Chapter 98: Xiao Ming, Are You Going to University

No. 675 Julu Road, Metropolis, Harvest Editorial Office.

Editor Lao Kong chuckled at the stack of reader letters on Li Xiaolin’s desk: “Haha, every one of Wei Ming’s stories is extraordinary—other authors’ reader letters combined don’t match his.”

Li Xiaolin sighed: “I should’ve written at the end of my articles: Wei Ming is at Peking University. I still have to forward them to him.”

Another editor laughed: “When forwarding them, remind them not to open the letters if possible—they might all be insults directed at him.”

Li Xiaolin smiled: “Not that bad. Letters to the editorial office about ‘The Two Donkeys’—only thirty percent are negative; about fifty percent are praise, from every angle.”

The remaining twenty percent are neutral.

Because he portrayed a non-idealistic educated youth, many simple-minded educated youths assumed the great writer was slandering their group, generalizing from a few cases, and flooded the press with condemnations.

Those with poor writing skills wrote to Harvest; those with better skills submitted to newspapers—they could even get paid for criticizing.

Newspapers nationwide ran intense debates about this novel, making Ye Xin’s ‘Our Generation of Youth’—also educated youth literature in the same issue—feel almost invisible.

He wrote a straightforward educated youth story, relatively positive within the genre, but against Wei Ming’s unconventional ‘The Two Donkeys,’ it was rendered utterly insignificant—even as its finale.

One particularly famous review appeared in a Beijing arts newspaper, titled roughly: “If you’re not an educated youth, why write educated youth literature? Do you even know how hard their lives are?”

Written from the perspective of a ten-year veteran educated youth, it detailed his years in the countryside: blisters on his hands while working, rising before dawn to till the fields, laboring under the scorching sun for three hours, then collapsing onto the bunk without even reading a book.

Of course, there was the classic tale of unrequited love—a girl he liked forced to marry the village cadre’s son.

The article covered nearly every tragic hardship an educated youth might face—truly a classic, swiftly reprinted by multiple newspapers, winning massive sympathy, and going viral.

But soon another rebuttal appeared, with an equally brilliant title.

“I don’t know how hard educated youths have it, but I know you’ve never suffered as much as I have—I’m a peasant’s son.”

Damn, that’s the knockout punch!

Written from the perspective of a peasant boy, the article described his family’s daily life in a flat tone—life far more exhausting and miserable than anything described by the educated youths.

The author even had a younger sister who died at age four due to terrible medical conditions—adding a heavy emotional punch that left readers in tears.

If you talk about suffering, no one can out-suffer China’s peasants!

The clash between these two opposing articles pushed ‘The Two Donkeys’ to a new level of popularity.

But Dai Jinhu was frustrated: “All this arguing—you’re missing the core of ‘The Two Donkeys’ entirely.”

Wei Ming clearly wrote a brilliant satire, yet you’re all debating whether educated youths or peasants suffered more—completely off track!

And what upset her more was that her submission to Literary Criticism had been rejected.

What poor taste!

So she submitted it to her school’s Weiminghu instead—and it got accepted, set for publication in the December third issue.

As for Liu Zhenyun’s piece, he submitted it to Beijing Literature, earlier than hers, but still no response.

He was anxious and consulted Wei Ming: “Should I go ask Beijing Literature? Maybe take Sister Zhang out for a meal?”

Wei Ming: “How much is it? Is it worth it?”

“No, I’m just afraid the heat will fade and my article will be wasted.”

Wei Ming picked up a newspaper from the gatehouse and glanced at it.

“Relax—it’ll hold for a while longer.”

With those two emotionally charged reviews, the opposing viewpoints have fully ignited the heat—it’ll last a long time.

Right, those two articles were both written by Wei Ming under pseudonyms, with fake mailing addresses.

His goal wasn’t just to stir up heat, though that’s exactly what happened.

He figured criticism of ‘The Two Donkeys’ would inevitably use the suffering of educated youths as its argument, morally condemning any negative portrayal of them.

Since someone would write it eventually, fine—I’ll write it for you, and make it exactly the kind of suffering found in typical educated youth fiction.

But peasants living alongside educated youths had virtually no voice, so Wei Ming wrote another article from their perspective, speaking for them.

He wrote only real experiences—that’s fair.

Another day passed, and Liu Zhenyun waved a ten-yuan remittance slip in front of Wei Ming, excited: “Big Brother Ming, I made it! I got published, and they paid me five yuan per thousand characters!”

He was now the first student in their class to appear in Beijing Literature—he was bursting with pride.

