote about a girl who had a knot in her heart, but I didn't write about her crying and reminiscing about her past. I just wrote about her trying on new fabric in front of the mirror. That little bit of longing to wear a flowery dress was hidden in her shadow."

He paused, "I was thinking that the hardships in life don't necessarily have to be met with heart-wrenching screams. Just like the crack in this mirror, the light seeping in through the crack makes it bright."

Wang Zengqi sipped his hot water, his gaze softening: "Using shadows to speak? That's a novel approach. These days, many articles like to poke at sore spots, but you choose to steer the conversation toward the bright side. You've got some nerve."

Xu Chengjun smiled, but his tone carried the respect of a junior: "How dare I boast in front of you? When you wrote 'The Novice,' wasn't the beauty of Minghai and Xiaoyingzi hidden in the wind of the reed marshes and the sound of the temple bells?"

"I believe that literature sometimes doesn't need to shout or accuse; it can be the morning dew, the smoke from the stove, the shouts in the alley—the most authentic poetry in ordinary life!"

After hearing this, Wang Zengqi laughed heartily, "What you said is exactly what I was thinking!"

That's not the case!
I even wrote a paper specifically about what you think!

(End of this chapter)