Chapter 23: This Novel Is Too Raw! (Request Monthly Votes)

Old Bear was just teasing Liu Zhenyun; his story wasn’t cut, so since there was an extra poem, just remove one poem instead.

Thus, a poem by the still-raw 1979 Law Department freshman Cha Haisheng was removed.

Old Bear also wanted to place Wei Ming’s poem at the head of the volume—they’d already invited Professors Xie Mian and Hou Renzhi to write two separate prefaces; if two prefaces were acceptable, why not three?

“Alright, copy his version. I’ve got something else to do.” As soon as someone finished copying “Ideal,” Liu Zhenyun snatched the original and ran out.

He ran to the neighboring Building 31, where the Chinese Department’s female students lived—basically all humanities girls lived there—and he wondered what his junior sister might be…

Since it was still summer, Liu Zhenyun didn’t go inside; he had someone call down the five top female talents from the 1977 class—they were all editors of “Weiminghu.”

“Sisters! Good news! Great news!”

Then Liu Zhenyun retold the story of Wei Ming’s sudden inspiration and how he composed “Ideal” in seven steps, leaving the women utterly enchanted.

“Where’s the poem? Where’s the poem?”

“Quick, show us!”

Liu Zhenyun opened his small notebook: “Start here—everything after is included.”

“Ideal is a stone…” Cha Jianying began reading aloud; the women listened, spellbound.

Wang Xiaoping and Cha Jianying both loved poetry; halfway through Cha Jianying’s reading, Wang Xiaoping snatched the notebook and finished the rest of the recitation.

When the final line ended, Huang Beijia led the applause; everyone agreed that while the poem wasn’t a divine masterpiece, it was unquestionably an inspiring masterpiece—the strongest voice this era needed!

Paired with the condition of being composed in seven steps, calling it a “divine masterpiece” wasn’t an exaggeration.

Wang Xiaoping and Cha Jianying even considered recommending it to “Today” magazine.

Li Zhihong, president of the May Fourth Literature Society, had already begun copying it. Liu Zhenyun said: “A while ago you said you wanted to meet Wei Ming—he’s my buddy. After much pleading, I finally got him to agree to dinner with you. Don’t celebrate yet…”

Liu Zhenyun paused. “But there are two conditions: one, he wants to dine one-on-one; two, you pay—he won’t spend a cent.”

“We’re the ones who want to meet him—it’s only fair we treat him,” said Cen Xian, class monitor of the 1977 Chinese Department.

The others agreed—it made perfect sense.

Liu Zhenyun wore a sly, triumphant smile; tomorrow he’d tell the other girls in class, giving them a chance to invite Wei Ming to dinner too.

He’d saved him so much money—almost as much as his manuscript fee!

While “Ideal” was spreading through Peking University’s dorms like a chain reaction—splitting from one to two, two to four, four to eight—Zhang Dening, back home and quiet, was reading the story “Er Niu.”

“Grandpa! Grandpa! Where is he?”

The story opened with the protagonist “Niu Er” crying out in desperate confusion.

But Zhang Dening didn’t know what he did, or the historical context—only that he was terrified.

His village was silent, until—

A mass grave appeared!

Niu Er’s identity became clear: he was a lucky villager who had somehow survived a Japanese massacre.

Then Wei Ming described the mass grave in excruciating, meticulous detail—so detailed it made Zhang Dening physically nauseous.

The more precisely he wrote, the deeper Zhang Dening’s hatred for the Japanese grew—and the more she worried the passage wouldn’t pass censorship.

He described in cruel detail a woman stripped of her pants, revealing her white thighs, emphasizing a silver bracelet on her wrist—as if it held some hidden meaning.

Later, Niu Er escaped the mass grave, dodging and weaving, until he heard a baby’s cry.

But what appeared before him wasn’t a baby—it was a cow, drugged nearly mute.

And it was a “strange cow,” black in patches, yellow in others.

In the film version, the story shifted to flashbacks here; Wei Ming used intercalation, weaving past events into Niu Er’s flight with the cow.

Just this opening gave Zhang Dening a sense of the author’s seasoned craft—not just superb structure and vivid imagery, but bold diction, a raw, ferocious energy surging through the text, making it powerfully alive.

And in portraying Niu Er, with just a few strokes, Zhang Dening clearly sensed he was unlike any similar character from the past.

He was… too… how to say… too authentic. From his speech to his gestures, even his petty inner vices—Wei Ming made no embellishment or beautification, as if he’d simply plucked a 1940s mountain man from Shandong and set him right before her—so real!

She could almost smell the livestock odor clinging to him from years of tending cattle.

Brilliant!

Just this opening surpassed over 90% of today’s famous writers—truly, the younger generation is formidable!

As long as the later sections don’t falter in thought, this manuscript will definitely be accepted—and featured as a top headline!

She kept reading; the plot gradually clarified: the Eighth Route Army, forced to relocate, had left behind a dairy cow gifted by an international organization; villagers marveled at the foreign cow’s enormous milk yield.

But fearing association, no one dared to raise it, so they mixed green beans with red beans and drew lots among all the men.