Wei Ming was happy for him: “According to our dorm rule, whenever someone gets paid for writing, they treat everyone to a meal at the Long March Canteen.”

Liu Zhenyun stopped grinning: “I was thinking I should send the money home to improve our family’s situation. Next time, next time for sure.”

Wei Ming: Why does that sound so familiar?

Damn, that’s exactly what I said the first time I collected my payment!

Liu Zhenyun bolted away in panic; Wei Ming returned to guarding the gate.

He was now stationed at the west gate, covering for a colleague whose family had an emergency.

He hadn’t stood guard in a while—he actually missed it—but he’d never do it more than a day; if he did, fans would start showing up.

Three hit novellas and two poems had made him hugely influential among Peking University students—he couldn’t afford to be visible at a gate job. This spot was too close to Shao Garden; many familiar international students passed by and teased him.

He’d just seen off an American kid named Amao when an old man approached, carrying a large suitcase, dressed plainly, looking kind.

Wei Ming went over: “Grandpa, need help?”

“No, no, it’s not heavy.”

The old man said: “I’m a bit lost—what gate is this?”

Wei Ming: “West Gate.”

“Oh, so that way is west, and inside is east.”

“Exactly.”

“Then, Grandpa, are you looking for someone or just passing through?”

“Oh, I’m looking for a job—no, wait, someone already found me one.” He pointed inside the gate.

!

Wei Ming chuckled: “That person must be powerful—Peking University hires only young people now.”

Suddenly, Wei Ming realized: “Wait—you’re not a new professor from some department, are you?”

“Hahaha, do I look like a professor? No, no.” The old man laughed and walked in.

Wei Ming thought: Maybe a master craftsman with some special skill.

When his replacement arrived, Wei Ming returned to the south gate and saw Ping’an Uncle there too.

He pulled Wei Ming outside: “Xiao Ming, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“What? I’ve said it dozens of times—that girl’s just a regular friend.”

“Not that. Something big!” Ping’an Uncle whispered mysteriously: “Xiao Ming, do you want to go to university? If you do, there’s a great opportunity right in front of you!”

“Oh? What opportunity?”

“The school just confirmed: next year, the Library Science Department will resume correspondence education!”

Correspondence education—the key word is ‘correspondence.’ You don’t even need to attend classes; you study on your own and take exams.

But calling yourself a Peking University graduate through correspondence is a stretch—unless you’re a literary giant, in which case Peking University will rush to recognize you. You could even use this status to later qualify as a regular Peking University graduate student.

Wei Ming was genuinely tempted—if it didn’t require effort, why not?

Though correspondence students get no classroom, dorm, transport, or meals, and must pay tuition—nothing like regular students—Wei Ming wasn’t short on money.

The program’s revival was only confirmed; the official rules weren’t out yet. Hearing Wei Ming was interested, Wei Ping’an promised to keep an eye out for him.

Today was the last day of November.

The next day, December 1st, Wei Ming met Gong Ying at the Beijing Zoo.

He figured Gong Ying had seen the buzz around ‘The Two Donkeys’ and worried she’d think he was slandering educated youths.

Gong Ying had also been an educated youth for years—she’d suffered plenty.

But Gong Ying felt no negative impact; she told Wei Ming: “I’ve met men like Ma Jie in your novel. Among tens of millions of educated youths, all kinds of personalities exist—it’s normal to have one like him. I’ve seen worse.”

“Oh? How much worse?”

Gong Ying sighed: “He killed someone.”

“What?!”

“A teenage girl. He wanted her, she refused, so he… but her family beat him to death. It happened at our neighboring educated youth settlement.”

After saying that, she turned around and comforted Wei Ming: “You wrote it beautifully.”

“Look at this,” she pulled out a copy of PLA Literature from her bag: “See? Even our military published an article praising you.”

Wei Ming read the title: “‘The Two Donkeys’—After Reading This, You Don’t Need to Read Any Other Educated Youth Novel!”

He checked the author’s name and froze: Wang Shuo? The Wang Shuo he knew?

He remembered Wang Shuo had been preparing for college in the military last year. He practiced writing essays, accidentally wrote a short story, got published in PLA Literature, and was transferred there as an editor.

Such an extreme title, plus the prose style echoing ‘The Two Donkeys’—it’s almost certainly him.

That made his high praise for ‘The Two Donkeys’ perfectly understandable—he might even surpass Wei Ming one day, and earn the nickname “Little Wei Ming.”

After touring the zoo, Wei Ming insisted on treating her—he couldn’t let Sister Xue spend her salary.

After dinner, he immediately rode his bike to the Health Research Institute to find another good sister…

(End of Chapter)