My era, 1979!

Chapter 93 Let the Flowing Water Hurry By (Seeking First Subscription)
Zhang Peiheng directly targeted professors at Peking University and Nankai University, using very harsh language!
"I think contemporary literary criticism has gone astray: it judges creative practices too much by a single standard, equates 'grand narrative' with a high value, regards 'individual expression' as heresy, and stifles the possibility of literary innovation with fixed genre labels."

To label the narrative of "The Fitting Mirror" as "technical imbalance" is actually a narrow understanding of innovative literary techniques. The construction of the "fitting mirror" as a core image is by no means an abuse of symbolism. The reappearance of the phantom in the mirror is precisely a realistic projection of the individual's subconscious, much like the tension in the detail of "Qingwen mending the fur coat" in "Dream of the Red Chamber." It uses microscopic physical sensations to carry the repression and desires of the macroscopic era. How can it "dissolve the authenticity of details"? The "sense of rupture" in its linguistic rhythm is precisely a literary resistance to the discipline of collective discourse. In the gap between tradition and modernity, a unique narrative tension is formed.

The so-called "severing ties with the realist principles of the past seventeen years" is actually a necessary breakthrough from rigid narrative paradigms: the department store, as a space of its time, reveals its profound social and historical weight through the tension between the individual and the collective. The borrowing from the Western modernist "turn inward" is not merely superficial; it transforms existential anxiety into a survival experience within the Chinese context: the writing of awakened individual consciousness is not a venting of private emotions, but a literary response to the question of "how one can maintain oneself within discipline." This exploration of finding a balance between tradition and modernity is a precious trajectory for literary breakthroughs, not an experiment supposedly "lacking aesthetic foundation."

Literary criticism, if trapped in the binary opposition of "grand versus individual" and "tradition versus modern," will miss out on truly innovative works. The value of *The Fitting Mirror* lies in its use of imagery to illuminate the blind spots of collective narrative, presenting the complex texture of an era through the wrinkles of the individual. This cautious exploration during a period of literary transformation, though perhaps immature, has opened up a path for expression that is closer to the essence of humanity. And this is precisely the precious starting point for a literary breakthrough.

In my view, *The Fitting Mirror* marks the beginning of Chinese Neo-Realism literature.

Neorealism?
What a prestigious reputation.

Surprisingly, the literary world actually found some of the points to be valid.

It differs from the original realism, yet it brings a new writing style and subject matter.

If we can't condemn it outright, what else can we call this kind of literature if not neo-realism?
Actually, this was after Zhang Peiheng became an apprentice at Fudan University. He and Xu Chengjun were discussing which category his works should be classified into. Xu Chengjun pondered for a moment and made the same assessment as Lao Zhou: Neo-realism.

What's new about it?

Is it okay if it's new and different from the previous one?
This review silenced the entire literary criticism community. First Huang Lin, then Zhang Peiheng, and the core members of Fudan University gradually emerged.

Many people are even wondering if Zhu Dongrun will also have to participate in the final round.

Not long after the uproar subsided, many shrewd people turned their attention back to Xu Chengjun's personal profile, hoping to find some clues.

After several days of searching, I still haven't gotten any useful information, which is quite puzzling.

However, one can generally conclude that this young man has powerful connections.

Ironically, this is the case.

Many "literary figures" regard Xu Chengjun as an "insider," but what kind of "insider"?

The literary circle.

At this point, this major literary debate began to take on a more subtle, almost audible, tone.

However, the matter was far from over, and the sect leader had not yet made a move.

A week later, although Zhu Dongrun did not publish any public comments on "The Dressing Mirror", he wrote the following in a miscellaneous note: "The value of 'The Dressing Mirror' to Chinese literature is like a guiding light. I and Jia Zhifang are in complete agreement on this point. It is a blessing for Chinese literature that such writing came from the hand of a 20-year-old."

Jia Zhifang: "."

Finally, Li Xiaolin took Xu Chengjun's "On New Realism" and thought it over again and again, but ultimately did not publish it.

Isn't the situation good enough now?
Does accepting Xu Chengjun as a person mean that realism is gradually coming into people's view?
-
Entrance to Xujiatun Village.

The old locust tree, which takes three people to encircle, cast a long shadow. Two old yellow oxen lay beneath the tree, their reins loosely wrapped around the branches, occasionally flicking their tails to scare away horseflies.

The slogan "Learn from Dazhai in Agriculture" was still painted on the adobe wall with lime water, and the edges were already mottled and peeling, with shallow marks washed out by the rain.

"Father Zhu, is it time to start harvesting the millet in Xiwa?"

Old Wang squatted under the locust tree, tapping his pipe against his shoe, watching the figure carrying a sickle on the edge of the field.

In the threshing ground not far away, women were working around a stone roller, the chaff kicked up by their wooden shovels drawing golden arcs in the sunlight, and sweat dripping down their rolled-up sleeves.

"The team leader said that harvesting will begin the day after tomorrow, so we need to clear out the threshing ground first."

