Chapter 34: Reform Literature and Ducks

“This time, I plan to write a story set in the Magic City, and I may need Professor Qu’s help with some local slang.”

“Oh, what kind?”

Wei Ming thought for a moment: “It’s reform literature.”

Reform literature is a fresh concept; compared to educated youth literature, scar literature, and reflective literature, it is younger, with Jiang Zilong’s short story from two months ago as its founding work.

Of course, it is currently the only representative work of this school, yet the stir it has caused is no less than that of the other schools—“Comrade Qiao” has nearly become a synonym for reformers.

Although from Wei Ming’s future perspective, “Comrade Qiao Takes Office” has temporal limitations, its influence will persist for the next few years, followed by film and television adaptations.

Moreover, after this, Jiang Zilong became chairman of the Tianjin Writers Association and vice-chairman of the Writers Federation; his later-life glory was built entirely on this short story.

This was the peak period of “Comrade Qiao Takes Office,” and Professor Qu had naturally heard of and read it; she worried Wei Ming was chasing trends and advised: “You’ve never worked in a factory—why write reform literature?”

The model of “Comrade Qiao Takes Office” had deeply penetrated the literary consciousness and profoundly influenced later writers like Li Guowen, Gao Xiaosheng, and Ke Yunlu; “taking office” and “factory” had become defining labels of reform literature.

And since reform at the time primarily targeted state-owned factories, Professor Qu’s thinking was not surprising.

Wei Ming smiled: “Who said reform literature must be about factories? I’m writing a story about ducks.”

“Ducks?”

“Yes. When the spring river warms, the ducks know first. Among the reform tide, those sensitive little people deserve attention—I plan to approach it from this angle.”

Wei Ming’s previously written “The Tale of Two Donkeys” and “Er Niu” had both defied existing creative styles and conventions; writing reform literature, he naturally had no intention of following the “Comrade Qiao” template.

Hearing this, Professor Qu nodded with a smile: “Then I’m actually looking forward to it.”

“Don’t worry—I’ll let you read it first after I finish. There will surely be many shortcomings that need your local insight to correct.”

Soon, Sister Chen Rong also learned of this.

“What? You’re revising one manuscript while starting a new novel?!”

Wei Ming spread his hands: “I’ve almost finished revising. To wait for Professor Qu to return to Beijing together, I had to find something to slow down the pace—and besides, this is already my second one.”

What kind of nonsense is this? Is this even reasonable?!

Sister Chen Rong quickly finished her meal and rushed into her room to revise the manuscript; she too hoped the three of them could return together—this feeling was probably what they called “competitive pressure.”

Before leaving, she left one remark: “Let me see it before you submit it.”

She had already read Wei Ming’s “The Tale of Two Donkeys” and felt she had gained immensely; she and Wei Ming were both young writers, but his storytelling technique was polished and masterful, full of innovation—as if he had been practicing since birth.

Another two and a half days passed, and Wei Ming finally completed this fifteen-thousand-word short story, titled “When the Spring River Warms, the Ducks Know First,” and immediately sent it to Professor Qu for revision.

“Aren’t you also working on another story called ‘Er Niu’?” “Yes.”

Professor Qu chuckled: “Donkeys, oxen, ducks—next time, are you planning to write about horses or mules?”

I could write a story about mules and horses; before becoming a boss, I spent forty years as one in my past life.

“I’ve noted these two topics. Let’s talk about the ducks first.” Wei Ming urged. Professor Qu immediately began reading.

Wei Ming borrowed the narrative template from Xu Zheng’s “Ducks Know First,” beginning with a primary school student’s composition titled “My Father,” using the father-son relationship to introduce the main plot.

In the boy’s composition, Old Wang’s absurd money-saving antics are displayed—these details are quintessentially Shanghai man: hanging up phone calls precisely at the minute’s end is painfully authentic; Professor Qu said it matched people she had actually met.

The father’s visions of the future are also astonishing: phones without wires, trains running without wheels, countless bridges over the Huangpu River, skyscrapers rising in Pudong, drinking coffee as casually as water.

Because of this, he earned the nickname “Duck Who Knows First,” a phrase he often repeated; he himself was the first duck to sense the warmth of the reform and opening wave.

The boy’s composition also reveals that, due to his outstanding performance, Old Wang was promoted to head of the sales department at No. 2 Chinese Medicine Factory, introducing the problem of surplus medicinal wine—then came another moment to showcase Old Wang’s ingenuity.

To promote the medicinal wine, he and his son performed a clumsy double act on the bus, making Professor Qu burst into laughter; he tried many methods, all ending in failure, until he accidentally heard the word “advertisement.”

In China, advertisements had vanished for many years; the prevailing view held that advertising was a capitalist product, a deceitful practice exploiting false information to mislead consumers. Although many such ads indeed existed, advertising also played an indispensable role in commercial activity.

!

Last year, the Tianjin Daily became the first to establish an advertising department; at the beginning of the year, it published New China’s first commercial advertisement, promoting Tianjin toothpaste brands including “Eat Anything, Taste Delicious” Blue Sky, thus sparking the rise of print media advertising.

That is, the concept of advertising only emerged in China in 1979, but in the story, Director Wang envisioned something even more ambitious: television advertising, which did not yet exist.

Next, Wei Ming detailed the birth of China’s first television advertisement; apart from the fictional male protagonist, nearly all other elements were based on real people—he had brought a notebook during his research and filled several pages.

To Professor Qu’s surprise, the story was illustrated.

“You can draw too?”

“A little. Just a little.”

A Level Three Art Technician is no joke; Wei Ming had seen the lost original footage of the Can Gui Yang Rong Wine commercial on television and, from memory, drew a four-panel comic while writing the story—he planned to send it along; it might even be used.

Professor Qu continued reading: the advertisement was filmed, but whether it could air became an issue, since no regulations existed yet.

In the story, Wei Ming introduced Director Zou—a character based on the real TV station official Zou Fanyang, who resisted pressure and ensured the ad aired; this was the missing part in the film “Ducks Know First.”

In the end, all ended happily: the surplus medicinal wine was sold out by Shanghai residents, and the factory’s crisis was averted.

At the story’s end, the male protagonist, Director Wang, strolls along the Huangpu River and sees a group of ducks.

The other ducks hesitate, but one boldly leaps into the Huangpu River, the first to enjoy the cool water and the taste of fish and shrimp.

He thinks of himself, then elevates it to the grand perspective of reform and opening—“The brave are the first to enjoy the world”—a perfect epitaph for those pioneers of the reform era.

(End of Chapter)