[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-rising-in-1979":3,"chapter-rising-in-1979-rising-in-1979-chapter-454":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","Rising in 1979",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2261162,4412,"Chapter 454: The First Mao Dun Literature Prize Winning Works Are","rising-in-1979-chapter-454",454,"\u003Cp>The Mao Prize indeed has the confidence to become China’s foremost literary award.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>First, its founder, Mr. Mao Dun, held the highest official position among literary figures before his death.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Second, the prize money is high—so high it’s absurd by the standards of this era.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Originally, Mr. Mao Dun donated his entire savings of 200,000 yuan, using the interest to award winners; each prize reached a staggering 3,000 yuan, and even today’s bank interest rates are genuinely high.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For Wei Ming, 3,000 yuan was a drop in the ocean, but it equaled five years’ salary for an ordinary worker—many writers earned less than that in total royalties from years spent writing a single novel.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The contemporary Nobel Prize in Literature was even more impressive: one million Swedish kronor, equivalent to a Swedish professor’s twenty-year salary.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Moreover, the Mao Prize’s monetary value continued to rise; in 1981, with Li Jiacheng’s sponsorship, it jumped directly from 50,000 to 500,000 yuan—and Liu Zhenyun’s “One Sentence Versus Ten Thousand” happened to win that year.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Although later editions of the Mao Prize grew somewhat mediocre, with Liang Yusheng’s “The Human World” as the last truly influential winner, the prize money remained unmatched in the modern era, drawing countless aspirants.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And the mediocrity might simply stem from the fact that there simply aren’t that many outstanding long-form literary works anymore.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Little Wei Teacher.” Wei Ming entered the hall and immediately spotted a familiar face—Chen Jiangong, from Peking University’s 1977 Chinese Literature Department and also a member of the Writers Association.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Old Chen!” Wei Ming chatted warmly with him; Chen Jiangong was now a professional writer for the Beijing Federation of Literary and Art Circles, but sadly he later shifted entirely into politics and left behind no sufficiently influential works—a great pity. Among their three cohorts of Chinese Literature students, the one with the greatest literary achievement was Liu Zhenyun, who had been unremarkable during school.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Little Wei Teacher, the entire Peking University Chinese Department is waiting for you to win the prize,” Chen Jiangong told Wei Ming at last—he looked more confident than Wei Ming himself.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In fact, once seated in the hall, Wei Ming was already fairly certain he would win.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>To his left sat Yao Xueyin, eighty-two years old, his hair pure silver.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>To his right sat Gu Hua, author of “Furong Town,” only forty, considered a rising star in the literary world.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wei Ming had once treated Gu Hua and others to a meal during their training program, and he held “Furong Town” in high regard, considering it the finest work among the first Mao Prize winners; yet he remained politely distant with Gu Hua, showing no particular closeness.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wei Ming thought: sleeping with a female editor might be forgiven as male nature, and becoming a foreigner after leaving the country wasn’t worth condemning—but to betray your conscience for money by writing sensationalist, attention-grabbing trash? That was going too far—he was still your fellow Hunan native.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Others seated with them included Wei Wei, author of “The East” and “Who Are the Most Beloved People?”; Mo Yingfeng, author of “The General’s Lament”; and Zhou Keqin, author of “Xu Mao and His Daughters.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wei Ming saw Li Guowen, author of “Spring in Winter,” seated in the back, and felt a pang of regret for him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Although the Mao Prize imposed no limit on the number of winning works, the judges clearly understood that rarity increases value, so they ultimately capped the number at “six.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Everyone in this row, besides these six, were leaders of the Literary and Art Federations and Writers Associations.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At just twenty-one, Wei Ming still looked far too young among them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fortunately, Wei Ming had spent months in the countryside, working hard both mentally and physically—his face and body had lost their refined polish, gaining instead a weighty, steady maturity.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ba Jin, due to health reasons, could not attend; the ceremony was hosted by Zhou Yang, who spoke at length about upholding the “Hundred Flowers, Hundred Schools” policy and promoting literary criticism.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Literary criticism was the livelihood and career path for countless Chinese Literature students nationwide—can’t write literature? Then at least critique it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After over an hour of preliminaries, the official awarding finally began; many present had participated in judging or were close to the judges, so the results caused little surprise.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Had Wei Ming not been away recently, his literary connections would have revealed the outcome long ago.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>What no one expected was that “The Right Path of Humanity Is the Vast River” was the first work mentioned—and Wei Ming was the first to take the stage.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Chairman Zhou’s evaluation of the work directly quoted Mao Dun’s own preface.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The so-called ‘right path’ is never a gilded plaque hanging in the halls of power—it is the footprints trampled through mud, the cold sweat of traitors waking at midnight, the final roar of the silent. Let us applaud Wei Ming, who consulted countless historical records and documents to create this epic masterpiece of family and nation!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Thunderous applause erupted; nearly everyone in the hall had read “The Right Path of Humanity Is the Vast River”—published over a year, reprinted multiple times, its circulation had already surpassed two million copies.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>On stage, Wei Ming received the Mao Dun Literature Prize: a purple copper medal, a certificate, and the prize money.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Not cash—3,000 yuan was too much, three thick stacks, and too vulgar—so they gave him a savings book.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Holding his honor, Wei Ming looked out into the crowd: besides Chen Jiangong, he saw Liang Zuo, who had come with his mother, Chen Rong.