Finally, a woman named “Jiu’er” drew the lot for the cowardly Niu Er, winning the duty of raising the cow.

Since he refused, Grandpa took charge and married the unruly outsider Jiu’er to Niu Er—only then did Niu Er reluctantly agree.

From initial reluctance, their relationship slowly warmed into affection—until they were struck by a massacre. Niu Er finally gathered courage, removed the silver bracelet he’d given Jiu’er from her wrist, and covered her with a garment.

He transferred all his longing for Jiu’er onto the cow, hanging the bracelet on its nose as a nose ring, naming it “Jiu’er,” healing its throat, scrubbing off its yellow paint, revealing its beautiful black-and-white hide.

But after only one night of panic, the damn Japanese came again!

One man, with one cow—Zhang Dening’s heart tightened for the fate of both protagonist and bovine hero.

At this moment, Wei Ming lay on his dorm bed, dreaming of what he’d buy first when the manuscript fees for his two novellas arrived.

The dorm still bustled with comings and goings; colleagues remained immersed in the lingering glow of “The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber,” discussing it among themselves.

Mei Wenhua said: “Though Xiao Feng is admirable, if I had a choice, I’d rather be Duan Yu or Xu Zhu.”

Then the dorm erupted into debate: Was Duan Yu more enjoyable, or Xu Zhu?

“Enjoyment” mostly centered on women.

Sure, Duan Yu had three sisters—Wang Yuyan and others—but I, Xu Zhu, have Meng Gu, plus the Four Beauties and all the girls of the Lingjiu Palace!

!

Clearly, everyone preferred this kind of fantasy—wishing all beautiful women belonged to them.

When Qiao Feng announced lights-out and only the four of them remained, Zhao Debiao asked: “Brother Ming, when you come back, will you still tell us wuxia stories?”

In the dark, Wei Ming smiled: “Of course.”

“Then what will you tell next?” Zhao Debiao exclaimed.

“I need to think carefully~” Wei Ming pondered: “Flying Snow, Connecting Sky, Shooting White Deer; Laughing, Book, Divine Hero, Leaning on Green Parrots”—should he tell the Condor Trilogy, or “The Smiling, Proud Wanderer,” or “The Deer and the Cauldron”?

Actually, “The Knight Errant” isn’t bad either.

Or maybe have Shi Potian time-travel into Ling Huchong?

Wei Ming wandered through countless fantasies—but none of them were new works.

For over half a month, he’d written day and night for his better life, his hands nearly ruined, his mind stiff.

This trip to Shanghai was his chance to rest and recover.

They say Shanghai coffee is good for the soul.

Early the next morning, after breakfast, Wei Ming stood at the South Gate with his luggage, as Feng Ge, Biaozi, Mei Wenhua, and others saw him off.

Soon, a red Flag sedan from campus arrived to pick up Wei Ming; colleagues watched enviously as the car drove away—most of them had never ridden in a sedan in their lives.

Wei Ming had assumed he’d take the bus to the train station, but Ping’an told him the school would send a car for him and Professor Qu.

“Mainly to transport Professor Qu—you’re just tagging along,” Liu the driver chuckled.

Master Liu Wenjie was a seasoned driver, a native Beijing man, never silent, always well-informed—he knew perfectly well about Wei Ming and Wei Ping’an’s relationship.

First he drove to Weixiu Garden, where Professors Jin Kai-cheng and Qu Yude waited with their suitcases by the roadside.

Wei Ping’an had also brought Xi Le to see Wei Ming off.

After the car stopped, Wei Ming hurried out to help Professor Qu load his luggage, then Wei Ping’an introduced them to each other.

Then Ping’an gave some advice—mostly to take care of himself and look after Professor Qu.

“I’ve already telephoned the Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House—they’ll house you both at the same guesthouse,” he added, handing Wei Ming several national grain coupons. “I never travel—I don’t need these.”

Xi Zi cared more about whether Ming Ge could break through Mom’s blockade and bring back even one Big White Rabbit candy.

He dared not say it outright in front of his father, so he pulled out a Big White Rabbit candy wrapper and helplessly licked it.

Wei Ming understood—he loved the candy wrappers. Buy it!

As for Le Le, Wei Ming knew she loved music and had shown extraordinary talent since childhood—he already knew what gift to get her.

Music needed an instrument—so he’d buy a whistle.

Before Liu the driver could urge him, Wei Ming bid farewell to his family.

After watching the car drive off, Wei Ping’an first dropped Xi Le at kindergarten; once in his office, a subordinate from the General Office handed him a sheet of paper—a poem.

“‘Ideal’? I’m not interested in modern poetry.”

“Director, this was written by your nephew—he’s swept the campus overnight! Someone posted it at the Triangle Ground, and every student is copying it!”

Wei Ping’an’s expression turned serious: “I haven’t even read it yet, but I already feel the brilliance! Excellent!”

After finishing the poem—now passed through countless hands—Wei Ping’an remained deeply moved. His only thought: such a positive, high-quality poem should be published in Peking University’s campus journal!

(PS: Any older brothers or sisters in Shanghai? What’s fun in Shanghai in 1979?)

(End of Chapter)