Zhu Zi's mother didn't stop sewing shoe soles, but glanced at the three children gleaning by the haystack. "San Ya, don't run around like that. Fill your basket and exchange it for candy for your mother!"

The little girl with pigtails immediately squatted down, her patched jacket covered in rice husks: "Brother Erzhu, wait for me!"

The boy ran over, holding an iron hoop, his trouser legs covered in yellow mud: "I just saw the tractor bringing the new sickles!"

The sputtering sound of an engine grew louder as the commune's tractor rolled through the dust.

Under the red flag planted in the truck bed, several people wearing straw hats were waving towards the brigade headquarters.

The old people under the locust tree slowly straightened their backs, and the embers in their pipes flickered in the twilight.

"This late summer heat is really fierce," someone said, pulling at their soaked coarse cloth jacket. "After the millet harvest, it'll be time to plant winter wheat."

Smoke rose from the village houses, mingling with the aroma of wheat in the threshing ground. Under the old locust tree, a yellow ox swished its tail, watching the long, drawn-out figures of people working in the distant fields.

"Hey, Aunt Li, isn't that Cheng Jun, the educated youth, on the tractor?" "Judging by the days, it should be about that time!"

"According to Qian Ming, this Xu Chengjun is quite something. He's going to publish articles and go to Shanghai for university interviews!"

"That's right, a golden phoenix is ​​about to emerge from our humble village!"

"Tch, who knows if they'll even pass the exam? In the end, they'll still have to go back to Xujiatun."

"You sour grapes! Your son didn't even finish elementary school, and you're envious of this college student!"

For a time, laughter and banter filled the village entrance. For this small village, the arrival of a tractor, the arrival of a county official, or the return of an educated youth who had gone to Shanghai for an interview would become topics of conversation for a long time.

Xu Chengjun tilted his head, his gaze piercing through the thickening dust, landing on the increasingly close outline of the village entrance.

Thoughts are like a spider web tossed by the wind, a tangled mess of old and new images.

The outside world has long been pushed forward by time, with roads becoming wider and buildings becoming taller, and even the air is filled with the smell of chasing; but this village is like an old porcelain bowl forgotten by time, with the curve of the eaves, the moss in the corners of the walls, and even the sound of water from the old well at the village entrance still remaining as it was many years ago.

The wind brushed past my ears, carrying the fresh scent of earth and grass; in a daze, even time seemed to slow down here.

The changes outside are like a rushing river, while the village is like a stone lying quietly at the bottom of the river, guarding its unchanging warmth and coolness despite the rushing water.

He took out his notebook and made a few changes to a short poem that he had already revised.

Lying on the paper:

"Shan Hai"

Author: Xu Chengjun

The waves spread the morning light like silk.

A gust of wind

The scent of wheat wafts from the distant fields.

Swing all the way to the window

Spring is like a playful child

Secretly scatter the seeds into every inch of the soft soil.

/
We put the seeds of the harvest into earthenware jars.
Laughter followed and seeped in.

As soon as the work chants began at the threshing ground, the sparrows took flight in a flurry.

They flew low, but they didn't disrupt the rhythm of my heart.
You said chasing after something that's already gone is like trying to catch moonlight—you can't catch it.
But now the grains of wheat in my hand

Each one shines like a little moon.
The porridge in the kitchen was bubbling away.

The letter was spread out on the table.
In my letter to tomorrow, I'll write about how wonderful today's sun is.
/
Each mountain has its own unique layout, and I have my own rhythm and meter.

Just like spring breaking free from the shackles of ice and snow.

Just like a magnificent upward growth, it also takes root downward day after day.
May you find joy in taking root in the mud.

When you can't grasp the moonlight, may you embrace the evening breeze and the wheat grains.

May we all have

Facing the sea, with rolling wheat fields in all four seasons

At this time, a day and a half had passed since Xu Chengjun departed from Shanghai. After arriving in Hefei, he naturally visited Zhou Ming, Su Zhong, Liu Zuci, and other seniors in Hefei who had helped him, bringing gifts he had bought in Shanghai. Su Zhong only said, "Remember to come to the Youth Innovation Conference." Zhou Ming patted him on the shoulder and laughed heartily. Liu Zuci had some complaints about his poems not being published in the Anhui Daily, but he was also allowed to return home to visit his family. Afterwards, he had a meal with Lao Chen, Zhai Ying, and Ma Shengli, with Lao Chen treating.

He hurriedly took a car from Hefei back to Xujiatun. Coincidentally, as soon as he got off the train in Fengyang County, he bumped into Li Sanlin, the commune clerk, who was squatting against the station wall smoking. Next to him was a commune tractor with half a load of fertilizer and a bundle of document bags in the back.

Li Sanlin was around 40 years old, though no one in the countryside cared about his exact age. He considered himself an educated man and got along well with the educated youth in the commune. He had a melancholic air about him, lamenting that he was born into an ordinary family. But in reality—

They hadn't studied for many years, only had a primary school education, so in the commune they were considered highly educated, even if they weren't considered educated youth.

(End of this chapter)