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Also present were editors from “People’s Literature,” “Harvest,” “Contemporary,” “Beijing Literature,” and “October”; Wang Cengqi, who had eaten Wei Ming’s salted duck eggs; Zong Pu, whom he met at Peking University; Jiang Zilong, once dubbed with Wei Ming as the twin stars of Reform Literature; Ye Xin, the pillar of the Sent-down Youth genre; Wang Anyi, the female writer from Shanghai; Jia Pingwa, who had traveled from Xi’an, and others.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Looking at them, Wei Ming saw his own path behind him; seeing the envious glances, he thought: Don’t rush—it will be your turn.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He then gave a brief speech, thanking the jury, mourning Mao Dun, and recalling their brief encounter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Next on stage came Zhou Keqin, then Wei Wei; Gu Hua was last. Indeed, only six winners, six works—Yao Xueyin won for Volume Two of “Li Zicheng.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though the order of appearance didn’t officially indicate ranking, the sequence clearly wasn’t arbitrary.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It wasn’t alphabetical by title, nor by author age, nor by publication date.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At the end of the ceremony, the six winners posed for a group photo with Chairman Zhou—the event concluded successfully.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The first edition sparked little controversy; all winning works were long novels from 1976 to 1981 with both influence and acclaim.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, dozens of long novels were published during those years; yet these six winning works would inevitably attract greater attention, more research, and more criticism.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For instance, Xie Jin discovered “Furong Town” through this and conceived an adaptation idea—but recently he’d also read a mid-length military novel in “October” called “Flowers on the Mountain.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Years later, bearing the Mao Prize label would at least guarantee better sales than contemporaneous works—but whether they’d endure historical scrutiny and remain beloved by readers decades hence was uncertain.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Most winning works depicted their own era, with stories and emotions that later generations could no longer relate to.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, if adapted into blockbuster films or TV dramas, that was another matter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But now, immediately after the Mao Prize list was announced, the six winning books were snatched up in a rush at Xinhua Bookstores; though many still had stock, “The Right Path of Humanity Is the Vast River”—the best-selling of the six—was completely sold out, so People’s Literature Press immediately launched another printing: five hundred thousand copies.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Five hundred thousand sales was the lifetime total for many books.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even among award winners, “The Right Path of Humanity Is the Vast River,” with its strongest storytelling and most legendary appeal, was the most popular.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wang Shuo entered the Xinhua Bookstore, saw the throngs, sneered, and refused to follow the trend—he bought a copy of Wei Ming’s mid-length novel “Sunny Days,” which he’d read in a magazine and now wanted to own as a collector’s item.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This book was endlessly rewarding, worth revisiting again and again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Across the nation, a wave of private entrepreneurship had begun; Wang Shuo, who loved making money, thought writing novels was too slow and a fixed salary too dull, so he quit his job and partnered with his friend Shi Xiaoman to open a roast duck restaurant—if it succeeded, 3,000 yuan meant nothing—he could make 30,000.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yet one of his friends, Ma Wei, had become an editor at “Youth Literature,” and to secure a manuscript from Wang Shuo, he praised him extravagantly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Coinciding with the Mao Prize announcement, Ma Wei approached again: “My dear Teacher Wang, you must keep writing—next year’s Wei Ming will be you!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He pointed at Wei Ming’s photo in the newspaper: “Look at him—so triumphant, and he gets 3,000 yuan! How many ducks would you have to roast to earn that?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Get lost, get lost—I’m not writing! Don’t block my duck-making—I’m turning this roast duck shop into the Oriental New World of duck cuisine.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He wouldn’t write? Plenty would.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yu Hua, a dentist from Haixian County, read the People’s Daily report on the first Mao Prize; beyond the six novels, he fixated on the 3,000-yuan prize, reading it over and over, confirming it was three thousand per person—not three thousand split among six.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Three thousand! With three thousand, why bother working at all?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Writing novels was perfect. Yu Hua no longer hesitated—he submitted his already-written short story “Dormitory One” directly to “People’s Literature,” the pinnacle of literary journals—he intended to become Wei Ming’s successor!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yu Hua’s move was somewhat presumptuous, but Liu Zhenyun was far better prepared.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Working at the “China Farmers’ Daily,” he continued honing his craft and had already written his signature short story, “Tapu.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had revised and polished it extensively, aiming squarely for “People’s Literature”; it told the story of a demobilized soldier returning home to prepare for the college entrance exam.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Liu Zhenyun himself was a demobilized soldier, so the story carried autobiographical elements.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Still, he wasn’t confident—he thought, Wei Teacher has returned to Beijing; let’s go pay him a visit.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In the end, Liu Zhenyun found Wei Ming’s motorcycle at his alma mater…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wei Ming was attending a correspondence education defense.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had actually written a thesis: “The Application of Electronic Computers in Library Management,” hoping Peking University would purchase computers and adopt the latest international barcode technology to streamline student book borrowing and return, reducing staff workload.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Student Wei Ming, how did you come up with this idea?” asked Xie Dao, the head librarian.\u003C\u002Fp>",1810,"2026-06-19T16:30:59.356Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","d05ec3af64efabc08635d538213a5967ee169489b222d105d44036661706c9ed","rising-in-1979-chapter-455","rising-in-1979-chapter-453",509,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Frising-in-1979-cover.jpg"]